The Old Coot has a tin ear!

 An old coot can’t play a tune. Published October 24, 2021 (Binghamton Press)

By Merlin Lessler

 My fourteen-year-old grandson, Charlie, recently joined his school marching band, on Long Island. He plays the trumpet. I was in the marching band at Binghamton’s West Junior high School when I was 14. I played the French horn. I hope his musical journey is better than mine. I wanted to play the trumpet too. I rented one when I was in 5th grade at Longfellow Elementary, on the south side of Binghamton (long gone now). I took that skill (?) to West Junior. I had my own horn by then. It had a patch on the bend in the bell section; I’d rammed a screwdriver down there to unstick a chess piece. (A pointy headed bishop.)

 I tried out for the band with the trumpet and didn’t make the cut. It seemed everyone was playing a trumpet that year. Mr. Green, the music teacher, offered me a spot if I’d switch to the French horn; he gave me a school loaner and two weeks to get the hang of it. At the audition, I scanned the music and faked it. “Good enough,” he said, and put me in the last seat of the French horn section. I sat there for three years, pretending to play when we came to the hard parts, letting the three seats above me carry the load.

 My first band disaster came in ninth grade. I tried out and made the basketball team. Band practice and basketball practice were at the same time; I couldn’t do both and tried to quit the band. Mr. Green insisted I had made a commitment to him and the band and wouldn’t let me back out of it. So, I caved, continuing a musical career that took me into my sophomore year of high school. When I quit that time, I stuck to it. Mr. Shiffrin, the music director, didn’t put up a fight, probably because the memory of my absence, at the most important football game of the season (undefeated Binghamton Central versus undefeated Vestal), was fresh in his mind. I was the key pivot point in the half time formation. The results were less than pleasing.

 I missed that game, because Mr. Soldo, the owner of Soldo’s Drug Store on the corner of Main and Susquehanna St., said he was sick and tired of me missing work, every Saturday, just because Central High had a football game. “This coming Saturday you’re here or you’re fired!” I couldn’t walk away from an 80 cent an hour job as a soda jerk that included free food and ice cream, though I’m not sure Mr. Soldo knew about the free food. Central won and completed an undefeated season (1957); I missed the best game of the year. I hope Charlie’s career playing the trumpet has less bumps than mine. I’m a little worried about him; he’s an avid chess player and might be curious to see what happens when you slide a bishop into the bell of a trumpet.

 

                     West Junior Band Circa 1954 (Old Coot second from left, first row)