Making the Low Notes: A Life in Music

Part I

Prelude

July 24, 1968

I’m rocking from foot to foot in the wings of my middle school auditorium’s stage, clutching a double bass with both arms. Kids shuffle on and off stage, toting trumpets, trombones, clarinets, and flutes. So many flutes. When it’s my turn, I death-grip the oversized fiddle and waddle into the spotlight.

My right hand is all slip and slide as I struggle to settle the bow on the string. I grab the neck of this beast with my left and plunge headlong into my rendition of Yankee Doodle. It sounds like a nanny goat with an upset stomach. Then it’s all over. Shocking applause erupts as I stumble offstage in a sweat-drenched daze.

I am never, ever doing this again.

And yet, as I retreat to the bosom of backstage, a wave of pleasure pulses through my body. Those moms and dads were applauding for me. Was that jolt of approval worth the jazzed-up breath, the jittery hands, the jumping-bean heart?

This is the intractable dilemma I would grapple with for the next four decades.

Billy’s Choices

1967–1970

It was a glorious and formidable thing, a gleaming paisley of red, black, and white, with wide black leather straps that hugged my shoulders like a close friend. It had a 4-octave keyboard and 120 bass buttons. I’d been longing for an accordion ever since the afternoon in fourth grade when my fellow Cub Scout, Harris Ruderman, had carted his to a den meeting. All eyes were glued on him as he oom-pahed his way through a couple of lively tunes. I watched this weaselly stump of a kid magically transform into a celebrity, all because he could play an instrument.

I wanted to be cool like Ruderman, so I began pestering my parents to buy me an accordion too. I imagined them kvelling as I squeezed out spirited versions of Hava Nagila at family gatherings. I dreamed that the girls at school (especially that cute redhead, Karen) would fall in love with me and that the boys would plotz with envy at my newfound musical superpowers.

At the time, my family—mother Barbara, father Bernie, sister Betty, and I—lived in Flushing, New York, perhaps the most appropriately named section of Queens. We’d be gone from there before my very own magnificent squeezebox would appear.

I was regularly shoved around the Andrew Jackson Elementary School (PS 24) schoolyard by some of the older kids. I was a year younger than most of my classmates, shy, asthmatic, and pudgy, attributes that didn’t exactly work in my favor. They called me fatso, Jew boy, and faggot. Once a classmate stuck his face right up to mine, scrunched up the corners of his eyes, and hissed, You’re Chinese, aren’t you? I took refuge in Cub Scouts and in playing baseball with Jay, Arnie, Richie, and Andy at the scruffy park down the street.

Notwithstanding my playground woes, Mom always insisted I was an upbeat kid. I, however, remember wishing to be either invisible or Superman. Or both. In third grade, I would sometimes wear my Superman Halloween costume (including the red nylon cape) underneath my school clothes. I’d ask for a hall pass, then run to the boys’ bathroom. Once there I’d pretend to shed my shirt and trousers before flying off to beat up some bad guys in Metropolis. Clark Kent’s ability to hide his identity in plain sight was the emotional sweet spot I so desired.

At the age of eleven, I had the chance to be a quasi-hero in real life. My family had moved from a medium-rise project to the top floor of a two-flat closer to PS 24. One night, Mom and Dad hired Joel, a teen from two doors down, to babysit Betty and me while they went to a party. I was drifting off to sleep when I became aware of waves of gray fluff hovering near the ceiling of my bedroom. My chest thwacked like a bass drum as I poked my head outside the doorway. Angry bursts of blackness billowed from behind the refrigerator. I tiptoed around the smoke and into the living room, where the babysitter was watching TV.

Uh, Joel? Could you come in here?

Holy shit! he shrieked as soon as he saw the surging soot. Wake up your sister and let’s get outta here.

A minute later the three of us were fumbling downstairs as the landlord came roaring out of the garage.

The goddamn place is on fire!

Betty and I spent the rest of the evening huddled on Joel’s family’s couch, trying to calm down as we waited for our parents to return. I couldn’t bear to contemplate what might have happened had I not sensed the malevolent clouds in my bedroom.

Next morning, my family crept upstairs to inspect the remains of our possessions. Nearly everything was either burnt or waterlogged beyond salvaging. My eyes stung as we saw how the blaze had gutted our home. The charred rotten-egg stench of its aftermath is forever stored in my limbic system.

