Ah, fall–the smell of apple cider, the feel of a cozy sweater, the sound of boozy shrieks from over-enthusiastic Patriots fans–and the memories of a time when we were all decidedly less cool. Don’t lie, you didn’t find that Pavement record on your own. Whether it was your sk8er boi older brother, your orthodontist’s subscription to Spin magazine, or your abnormally chill English teacher, we all remember the people that taught us to appreciate music. To commemorate those teachers, here are the Allston Pudding staffers’ seminal music education moments from back in the day.
12-track Homework
It was a pretty average day in a really average town in Eastern Pennsylvania when I schlepped down to West End Guitar Shop, shitty knock-off Strat in tow and no idea what to do with it. The walls were covered with instruments, most of which seemed bigger than I was at the time. Much like every mid-2000s seventh-grader ever, I was there, I was into Blink-182, and I liked “Stairway to Heaven” enough to learn how to play it. Although the chord progressions and riffs to “Stairway” are utterly lost on me now, I still remember my homework each week—new CDs hand-selected by my teacher, a man named Brook, from a huge leather-bound binder. It became my own musical canon that taught me how to walk through the world. I began to take my road trips with Nick Drake, with Nimrod, with “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” and Martha Wainwright, always returning the next week to get more. Thanks to Brook, I learned how to love a song to pieces and come to call it my own. I learned how to talk about music as a means of deciphering the complex peaks and cavities of the world, and how to rip that pesky F chord like it was my God-given duty. And, thanks to Brook, I deleted that one Nickelback song on my iPod. Brook, I owe you one.
Parental Guidance
I spent the first sixteen years of my life as your archetypal awkward homeschooled kid. While N’Sync, Britney and Xtina ruled the general populous, I lived a life so sheltered that I didn’t even know who they were until their popularity had already hit a downward slope. My introduction to music came from my parents—who taught me both a spectrum life lessons and pre-chosen curriculum in our living room. My parents are both musically inclined, especially my dad; a jack of all trades who played snare in a drumline for twenty-some-odd years. He was the one who taught me to sing harmony with him for The Beatles, America, Simon and Garfunkel. He was the one who put a guitar in my too-small hands for the first time to learn the intro to Stairway to Heaven. They gave me a keyboard at seven, a violin at ten, a flute in middle school and a drum kit when I decided I wanted to play snare like my dad. I grew up on swing music and Elvis, Adam Ant and Frank Sinatra. Eventually, I discovered Blink-182 (mostly because Travis Barker lived in my town and, no, he did not want to buy some Girl Scout Cookies). Now that I’m a cynical grown up, I’m thankful that because of my parents, listening to just about anything can give me that nostalgic feeling of being young and curious.
Farandole
My middle school band conductor’s claim to fame was that he once worked with N*Sync. I don’t have much else to say about that, except that it shouldn’t give you a negative impression of my band teacher. He was really badass, funny, and smart. He got a bunch of 13-year-olds to play Farandole (y’know, the one from L’Arlesienne Suite No. 2? By Georges Bizet? …Bueller?). He also had a lazy eye, which worsened the more tired he became. I can only imagine how tiring it is to keep 100 13 year olds focused on 19th century classical music. But he always found ways to knock our hormone-fueled egos down a peg—he had really good aim when it came to flinging batons across the room. So while I may not be a clarinet virtuoso now, my appreciation for how hard it is to be a great musician definitely carries on today.
All the Small Things
My first gadget was silver, slim and the size of a half-pack of Juicy Fruit. Behold a Dell MP3 player, otherwise known to my 12-yr-old soul as “Clicky.” To strangers, she appeared more like a glorified flash-drive. In hindsight, who’s to say that wasn’t the case? But, this pocket-sized prism was my first opportunity for music ownership, and my brother Jay loaded my starter kit. I remember him taking liberty with most of Clicky’s space, but that’s only because he wanted me to have a lot of what most suburban skateboarders would consider the era’s “good stuff.” He must have done well, because I was hooked. Much of this can be attributed to who Jay was: my shaggy-headed elder of five years who could somehow accomplish anything if balanced on a board. He was my hero, and his taste mattered. I used to sit on my bed head-bobbing, meshing bands like New Found Glory and Blink-182 together, beside my pink Barbie pillow destined for replacement. Listening became something worth assigning time to. From Relient K to ZZ Top, to a randomly peppered-in “Lean Like a Cholo,” these hand-clicked tracks proved a fundamental principle: art is for appreciating, and appreciating is for the cool. With a head still shaded by alt-band beginnings, I have my big brother (and tiny flash-drives) to thank.
Substitute Teacher Blues
Two different teachers both had a huge musical influence on me at a young age. The first, my high school photo teacher, who moonlighted as a tattoo artist, motorcycle mechanic and aspiring guitarist played Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot in class one day. The album had a huge impact on me—in that I learned immediately about music’s ability to not only create interesting soundscapes, but be something culturally relevant and meaningful at the same time. Perhaps even more inspiring was his collection of guitar pedals and the fact that this was the only teacher I hung out with outside of school as a high school graduate. I still remember seeing his band Superstanza, having their demos in my Nissan Stanza and rocking out to my favorite song of theirs, “Posthumous.”
