Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

In order to prove that Tom was possessed of ordinary common sense, I asked him if he knew what key in flats was synonymous to another key in sharps. He promptly answered, “No.” I then played piece upon piece upon the piano in the key of C Major, at the same time informing Tom that by making the signature twelve sharps and playing precisely as I did before, there would be no difference in the music. I then explained to him that the key of D double flat (twelve flats), was synonymous to the keys which I had just used, when played or sung, although appearing different on paper. Tom seemed to comprehend this explanation perfectly, and when told that there was a key formed by the use of flats precisely like each key formed by the use of sharps, and vice versa, I found that he soon had no difficulty whatever inputting this theory into practice upon the piano in any key that I mentioned.

Subscribed, W. P. Howard

The title of a composition should be purely functional, factual. The composition provides all you need to know, as the actual movement of sound contains. What it evokes in you. Where it takes you. What you find when you arrive. The many colors, tints, and shades.

How does that feel, Tom?

What do you think of this, Tom?

Get your hands around this little phrase, Tom.

Howard will play a phrase three or four different ways. Which one do you prefer, Tom?

Is this the correct way, Tom?

Listen to this, Tom, how Rubinstein might play it.

From Tom’s astonished face and innocent answers, it’s clear that he seems to think Howard’s questions are a form of wit, clever riddles. Tom’s not getting what he needs most from Howard. His voice can’t get through. How to strike a responsive chord and free Tom of his ready-made notions. Help him to overcome himself. Tom, you can’t have heard that properly. A painful but challenging and fascinating task. He is entitled to be impatient with Tom. No, Tom. Listen. For Tom must realize that he is a distinctive body with attitudes, memories, turns of mind, and habits of expression.

Any command is also a release. He tries to rouse Tom to indignation or astonishment. Try it again. Slower this time. Building him up bit by bit. Until he can do it on his own. His own choices and decisions, his own way. The subtleties and give-and-take of musical instruction, of study and performance.

Tom listens on, interested, smiling at everything new.

Howard has never found the knack for composing, so he has given his life over to the proper interpretation of the Great Masters, although he sees himself as only a competent player at his best. Competent and correct. The moment he thinks he has a hold on a work he’s lost it. He is duty bound to devote himself absolutely to those composers who have brought the best music into the world. To respect the inviolable laws of the composition as penned by the composer’s hand. This is the guiding principle of his life. And the key method behind his pedagogy. He is never so cheerful as when he is playing music, even if he is playing in the service of a dull pupil.

His favorite composers have designs on him. He can’t escape their power. Their putting him on paper, what they have brought into the world. The composer speaks through your hands, lives through your hands. The performer can only be him, the composer. You create yourself so far as the composition dominates you. Obligated to the composition but free. Independent. Every note matters. Every note has meaning. No note can stand on its own. You enter the score and must find your way around. Each note is a station, a step. This way. So many bread crumbs leading you both away from and back to tonal center. Calculated coherence and balance. A unity of count. Numerical magic.

He places Tom’s hands on top of his so that Tom may feel the proper way hands should move. He sits Tom on his lap with Tom’s shoes on top of his shoes so that Tom may know how the feet properly work the pedals and how hands and feet complement one another. He has Tom touch his face — his brown hand nice and warm in its roughness — hoping that Tom may feel what he feels. (What changes underneath the skin no one sees.) Tom the shape of his own push and pull. (Bach for four hands. Four feet.) No matter how often he is put off he perseveres. He will work with Tom for as long as it takes.

Howard closes his eyes to keep from seeing Tom’s hands move. Tom is getting a better focus on matters of importance. Loosening up the reins of his imagination. Howard finds himself nodding agreement when Tom plays something correctly, forgetting that Tom can’t see him. He must speak in order for Tom to know. That he is advancing, going somewhere, although the direction is not clear. So much to glean and deduce. Glimpses through the gaps of what has been denied him, of what he has denied himself. But Howard must be careful not to say too much, to bring up everything that comes into his head without reckoning the consequences. Not to confuse Tom, tie him up. The more Tom holds on to Howard, the more Tom belongs to himself. Little by little Tom is getting hold of Howard’s way of being so open. Little by little, he’ll give up his idea that he has no life of his own, that he has never had a life of his own up until now.

The gleam of dollars, perfectly new coins. He takes the money from Seven without impatience. Seven pays him weekly, always on Friday. Mr. Oliver gains you this sum, he says. Howard has set eyes on Perry Oliver only once in his life, those many weeks ago, the sole encounter in person, in the flesh. Howard opened the door and was granted the sight of Perry Oliver’s anxious face. This solicitor had dressed with serious intention, obviously with care, like someone attending the theater, although he wore no hat. Their conversation was private and enclosed. Very quietly and without having to consider his words Oliver spoke of the child as a beloved person, almost kin. Let himself express natural affection for the child as he hinted at the stunted surroundings in which the child had grown up, not so much reared by its parents as guarded by its owners, and explained his speculations about these parents and these owners and their relationship to the child by filling out the details of its present situation and environment with him, Oliver.

Who knew if anything he said was true. Howard listened with interest and respect. The hardest thing was to keep from laughing in his face. Damn fool. Speaking in his drawn-out, carefully articulated sentences. Little did he know, Howard had already witnessed the boy for himself less than a week earlier. Oliver hasn’t the slightest clue about what he has on his hands here. Doesn’t know and probably doesn’t care. Without even thinking about it, Howard took two steps back — Oliver had been standing not farther than two feet from him — fearing contamination. Damn him and all his high-sounding words.

He cannot get used to the awe that, through no wish of his own, he inspires in certain people despite his quiet modest disposition. Even the planters are respectful in his presence, almost timid and fearful, shy. They speak little and do not say what they mean. Stare at him without blinking, as though expecting every minute that he will say something important, something infinitely significant. Their compliments bother him. He finds their unshakable convictions insulting. He believes their acts of charity are nothing more than bribes, methods of indenture. The planter will come down off his high horse and treat you with courtesy, pretend to stand equally before you all the while believing you are insignificant. They try to make the difference felt. They make it felt without trying. For they are used to dealing with plebeians who have so little that they look to the planters as the ones to serve and lead them. Damn them all. Howard thinks amicably of every kind of disaster that might befall them.