Within days, our family limped to a furnished apartment in a nearby high-rise so Betty and I could finish out the school year at PS 24. Barbara and Bernie were then faced with a decision they’d been putting off for some time: Should they rent another apartment in Flushing or make the leap to suburban homeownership?

For better or worse, they opted for the latter. They bought a house in Tenafly, New Jersey, a small upscale town across the Hudson from Manhattan. My stomach flopped at the thought of entering sixth grade in some strange school where I wouldn’t know a soul.

It all happened in a whirlwind: the fire, the move to the shabby high-rise apartment, and now this—a three-story white frame house with hedges in the front yard, rosebushes in the back, and a garage. Our new home was disconcertingly opulent. If I’d had my druthers, we’d have remained in Queens, near my friends, as well as PS 24, the candy store on the corner, and the A&P on Kissena Blvd. It was far from paradise but at least I knew who I was in relation to those kids and places. Better to stay put than face the frightening unknowns of this disorienting place.

I understand now that children thrive with the familiar and resist change, even if the new is demonstrably better than the old. No one could have convinced me then that this move was an improvement.

The accordion showed up shortly after the move to Tenafly. I’d been badgering my folks about it for several years already, so why now? Perhaps the instrument was an appeasement for having to tolerate all the unwanted changes.

Mom signed me up for lessons with Marcello Roviaro, whose ever-present cardigans make me think of him as the Mr. Rogers of the accordion. With his thinning silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses, Mr. Roviaro looked ancient to me, though he couldn’t have been much older than fifty at the time. He lived with his mother and brother. Mrs. Roviaro answered the phone with a heavy Italian accent whenever I called to cancel an upcoming lesson, usually feigning illness to cover for my wretched practice habits. I thought I was cleverly hiding my indolence, but of course, I was only fooling myself.

Mr. Roviaro was an even-tempered and patient fellow. The one time he became irritated was when he was offended by some chord changes in the Lennon/McCartney song Day Tripper, which I’d brought in to learn.

"They have no right to do that," he sputtered through gritted teeth. To Mr. Roviaro, harmony had to obey certain rules. The Beatles apparently had subversive ideas about chords, which made me love them all the more.

I learned how to operate the piano-like keyboard with my right hand, the buttons with my left, and the bellows (the instrument’s lungs) with my left arm. Mr. Roviaro taught me the basics of reading music as well as the fingerings for all the major and minor scales. Playing accordion revealed my surprising natural ability to keep a steady tempo, a crucial skill for any musician. I’d come to appreciate this early training in later years. My family would shep nachas¹ when I’d play Lady of Spain or The Beer Barrel Polka for them.

Meanwhile, my days were taken up with finding my way in this strange new suburban world. On my first day at Tenafly Middle School, Mom drove me to a three-story red brick building fronted by technicolor trees and actual grass. Where was the cracked blacktop, the chain-link fence, the graffiti?

I bounced out of the car with a green canvas backpack hanging off one shoulder. I’d carefully packed it with sharpened No. 2 pencils, blue Bic pens, and a loose-leaf notebook filled with sweet-smelling lined paper. Not knowing any better, I wore my PS 24 uniform—black trousers with a short-sleeved white shirt and a striped clip-on tie. I strode toward the nearest entrance, a jaunty Poindexter, swinging my shiny Batman lunchbox.

Go get ’em, tiger! yelled a voice somewhere to my left. I turned and saw a group of older boys, laughing and thumbing in my direction. I pretended not to hear them and ran up the stairs in search of my homeroom.

All sixth graders had to take some kind of music class—band, orchestra, choir, or music appreciation. I’d been playing the accordion for a few months, but that wasn’t going to help me at school. The thought of singing in a choir made me want to put a paper bag over my head. And I didn’t need to be told that music appreciation (aka Mozart for Morons) was super dorky. The only viable alternative was to pick an instrument I could play in an ensemble, where I could tuck myself safely out of harm’s way. And maybe find a new friend or two.

One morning that autumn, I ventured into the school’s cavernous band room to meet with Mr. Wallin, Tenafly Middle School’s music director.

OK, Billy. What instrument would you like to try?

I wanna play the drums, I blurted, imagining myself as the next Ringo.