The second teacher was substitute throughout my four years in high school. A recent college graduate who almost spontaneously decided to commit himself to the guitar, songwriting and performing after graduating that there was no way he did could hold down full time teaching gig. My musical interests at the time weren’t great, but impressed him enough that we built a rapport and he began to share early versions of songs with me. Some went on to be songs he played for years to come as a touring musician. One called “Substitute Teacher Blues” was even about his experience balancing two very different jobs. Since then he’s gone on to make a full-time living for himself as a musician and has shared the stage with Martin Sexton, Mavis Staples, Galatic and a ton of different great session players from New Orleans. His name is Ryan Montbleau and even though his music isn’t exactly what I’m into these days, he’s still a huge inspiration to me as a success story from my town on the North Shore.
“You go to shows….with your MOM?”
My mom didn’t think twice about driving me to a city 3+ hours away to see a show, or about driving back that night so I wouldn’t miss school. This was a semi-regular thing for my mom. Me scoping out shows, salivating over them, sheepishly asking if she….maybe….possibly….thought we could go—and in a second she would reply, “What? Yes! Let’s get the tickets before it’s too late!” That trait of hers is what led us to have a weird friendship with 30 Seconds To Mars, eat pizza on the floor of the Universal Studios’ Hard Rock Cafe while waiting for Death Cab For Cutie, and scream at the top of our lungs for Taste of Chaos and Lollapalooza alike. For her, it was a no brainer. Her mom, my grandmother, did the same for her for when Led Zepplin and Pink Floyd played within a tri-state radius.
For me, this was the freedom to explore and pure, unconditional love. These experiences and this music shaped me more than I could have imagined. I went to shows with her all through high school. She was my favorite show-partner bar none (sorry, friends). She taught me how to: be fearless when cheering for a bassist you adore, strategically position yourself on the rail to snag a setlist, make friends with your fellow concert-goers, camp out 8 hours before doors with a sidewalk picnic and games, and really just have a good fucking time. Young people need outlets, they need open doors to grow and to figure out who they are. My mom held the door open with a full tank of gas.
The Great Doc Sousa
I think I was deprived of some “teacher imparting music-related advice that blew my tiny, pop-punk riddled mind” moments growing up. Yes, I had a middle school art teacher that gave me burnt copies of Jack Johnson’s discography, and an elementary school teacher that held mini-eulogy at recess the day George Harrison died.
I do, however, credit my relinquishing of insecurities and desire to absorb as much music as possible to my high school English teacher, Dr. Sousa. On our first day, he gave us thirty pages of curriculum, a list of 20 books we would cover extensively in class, another 100 if we had spare time, and the promise that he’d put his all into teaching if we promised our ears in return. He would kick empty desks whenever an exclamatory line in a book was read aloud, debate a single line of poetry in unabashed didacticism, and, on one occasion, break a classroom window while gesturing the importance of Virgil. His class teetered on the rails between a functioning classroom and complete madness, but he was the first teacher to tell me my writing was worth exploring. It started with essays, but soon, I was sending poems, music reviews and half-baked prose his way in hopes of receiving approval. That approval was everything and, after a while, it was like Doc embodied the competitiveness it takes to become a better writer. He instructed that my passion for music wasn’t something to shrug off (unless it was for besting or belittling others) and writing was the best way to release and relate the excitement. In a truly “punk rock” turn of events, my school fired him two years after I graduated for voicing a dissenting opinion against the administration.
I’m sure some would kill for the Jack Johnson art teacher or the Beatles-loving music teacher. But honestly, I’d give them both away if it meant kids could experience the great recklessness that was Doc Sousa.
Qu’est-ce que c’est
As a kid, my older brother would pack me into his rickety ’94 Volvo with no mission other than leaving the house. More often than not we’d drive around our hometown with sodas between us, as he’d point out the suburban landmarks he so easily attached stories to. My brother has always been a storyteller, and I like to think it’s a skill we share. But I think more than anything, we’re linked by music.
A decade older, it seemed like he was always listening to something different and exciting. I was 7 or 8 when he dropped the needle on “Revolution 9” and the “fa-fa-fa-FA-fa” of “Psycho Killer.” I was a graceless preteen when he ushered in Isaac Brock’s Cowboy Dan, Frank Black’s Bossanova and Jeff Magnum’s friendship with the ghost of a young girl. From motown to new wave and 90’s slacker rock, he educated me on a world of punks and misfits, and the sense that feeling like either was an okay line to toe—and cross if you’re up for it. But more than anything, my brother taught me that if you like a song, it’s yours to keep. And if you love it, it becomes you.
— Mo Kelly