VanderCook College of Music
Graduate Commencement Address
July 29, 2006
© John Armato=
, 2006
To …
Thank you=
for
welcoming me to your commencement. It’s incredibly flattering and humbling =
to
be asked to talk about a subject I feel so passionately about.
I am a
musician, a one-time professional player, a product of private lessons, pub=
lic
schools and — briefly — a college conservatory of music.
I’ve play=
ed
drums for bad circuses, has-been 50s acts and three-day polka festivals. I =
also
spent the most rewarding 11 weeks of my life as a musician at Disneyland; I=
’ve
toured parts of Russia, and I’ve recorded with jazz musicians who elevated =
my
own playing beyond recognition.
And I damn
near became a band director. You see, I was a student in one of Dr. Menghin=
i’s
high school bands, and that was where I came alive in many ways.
But
ultimately, after a lot of angst – everything I do is after a lot of angst =
– I
decided on a degree in another field I’m passionate about: Communications.
Through a circuitous route, I became a writer and then a senior counselor w=
ith
one of the world’s largest PR agencies.
So … you’d
think a communications professional like me would know where to begin a spe=
ech
like this, but I’ve wrestled with it for weeks. Then it hit me. Here’s the =
best
place to start:
I was born
May 19, 1964.
Oh my God, is he really going to start there?
My wedding
was December 27, 1991.
I moved i=
nto
the first house I ever owned on August 28, 1998
And my ve=
ry
first drum lesson was Wednesday, May 27, 1972.
You see, =
of
all the really important, significant dates in my life, I consider my first
drum lesson, my first encounter with a music teacher, to be one of the abso=
lute
most significant. It’s a date I remember, truly, as readily as I do my own
birthday. Not just the date, but the exact time of the lesson, the address =
of
the studio, the way it smelled and what it felt like walking into it with my
very first pair of Regal Tip 5As and an unblemished copy of Joel Rothman’s
“Reading, Rudiments and Rolls.”
So as a
beneficiary of music teachers — not as a fellow teacher, not as a veteran educator, not necessari=
ly as
a professional player — but as a human being whose life has simply been all=
the
more amazing because of music teachers, I’m here to tell you the only thing=
I’m
really qualified to tell you: What you do matters.
I believe
what you do matters for three reasons:
You teach
people skills that are important.
You teach
people that they are important.
You teach
people that beauty is important.
The first
idea goes beyond the technical ability to play music. Music education
cultivates both interpersonal and personal skills that are important no mat=
ter
what else a person may do later in life. Listening, sharing, balancing,
communicating — these are rare interpersonal skills that are inherent and
essential in the music education experience.
A study in
1985 showed that Americans say they had only three close friends. Now, in an
updated version of the same study, published last month in the American Sociological Review, they=
say
the have only two. Personally, I don’t find this surprising. There are
astonishing opportunities for “virtual experiences” — and I’m not knocking =
them
— from email relationships to iPods. If you bump into four teenagers, three=
of
them will have a cell phone to their ear. But these opportunities have redu=
ced
the way people engage face-to-face, person-to-person.
What you
teach is a communal art that has the power to fundamentally affect the way
people relate to each other. In fact, in a wonderful documentary called “Mu=
sic from
The Inside Out,” one of the members of the Philadelphia Orchestra goes so f=
ar
as to say ‘Music making IS community.”
I can tell
you, from the perspective of the business world, there’s not a single
organization I’ve come into contact with in the past 20 years that isn’t in=
terested
in hiring someone who is capable of listening, collaborating, creating,
sharing, communicating. This is the interpersonal currency of today’s world.
But it’s a currency that, ironically, is scarce in a world where people are
becoming increasingly isolated, and communities increasingly fragmented.
Music is,=
of
course, also a very personal pursuit. About a week ago I told one of my dea=
rest
friends since seventh grade, Mike Coleman, that I was getting ready for tod=
ay
and I asked him how music education had affected him.
I should
start with a little story about Mike. Mike came in to band his freshman yea=
r as
a clarinet player. He had already studied piano for years, and even a little
violin, I think. Well, one year on the marching band field with a clarinet
taught him one thing: He’d rather be a trumpet player. But, he didn’t have =
the
money to buy a trumpet or take lessons. Now, Mike is as cerebral as they ge=
t. A
warm, gentle and talented person, he practices thinking the way some people
practice golf.