Nah, sorry. We already have too many drummers.

I tried to hide my disappointment by staring at my Keds.

Look, you can either play a brass instrument or one of those.

Mr. Wallin gestured toward three huge stringed things with giraffe necks lounging on a rack in a corner of the rehearsal room. Guitars for giants, maybe?

Brass instrument? I ventured.

Yeah, like trumpet or trombone. Or maybe the sousaphone?

I knew about the trumpet. My dad pulled his out of the hall closet once in a while and blatted a few notes. It made a farting sound. No, definitely not that. Trombone? Susie what? I shrugged.

Uh, how about one of those?

Good choice.

What are they?

They’re double basses. Let’s go pick one out for you.

My early weeks with the bass were a tough slog. The thing towered over me like Frankenstein’s monster, its plywood body wide and unwieldy. The instrument seemed to get a kick out of messing with me. It kept keeling over when I tried to balance it between my left knee and my abdomen, as Mr. Wallin had instructed. He hovered nearby during lessons, a gymnastics spotter with Beethoven hair, ready to snag the bass whenever it got out of hand—or leg, as the case may be.

Don’t worry, Billy. You’ll get the hang of it.

I wasn’t so sure. Stretching the fingers of my left hand wide enough to play the notes more or less in tune was a torture worthy of Torquemada. Pushing the rope-like strings all the way down to the fingerboard required brawn I couldn’t imagine having. My right thumb ached for weeks after Mr. Wallin showed me how to hold a bow. I learned the anatomy of my hands by way of pain during those first several months battling the bass. The persistent soreness made me want to throw in the towel, but I kept at it. No way was I going to give up and have to suffer the indignities of choir or music appreciation.

There was something besides avoiding those classes motivating me to endure the growth pangs of becoming a bass player: these lessons guaranteed me a spot in the school orchestra, which meant getting to hang out with girls. Naturally, there were girls in all my classes, but they were slightly less terrifying holding a violin or a flute, as long as the bass was firmly planted between them and me.

The afternoon I brought the school bass home for the first time, my mother and I shared a few befuddled minutes trying to decide how best to fit that enormous creature into her 1966 Ford Galaxie 500.

Mr. Wallin said to swing it over the top of the passenger seat and rest the bottom part near the back window.

Well, I don’t see how that’s possible, Mom said, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, Marlboro in one hand, the other hand on her hip.

Our solution was to stow it in the back seat on its side with the neck protruding out the window. I later learned this is the most dangerous way to transport a bass.

When my dad saw the instrument in my room that evening, he dropped his voice à la Bela Lugosi and intoned, I’m feelin’ mighty low.

As middle school progressed, I realized there was nothing cool about the accordion or, for that matter, Harris Ruderman. The instrument’s cachet had sunk like a waterlogged sousaphone with the ascension of rock’n’roll’s iconic axe, the electric guitar. I’d already been keeping my accordion-playing proclivities confidential out of a reasonable fear that disclosure would destroy whatever social capital I’d managed to earn by then. Before the end of eighth grade, I stopped visiting Mr. Roviaro’s house and the squeezebox was relegated to its valise with the purple faux-velvet lining.

Choosing to play the bass in lieu of the accordion raised two generations of familial eyebrows.

You gonna play ‘Dayenu’ on your bass fiddle at Passover? Pop-Pop Moe asked. Nobody will be able to sing along with that.

He had a point. The accordion puts its player front and center, with its ability to play melody, harmony, and rhythm simultaneously. Part of me ached for that attention; it’s what lured me to the accordion in the first place. Another part of me sought the safety of the sidelines. The bass’s primary role is to accompany other musicians rather than lead the way, which was a more inviting path for the budding introvert in me.

It’s hard to explain, Pop. I just feel more comfortable with the bass.

My parents questioned my choosing the bass over the accordion as well.

We got you that beautiful instrument, my mother told me. And Mr. Roviaro says you’re doing real well with your lessons.

I know, I know, I answered. I’m sorry. I . . . I just don’t like it anymore.

That wasn’t entirely true, but I couldn’t articulate why I preferred to play a less visible, more supportive instrument. I intuited that my niche was in the shadows, where I could be a musical Clark Kent.

