Hugh Neeld: The Curmudgeon Report

Well, there’s a month, week or day for almost anything else you can think of—why not accordions?

Personally, I think that accordions are like bagpipes. You either love them or hate them. I hate them both. My idea of hell would be a place with lots of accordion and bagpipe concerts, separated only by occasional appearances of the Lennon Sisters.

However, just because I dislike the sound of something makes doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be recognized with its own special observance. And it doesn’t mean that the sound it makes isn’t really music.

I’m just glad that back when my mother was convinced I had a hidden musical talent she wasn’t thinking accordion. You hear it said about young people who have talent (either real or imagined) that they were “born to be a star.” Sometimes prophesy is fulfilled, but more often that not it isn’t.

In 1934, at the tender age of 5, I was enrolled by my mom in what was euphemistically called a rhythm band. It was composed of pre-school kids, whose mothers held the same belief as mine, playing such exotic instruments as cymbals, triangles and tambourines. It was a painful experience, but didn’t last long. Unfortunately for all concerned, this was only the first of several attempts to develop my non-existent musical talent.

Three years went by before the next attempt. One of the top screen idols of the day was Fred Astaire. Mom was convinced that, with a little instruction, I could succeed him. Whatever the amount spent on lessons and tap shoes, it was wasted.

One use for the tap shoes not intended was found by my younger brother. Picking on him was routine. I did it so often without consequence I thought there was none. One day the worm turned. In response to my bullying, he hit me in the head with one of my tap shoes. It drew blood.

I learned two lessons from that encounter; (1) You can’t dance, and (2) Don’t pick on your little brother. I can still do the basic tap step; hop, shuffle, ball, chain. I do it sometimes when I’m sure no one is around.

The following year (for some reason I can’t begin to fathom) I responded enthusiastically to mom’s suggestion that the steel guitar would be a nice instrument to learn to play. If you lived in Fort Worth in the 1930s, you heard a lot of steel guitar. I can’t remember my instructor’s name (I’m sure he forgot mine within a matter of days), but he came to the house twice a week for a one-hour lesson. I loved the sound of that instrument. I loved the steel bar and the picks, but most of all I loved to perform for any and everybody that sat foot in our house. Their polite applause and words of praise were what I craved.

When this, mom’s final effort to unleash my musical talents, ran its course, we both made an unspoken vow to not go there again. I can only imagine how relieved everyone was to no longer have to listen to my rendition of Wabash Cannonball.
I know that as long as there are mothers variations of this experience will be played out again and again, but a word of caution: No accordion, please!

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A question to ponder:

Is it true that behind every successful musician there’s a determined mother?
putterhugh@suddenlink.net

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Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.

Hugh Neeld is a freelance columnist for TylerPaper.com.
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