I was in 6th grade in the middle of a trumpet lesson on a Saturday morning with my teacher, Mike Gibson.
Mike was hip, a combination of master musician, orchestrator, sensei, guru, and role model. Tall, glasses, long hair, mo-ped, boots, corduroy jackets, Marlborros. My weeks centered around the one half-hour that I spent with him.
His lessons were no-nonsense. He effortlessly talked music theory. And expected me to hang with his thoughts. He often had me scat my etudes before he allowed me to play them.
It seemed that he was the essence of knowing not just about music but how music worked.
And I want to be like him.
And then there was his brief case packed with hand-written scores and parts, all on ultra-think Pissanto manuscript paper and created with an osmiroid fountain pen that he often brandished during my lesson.
I mean, he was one of those confident guys who wrote first editions in ink.
Mike could always sense when my embouchure was begging for mercy because my protruding upper teeth were cutting into my lips.
We would take a short break, drain the blood from my spit valve, and talk for a minute or two just to allow the juices to flow back into my lips.
During those interludes, we discussed a wide range of topics: books, silent films, the Renaissance, jazz, instruments, Russia, arranging, music, art, sports.
Even more importantly, he wanted to know what I thought. He would actually shut-up, lean in, and critically listen to my point-of-view and weigh my words.
After every lesson, I’d always have a name, word, or idea I that he would casually drop in conversation that I was clueless on and needed to ask my parents about or research in the library.
But on this one day he was more pensive then talkative.
After about ten seconds of silence, he turned and looked at me as if he was going to ask for the secret of the ages.
“Sophia Loren . . . . . or . . . . . Gina Lollabrigida?"
He looked at me and waited.
I did not see that one coming. No one told me that “Italian actresses” was going to be on the test.
I paused.
I knew who both women were, knew they were beautiful, had seen their pictures in Life and Time magazine many times, and knew they had their own distinctive perspectives, especially in the articles I had read and roles they had played.
Was he asking me about their films, their looks, their accents?
Or maybe . . . maybe he was asking something more elemental about their essential aura?
I slowly answered in that tone of voice a student uses when they're not sure if the answer they're going to give is correct.
“Gina Lollobrigida . . . ?”
His face lit up.
“Yeah, of course, Gina Lollobrigida! I mean no comparison, right?!"
He lit up another Marlborro.
"Ok, back to the horn.”
And that was that.
We didn't talk about it again.
But his smile seemed more knowing. Had stock had risen in his eyes because of my answer? It seemed so.
I was left with my own personal notable question which was what if I'd said “Sophia Loren”?
I had a feeling he would have made it work.
Mike was hip, a combination of master musician, orchestrator, sensei, guru, and role model. Tall, glasses, long hair, mo-ped, boots, corduroy jackets, Marlborros. My weeks centered around the one half-hour that I spent with him.
His lessons were no-nonsense. He effortlessly talked music theory. And expected me to hang with his thoughts. He often had me scat my etudes before he allowed me to play them.
It seemed that he was the essence of knowing not just about music but how music worked.
And I want to be like him.
And then there was his brief case packed with hand-written scores and parts, all on ultra-think Pissanto manuscript paper and created with an osmiroid fountain pen that he often brandished during my lesson.
I mean, he was one of those confident guys who wrote first editions in ink.
Mike could always sense when my embouchure was begging for mercy because my protruding upper teeth were cutting into my lips.
We would take a short break, drain the blood from my spit valve, and talk for a minute or two just to allow the juices to flow back into my lips.
During those interludes, we discussed a wide range of topics: books, silent films, the Renaissance, jazz, instruments, Russia, arranging, music, art, sports.
Even more importantly, he wanted to know what I thought. He would actually shut-up, lean in, and critically listen to my point-of-view and weigh my words.
After every lesson, I’d always have a name, word, or idea I that he would casually drop in conversation that I was clueless on and needed to ask my parents about or research in the library.
But on this one day he was more pensive then talkative.
After about ten seconds of silence, he turned and looked at me as if he was going to ask for the secret of the ages.
“Sophia Loren . . . . . or . . . . . Gina Lollabrigida?"
He looked at me and waited.
I did not see that one coming. No one told me that “Italian actresses” was going to be on the test.
I paused.
I knew who both women were, knew they were beautiful, had seen their pictures in Life and Time magazine many times, and knew they had their own distinctive perspectives, especially in the articles I had read and roles they had played.
Was he asking me about their films, their looks, their accents?
Or maybe . . . maybe he was asking something more elemental about their essential aura?
I slowly answered in that tone of voice a student uses when they're not sure if the answer they're going to give is correct.
“Gina Lollobrigida . . . ?”
His face lit up.
“Yeah, of course, Gina Lollobrigida! I mean no comparison, right?!"
He lit up another Marlborro.
"Ok, back to the horn.”
And that was that.
We didn't talk about it again.
But his smile seemed more knowing. Had stock had risen in his eyes because of my answer? It seemed so.
I was left with my own personal notable question which was what if I'd said “Sophia Loren”?
I had a feeling he would have made it work.
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