So, he
reasoned, “I already know how to read music … I already know how to breathe=
…
once I get a trumpet I can develop my embouchure … so that just leaves the
fingerings.” So, Mike took a block of wood, hammered three nails into it,
bought a method book, and spent his summer learning to play trumpet — on a
block of wood … just hearing the notes in his mind while he created the mus=
cle
memory in his fingers. Toward the end of the summer he bought an actual horn
and all that was left to do was to blow … and when school started, he blew
everyone away. Mike was first chair by the end of his second semester, I
believe.
Mike went=
on
to study artificial intelligence, bioinfomatics and bunch of other stuff I
don’t understand, much less know how to pronounce, and now collaborates with
scientists to develop custom computer programs they can use in their resear=
ch.
So when I asked Mike my question, I thought I might get a very high-level,
complex answer. Instead, he said, “You know what I miss about high school b=
and?
It was the last time it was okay to do the best job that you could, and pre=
tty
much everyone was happy to have you do so.”
“By
comparison,” he said, “in the working world I can virtually never just sit =
down
at a technical task and do the best technical job I know how. There are alw=
ays
political considerations. Band gave me an introduction to doing something in
the most perfect way that I could. Band was simply a place to try harder and
get better, and I miss that.”
What a
wonderful gift! What a great life-long lesson! It’s a noble calling to crea=
te a
safe place for kids to learn how to “try harder and get better.” And that’s=
a
skill you never outgrow.
A second
reason what you do matters is that music education can help people understa=
nd
that THEY are important. Nurturing and encouraging someone’s interest, and
bestowing on them YOUR confidence that they are capable — that is one of the
single most powerful acts of compassion and generosity I can imagine. Teaching music is, in my mind, the
transference of a gift. You literally have the power to help people realize
dreams and change their lives.
My friend
Mike’s wife, Lisa — another friend from high school — left me a voice mail =
just
a couple of days ago, answering the same question. She said “My music teach=
ers
were the first people that helped me figure out I could CREATE something, t=
hat
I could literally make something happen.”
Do you
remember the astonishing sense of empowerment you felt the first time you
figured out that YOU could make music? I can recall so vividly how music mo=
ved
me as a child. It made me excited. Made me want to dance. Made me want to
scream. I’m sure when I practiced it made my parents want to scream … It ma=
de
me smile. And later in life I learned it could even make me cry. I’m sure e=
ach
of you has heard student ensembles that have made you want to cry, b=
ut
that’s not what I mean …
And as a
student I was so eager to know what these music teachers knew that I didn’t=
. It
was as if they were saying. “Here =
is
this AMAZING thing that has been on earth nearly as long as we have. And it
makes people FEEL and THINK and DO things just because of what they hear. A=
nd
I’m going to show you how to do it!
That
recognition that we can CREATE gives us a sense of self that is positive,
powerful, and important.
A third
reason what you do matters is that music education shows people that beauty=
is
important. That beauty has its own merit. That art, creativity and self-exp=
ression
need no functional utility to justify their existence.
Now, I do=
n’t
take an elitist view of beauty. Thanks again, in part, to my music teachers
over the years, I’ve discovered beautiful music is as likely to come from t=
he
jazz vocals of Kurt Elling as they are from the Philadelphia Orchestra. I
always knew that music could relax or excite me. But thanks to one college
professor who loved Chopin, it also taught me to enjoy my melancholia. Thos=
e of
you who also love Chopin know what I mean. That same teacher somehow made i=
t OK
to gradually realize that the Brahms Third Symphony, Third Movement had bro=
ught
tears to my eyes …
Of course=
, I
also cry at M•A•S•H reruns, Hallmark commercials and really good buffets … =
So
it’s possible I’ve given him too much credit … but I still like the Brahms =
…
Perhaps y=
ou
think I’m just being sentimental, letting the wash of nostalgia clean up my
memories, leaving a fresh but artificial glow. Not so. Let me give you some
specific glimpses into moments when my music teachers made a difference.
Eddie Oyer
was my drum teacher. My first private music instructor. He was the last of a
breed of old school entertainers. With a little studio in the Italian
neighborhoods of Kansas City, this guy didn’t just teach drums. He taught
piano. And organ. And accordion, guitar, and clarinet, and tap dance, and …
wait for it … ventriloquism!
