The Virtuoso

It might be said I was born into a musical family…they sang dirges the day I was delivered. It got better as I got older, but not much.


The African proverb warns, “Only a fool tests the depth of the water with both feet.” I ignored this advice, cast caution aside and took the plunge. I bought a violin. So far it has not salvaged the family’s fading reputation for music.

The violin intrigues me. Having yet to receive celebrity status from previous musical instruments, or anything else for that matter, the violin is a sure route to stardom. Hope springs eternal.

I picture myself as Paganini, sitting in first chair, a master of pizzicato, plucking the crowd’s heartstrings in a revival of the era of Romanticism. Roses lay at my feet, the concert hall electric with intensity as the crowd eagerly anticipates my masterful performance. A vivid imagination is essential to make such an absurdity real, you know.

I learned early from two sources the power of mental projection. One, the ‘see-it-and-be-it’ self-help crowd, a splinter branch of Amway. This group is popular with people imagining a free Cadillac. Then there was the Pentecostal Prelates, an offshoot of the Holy Rollers who gained notoriety by their ‘name-it-and-claim-it’ mantra. I was an easy sale.

My musical experimentation began with a black Recorder, a medieval kind of flute that’s popular with snake charmers. It did more harm than charm in my house. But we all begin somewhere. I moved on.

I found some fleeting fame with the piano in high school and college with a couple of bands. We played gigs at the American Legion hall and a couple of times on Freddie Miller’s Stars of Tomorrow TV series. Nothing approaching success ever came from these explorations.

Guitars make money. They attract wild crowds of screaming fans. I tried one. It went nowhere, the same place where my trumpet, organ, Jew’s harp and harmonica went. Still, my musical heritage impels me onward.

My uncle Wayward, who once was lost but now is found, achieved local prominence after he found religion and perfected the tune of Amazing Grace by blowing on the open top of an empty RC Cola bottle. Ed Sullivan once contacted him but it went nowhere.

My grandfather had the unusual talent of melodic whistling. He used it to call up crows to the amazement of small children at county fairs.

My mother took up yodeling after watching Lawrence Welk. But it went sideways when stray cats and railroad hobos began to show up. My first cousin once played ‘spoons’ at the local Masonic Lodge talent show. The incident remains an embarrassment. But I’m intent on resurrecting the family name from musical obscurity.

The black violin case stares at me. Inside is a torturous device best suited as an antidote for Duck Dynasty. I take the violin, tune it and begin practice on the back porch. Nature cringes, leaves wilt, dogs howl, birds flee. Discouragement whispers, “Give it up.”

I think of my violin instructor. Practice makes perfect she says. She’s a demure lady with an addiction to torture. She patiently endures the E-string screeching inflicted upon her and has yet to flee when I arrive. She’s not discouraged by my learning curve, which so far is a flat line. She’s a source of constant encouragement by referring to me as ‘Maestro.’ I wonder if she is also a Pentecostal Prelate.

For days I whiz through the beginner’s violin book. I attack it with a savage fury like a man possessed. It’s a humbling experience to revert to first grade. I want to graduate. But with every move of the bow I see graduation as a fading mirage.

Still I persevere, the Vision sustains me. Slowly the fingers find the notes. A tune takes form. Ok, so “Mary Had a Little Lamb” uses only three notes ~~ it’s technically a song, right?

Progress proceeds tediously slow. After interminable practice I’m ready for the first recital, a serenade to my wife. I time the moment when she’s about to go to sleep. I turn off the light, stand in the dark shadows as I imagine Romeo would.

The bow moves slowly across the strings. The heavens explode. The strings emit a tortured version of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” The performance was not my finest hour, but it was a defining moment. She hasn’t slept since. Success seems a long way off!

I don’t believe it’s too far off tune to say that learning to play a violin is analogous to experiencing life…a lot of practice with moments of sheer joy. But it’s close.

I’m still waiting for the rapture of a violinist virtuoso. Imagine the possibilities!

Bud Hearn
July 12, 2013