Six months into my tutelage with him, Mr. Wallin invited me to participate in that fateful recital in the summer of ’68, where I performed solo in front of an audience for the first time. Throughout middle school, he took me as far along as a non-string player’s teaching skills could go. If I was going to develop any further as a bassist—not a done deal by any stretch—I was going to have to find a real bass teacher.

1 To derive pride and joy from another’s accomplishments, often applied to one’s children or grandchildren.

To Have, to Hold, and to Hide

1969

To the best of my knowledge, an oboe is an oboe and a French horn is a French horn, but the granddaddy of the string family is known by over a dozen names: double bass, contrabass, bass fiddle, bull fiddle, bass violin, doghouse, big dog, bass viol, upright bass, acoustic bass, standup bass, slap bass, hoss bass, bunkhouse bass, and plain-old bass.

Whatever you call it, the bass is an imposing instrument. Even the smallest bass dwarfs its nearest relative, the cello. When you carry an upright bass, you know you’re handling something substantial. They’re not so much heavy as dense. Bulky. Awkward to maneuver. In playing position, whether the bassist stands or sits, the peg box and scroll hang in the air above the player’s head.

My father thought the bass was shaped like a woman.

I mean, look at it. The top part, what’s that called?

The upper bout.

Yeah, the upper bout looks like a buxom bosom. Check out that tiny waist around the bridge. And that bottom part—I bet it’s called the lower bout—is shaped like nice meaty hips and a caboose.

Thank you, Dr. Freud. The bass might have a feminine shape, but the heft and sound suggest the masculine to me. I suppose it’s possible the instrument’s complex allusions to sexuality played a role in my choosing it over the brass instruments, but if so, that aspect was buried deep in my unconscious.

It’s odd that there are so many monikers for an instrument that typically serves a secondary role to the flashier, single-named instruments like the violin, guitar, or saxophone. The bass is big for a reason: its range is lower than almost all other instruments and those low pitches require long, thick strings and a large enough chamber for them to resonate in. More often than not, the bass plays the lowest note in the band or orchestra, serving as a kind of sonic home base. The bass’s low notes lie underneath it all, like the foundation of a building or the core of the Earth.

I recognized one particular benefit of the bass’s size and shape right away: I could hide behind it. My face and hands were visible, of course, but if I held the bass just so, I could use it to shield my body from view. Again, I don’t imagine I grokked this when I told Mr. Wallin I’d like to try playing this instrument. But hiding behind the bass suited my middle school personality to a T.

Sex, Drugs, Blisters, and Beethoven

1970 –1974

Music wasn’t a priority in the Harrison household. My father, Bernie, had messed around with the aforementioned fart producer as a teenager, including a summer spent entertaining the zaydes and bubbes at a resort in the Catskills. My mother, Barbara, had briefly sawed on the viola in junior high. By the time I came along in 1956, my parents’ interest in playing music had been supplanted by the practical concerns of making a living and raising my sister and me. When Betty and I were in single digits, our family didn’t attend concerts or gather ’round the old hi-fi to listen to records or the radio. Unlike many of my future colleagues, I wasn’t immersed in music from early on.

We did, however, see musicals, live and on film, throughout my childhood. I’d sing along with recordings of Fiddler on the Roof, Mary Poppins, The Sound of Music, The Jungle Book, and Dumbo when I was alone. Someone gave me a picture book with a set of 45s from the pachyderm movie, which I wore out on my portable record player with the yellow plastic tonearm. (I didn’t get how racist that movie was until much later in life.)

One afternoon when I was around twelve, I was rummaging around the basement for something when I was astonished to discover my father’s stash of dusty LPs. Among other things, Dad owned a set of the legendary Toscanini/NBC Symphony recordings of all nine Beethoven symphonies, with their forest-green sleeves and raised gold lettering. When had any of these discs last been played? My curiosity piqued, I listened to them repeatedly over the next several weeks. Beethoven opened my ears to the power of harmony and orchestration in ways musicals never could have.

Similar serendipitous forces must have drawn me toward the double bass LPs at Sam Goody’s one day in ninth grade. I normally haunted the rock racks, looking for albums by my favorite groups: Creedence Clearwater Revival, Santana, Led Zeppelin, Traffic, Jethro Tull, and of course, the Beatles. There was nothing new in that department, so I wandered over to uncharted territory—the classical bins. I left the store with a life-altering gem.

As soon as I