And you t=
hink
you’ve got a heavy teaching load …
Throughout
the seven years I studied with Eddie I was getting little insights into wha=
t it
meant to play WITH other musicians. From day one — May 27, 1972 — the routi=
ne
was the same. Part of the lesson we worked together at the set, learning
rudiments and beats and patterns and independence. Then the last part: WE M=
ADE
MUSIC. Eddie would go to the piano and play, and I would play along. From m=
y very
first lesson I was learning not just how to “wiggle my sticks” but to listen
and be a part of an ensemble. And God bless him for that.
Then there
was my grade school music teacher, Mrs. Barker, who let me improvise percus=
sion
parts on those wonderful little Orff timpani to accompany the choir. Can you
imagine letting a student do that? I’m especially surprised she tolerated me
after I challenged her in class when she tried to get us all to count
“ta-ta-tee-tee-ta.” “Hey!” I said. “That’s not right! Those are quarter not=
es
and eighth notes!” She smiled and said I was right. Mrs. Barker helped me f=
eel
like a real MUSICIAN from the very start.
In junior
high there was Glen Hale. An unassuming, small man with a good heart, he
somehow endured my thousands of questions about theory and harmony — you se=
e,
at this point I was just SURE I was going to be a composer/arranger. And th=
is
man never said no.
I wanted =
to
organize a jam session in the theater to explore jazz with some of the other
band students over lunch hour — because you know how hip seventh-graders ca=
n be
— and he said “OK.” We turned on only the blue gels, by the way, because it
gave a very cool, smoky jazz club feel to the theater as we soloed over the
same F Blues chord progression endlessly for about an hour.
He also
loaned me books on composition, which were way ahead of me, but they helped=
me
stretch. And finally, he let me compose a piece for the jazz combo and actu=
ally
played it on a concert. It was atrocious. Really it was. I still have the
recording to prove it. It was also built on the F Blues, by the way. But I =
will
never forget his generosity as a teacher in allowing me to explore like tha=
t.
Like my friend Lisa, that was the first time I saw that I could truly CREAT=
E.
And I was hooked.
I’ve saved
the most significant for last. We come to Charles T. Menghini. Or as we cal=
led
him back in the day, “Mr. M.” I mean no disrespect, Mr. M, if I trip over
calling you “Dr. Menghini” but old habits die hard.
Mr. M tol=
d me
when he invited me to speak — “now this doesn’t mean you have to talk about
me.” Of course, asking me to talk about the impact of music educators, but
leaving him out is like asking someone to give an overview of Albert Einste=
in’s
work, but “you don’t have to mention that E=3Dmc2 thing.” In both
cases we’re talking about the pivotal experience.
Mr. M was=
and
is a friend, a mentor and an inspiration — and he thought he was just a band
director. He believed in me more than I believed in myself. I’m 42 years old
and he sometimes still does. He gave me opportunities to find seeds of self
confidence.
I could s=
pin
out glowing descriptions for hours. I can recall seeing him direct the Gold=
en
Variety Band when I was still in junior high and I was in awe of how he
controlled the band. His hands swept up and there was forte. They went down=
and
there was piano. It was like he was pulling strings on the dynamics. And I
wanted to be a part of that band so badly.
I’m
especially grateful, and I can say this with total sincerity, to look back =
and
realize that so much of the success I’ve experienced in business and other
pursuits over the years has been in large part a result of the principles a=
nd
work ethic I learned from Mr. M and band.
But the
lingering memory for me, nearly 27 years after I first became his student, =
is
how clearly his passion for music resounded throughout everything he did, a=
nd
how good he was at the trench work of teaching, the roll-up-your-sleeves,
help-them-understand-what-the-hell-you’re-talking-about kind of education. =
He
was and is a masterful extemporaneous speaker and to this day he amazes me =
with
his ability to communicate a concept.
I’ll give=
you
an example. During a wind ensemble rehearsal, Mr. M was becoming frustrated
with the saxophones not handing a delicate passage off to the flutes and
clarinets. We just didn’t get it. Of course not. We had no frame of referen=
ce.
What do high school kids know about finesse and tenderness?
Mr. M put=
his
baton down and eloquently implored us to be sensitive. “Pretend you’re hold=
ing
something really breakable in your hands, really delicate glass and you’re
going to hand to someone else … and you don’t want it to break.”
It worked=
. Even
a drummer like me in the back of the room could hear the kindler, gentler
hand-off of the passage the next time around and it became more legato and
seamless. To this day, I think about that when I play ballads.
