Music has saved lives. We make it ourselves. What else do you need?
On Sunday evening, December 16, 2018, Livio Poletti died at the age of 93. I never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance, but I would like to acknowledge his life. Livio was born in the old Roman port of Isola d’Istria on the Adriatic Sea. There, his obituary states, he was an accomplished professional musician. No mention of his instrument.
Seems to be an idyllic life in print, though after World War II Livio Poletti emigrated to the United States. He found a job with the post office, where he completed 30 years of service.
Livio’s life connects to that of Nat Story by the thinnest of threads. Nat was also an accomplished professional musician. He played with the Chick Webb Band in the mid 1930s. Second trombone. Nat also worked for the post office. Never put away his horn. Nat Story’s memory is kept alive by those who knew him and played with him in Evansville, Indiana, including my Party of Two guest, Jack Ost.
Two musicians whose music you’ve never heard with some stories to tell.
[Corner Shrine – John Sylvanus Thompson]
A small framed Portrait, a lighted candle, corner shrine for one John Sylvanus Thompson
In sports, it is rare that an individual can be both an outstanding player and an effective coach. Two very different perspectives in attaining excellence. Communicating what you’ve experienced to others trying to learn involves the patience and the generosity of understanding that their capacity may not be yours. Frustrating to present what you’re passionate about and realize that you’re not actually sharing it.
John Sylvanus Thompson was born in a small town in Pennsylvania. His father was a shopkeeper. At an early age, he somehow became proficient enough on piano to master the classical repertoire of the day. Let me guess that an exacting but encouraging teacher was involved.
The late 19th early 20th centuries would produce extraordinary concert pianists: Rachmaninov, Paderewski, Schnabel. By the time he was 20, John Sylvanus Thompson was giving paid recitals in America’s major cities and positioning himself for a concert tour of Europe. Then, the Great War.
By the time the armistice was signed in 1918, major changes had occurred in John’s life. He had married, he and his bride Loretta had relocated to Kansas City, their first child had been born, and John had begun to teach piano in a music school.
There, he discovered his second gift. It turns out that as much as he had been inspired by the piano, he had also been inspired by the process of first learning to play it. John Thompson devoted himself to pedagogy and soon created a teaching manual with a magical title: Teaching Little Fingers To Play, the opening steps in a greater journey: The Modern Course For the Piano.
Even if you’ve forgotten everything you know from those obligatory piano lessons, it’s likely you’ll remember John’s book: Bright red cover. Two or three note to the bar pieces like In The Alps, Swans On The Lake. Hope your hands aren’t shaking as you hear these titles.
Rest assured, although no actual statistics exist, the vast majority of students never got as far as Mozart’s Turkish March. Some did though, and just kept walking. There were those who explored other genres of music or even other instruments. Others kept the books and one day found themselves sitting in a school auditorium listening to their eight year old perform Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers without a hitch. I bet that must feel great.
So, millions of copies sold, saved or consigned to the bottom of the piano bench. John Thompson’s name there in big letters. Hey, lasts longer than a marquee, right?
[Postcard Home – Hotel Vendome]
For this Postcard Home, the postmark reads Evansville, Indiana
This is the last chapter in Nat’s Story: literally, figuratively, factually.
Had you been staying at the Hotel Vendome in November 1968, you just might have written down the denouement here to send to the folks back home. Maybe a few more details would emerge by the time you returned.
It probably wouldn’t have all fit on a postcard though. Lucky for you, the Vendome provided printed stationary there in the desk drawer of your room.
I’ll let Jack Ost tell it.
[The Parting Word – John Coltrane]
I sometimes take a cue on how happy individuals are with their career choices by looking at the ones their children make. The first order of business: loving what you do. That’s a lesson you teach almost purely by example.
To that end, there is the striking way any vocation is illuminated by witnessing a person navigate it in their everyday life, which includes the unguarded moments that bring it down to earth. I remember someone who grew up in an academic household telling me once that she didn’t necessarily feel pressure to get a PhD or even pressure when she was in the process of getting it. She theorized that this was because she was able to view her parent’s faculty careers as “just something Mom and Dad did.”
Ravi Coltrane decided to go into the family business; Father: John, Mother: Alice. You know them both. Today, Ravi is an accomplished jazz musician, producer, and label owner. At 53, he’s already outlived his father by a dozen years.
OK, let’s get past the relative benefit/burden of having successful parents and consider the challenge of losing one of them when you’re three years old. Somehow, a valuable legacy was shared that included tips on how the job’s done, likely accompanied by some guidance on what not to do. The parting word then to paterfamilias, perhaps a little advanced for a three-year old but, obviously, it stuck.
“The real risk is not changing. I have to feel that I’m after something. If I make money, fine. But I’d rather be striving. It’s the striving, man, it’s that I want.”
And so, next time.