A final s=
tory
about Mr. M: Not long after I graduated from high school I was working with=
him
teaching a band camp in a little valley in the midst of the beautiful Jemez=
Mountains
of New Mexico. This band … well, this band needed his help. Not everyone kn=
ew
which end of the horn to blow in and I thought Mr. M was going to have an
aneurism trying to get the band to hustle back to their positions at the en=
d of
rehearsing a segment of drill.
I recall
distinctly when his exasperation arrived. Now keep in mind, there is a
difference between frustration and exasperation. Frustration is when you ke=
ep
yelling. Exasperation is when you can’t think of anything else to yell.
And indee=
d,
suddenly the bullhorn went quiet. And Mr. M stopped talking to the kids and
spoke to me, in as much of a whisper as a bullhorn will allow.
“Aren’t t=
hose
mountains beautiful, John?”
“Yes they
are, Mr. Menghini,” I said.
For the r=
est
of that week, when we hit the wall, we’d ask each other “Aren’t those mount=
ains
beautiful?”
I’m not
naïve. It’s easy for me to stand here and talk about beauty. But I come fro=
m a
family of educators. My dad was a teacher and guidance counselor for 35 yea=
rs.
My brother is a career history teacher. One of my three sisters was an
elementary art teacher. Another has taught advanced math at a private school
for gifted students.
I know ab=
out
teacher burnout, because I see it when it comes home. I know that eventually
when that bell rings you want to rip it from the wall. I know there are tim=
es
you want to show a kid an anatomically impossible way to play their instrum=
ent.
I know you may be SICK of “Variations on a Korean Folk Song,” even though I
still recall how fun it was to play the temple block part.
I know th=
at
sometimes, in the midst of everything, you eventually get to that point whe=
re
you lower the bullhorn … or the baton … or the score … and look skyward to =
say
to yourself, “Aren’t those mountains beautiful?”
When that
happens, remember: What you do matters.
In the
documentary “Music from the Inside Out” a member of the Philadelphia Orches=
tra
speaks about what it takes to persevere in a career as a professional music=
ian,
but he might as well have been talking about a career in music education:
“It’s a
living art. It’s not drudgery. You have to remember whatever it was about m=
usic
that drew you in the first place and that’s your strongest ally and your be=
st
friend in this profession. That impulse and that feeling. And you have to h=
ang
on to it as long as you can.”
He’s so
right. You know, it’s so easy to complicate our own lives. Trust me, I know=
.
Careers a=
nd
passions are like bright, clean and empty rooms we walk into with excitemen=
t on
moving day, then clutter and complicate over time. And just like a familiar
room, we eventually stop seeing it. We simply live within it.
So, humor=
me
for a moment and close your eyes. Picture the “room” of your career as a mu=
sic
educator and start moving things out. Strip away the clutter of appoggiaturas and
hemiolas. Sweep out song form, modes and the circle of fifths. Move out the
scales and sweep away figured bass and metric modulation.
Oh, and
definitely move out faculty meetings, grade cards, state contest, instrument
repairs and fundraising.
And before
you move all the new, wonderful and necessary things you’ve acquired here at
VanderCook into that room — the rehearsal management this and the conducting
technique that — look into that first empty room of space and promise when =
all
there was was simply music itself … pure sounds … pure joy that for some re=
ason
crawled up your spine and stomped on the accelerator of your heart.
That’s why
what you do matters.
Because
nothing else feels that good. And the world needs moments where we don’t say
“What good is this?” but only “How good this is.”
A couple =
of
weeks ago I was walking on the Upper West Side of New York, near Lincoln
Center, and in the distance I heard a salsa band playing. I could make out =
the
knife-like staccato of the brass, the primal slapping of the congas, and
finally that irresistible displaced beat of the bass.
I joined =
the
crowd on the square and stood listening, then swaying, then clapping my han=
ds
along with the music — just like the hundreds of dancing, smiling people ar=
ound
me. And it occurred to me: This is the best part of my day. And thanks to
unknown music teachers who inspired and encouraged and taught those blazing
musicians, I think it was probably the best part of everyone’s day.
Indeed, it
has been moments like that that have made up the best parts of my life.
May each =
of
you be remembered with as many choked back tears of appreciation and affect=
ion
as I remember my own music teachers, starting all the way back to May 27, 1=
972.
And may you always remember that you are a part of one of the very, very=
best things in life.
Thank you=
and
congratulations.
###