Part 1 - The beginnings of a music education journey.

After 13 years working in a variety of contexts as a music educator, I find myself at a point of veritable re-birth. I am rediscovering my core philosophy and beliefs about music and music education. After two degrees, 3 countries and lots of incredible experience as a music teacher, I am coming back to the foundation. What have I learnt? How did I learn it? Who taught me? What do I remember of those experiences? What do I believe about music education? In doing this, I have decided to write a three-part journal. My goal is to marry this with deep reading around music education philosophy on the way to establishing a current ontological position. Part 1 is a reflective journey of my childhood musical experience.

My introduction to music follows a similar narrative to many: piano lessons at age 6, boring teacher, smells of moth balls and coffee and disengagement. Lessons didn’t last long. Music in an Australian state school was almost non-existent, apart from a little bit of singing and recorder. Of particular note was the song, “One Eyed, One Horned Flying Purple People Eater”. Anyone else remember that scary song? I attended church each Sunday and sang hymns and songs each week. Music was always happening at home (more on that later), but sport was the real mainstay. I loved running and football (read ‘soccer’) and spent most of my time doing either of those activities in various formats.

With my trajectory centred on a promising (well, not really in Australia) career of ‘professional footballer’, I succumbed to an anterior cruciate ligament tear at age 15. Effectively, life was over for 15 year old Chris.

Whilst piano lessons may not have suited me at the time, I did have another music education running parallel. My music teacher was my Dad. I distinctly remember my father coming home from long hours at work, having dinner and then sitting at his acoustic or electric piano. The clack clack clack of the electric piano keys as Dad played for an hour or so with headphones on, is like the rhythmic recollection of a frantic typist at a court hearing. He entered a zone and bashed out a few of his favourite jazz standards, Elton John classics or Bach preludes (sometimes with some added swing a la Jaques Loussier). Dad had the influence of his Dad coursing through his brain, heart and fingers. It was infectious. My fondest recollections of my Grandfather, known as Opa (yep, Dutch family) are: 1) him pretending to accidentally let his false teeth fall out of his mouth and; 2) his beautifully arthritic fingers jumping up and down the piano, smile plastered across his face.

Opa was an intensely knowledgable musician. He conducted choirs, wrote scores and played the organ and piano like a machine. I remember his video, CD and record collection. It was damn eclectic. He used to sit me down to watch Hungarian orchestral music. It was fascinatingly weird.

Dad and Opa played together in a jazz/pop band in the 60’s and 70’s in Sydney. They had a residency at a Dutch social club and they were quite well known. Opa would play piano and Dad the bass guitar. The band needed a bassist and Dad knew his way around a decent bass line, having grown up listening to Opa work the pedals of an organ as he played classic hymns. Dad’s childhood was also filled with Bach preludes and jazz standards. As a result, he ‘cut his teeth’ running lines around chord progressions like nobody’s business. Opa had ‘formal’ training and, whilst Dad did learn to play formally, he was pretty happy jamming along in his role as bass player.

At 14, the year before my ‘life-changing’ injury, Mum suggested I think of picking up another hobby in case football didn’t quite work out. Of course, I was deeply offended. I was the next Harry Kewell or Mark Viduka, why would I need to worry about that?! But, music was in there. I loved listening to it and my brothers and I would sing along to everything. Before long I’d asked Dad to help me learn the bass.

The bass is a funny instrument. For a young musician it is kind of abstract. It’s heavy, big and pitched so low that it doesn’t really make that much sense. What does it actually do in music? Why is it important? I always thought my dad played the electric guitar. It looked like one to me.

Dad showed me some basic technique and in about five minutes he was at the piano and I was bubbling along between C and F, playing a song. No formal lessons. Just playing music. Simple, fun, enjoyable. He would call the changes over his shoulder and I would hang on for dear life. My fingers were raw and my brain a bit fried, but I loved it.

Opa was still with us at this point and was struggling along playing piano or organ for the folks at his nursing home each week. He came around one afternoon and set about writing the notes to a few of his favourite songs on a page for me. A couple of months later I played a gig with him at the nursing home. I get a bit teary thinking about that as I write this. I don’t think I really acknowledged it at the time, but now I see it as a deeply special moment. Opa passed away a short time later and I’m so thankful that I had that moment with him.

When my knee injury happened, I was a bit lost. Sport was my life and music was a hobby. But, the knee reconstruction meant that I simply couldn’t run. It would be nine months of zero impact-based exercise after the operation. I remember feeling confused about where to put all of my excess energy. The football training had given me that outlet. I was still fit and strong, but I was now confined to the couch. I concluded that music would become ‘my thing’. I spent most of my time either riding on a super old exercise bike to maintain leg strength, or sitting in a chair learning the bass.

Shortly after my gig with Opa, I was encouraged to join the local church band. In an oddly similar scenario to my Dad (one that I would hear many times over in later life), the church band needed a bass player and word on the ground was that lanky Chris had been dabbling. I joined the band and remember the first rehearsal, where I was handed a folder full of music with exotic looking chords and notes. It was a bit of a leap from the simple scrawled notes on a page from Opa and Dad, but I got stuck in.

Well, suffice to say the church band was an incredible environment in which to learn music. I was naturally mentored by some phenomenally proficient musicians. In other contexts, I would have to pay serious money to even be in the same room as these guys. We rehearsed as a band for an hour or so each week and played music for the congregation on Sundays. I learnt how to use dynamics, tone and feel to create mood and space. I learnt to play certain notes in certain ways. I learnt to play with sensitivity and restraint. I learnt how to breathe into notes and communicate. A smile, a frown or a nod of the head meant more than could be said with words. I learnt about cabling, production value, flow and event programming. I learnt how to play in front of big audiences. What a place. Whilst I no longer affiliate with the belief systems of the church, I will forever be grateful for the musical apprenticeship that I had in that environment.?

Over the nine months of rehab for my knee, something had slowly changed. I became someone different. Yes, puberty was doing its thing, but something had pivoted in my brain. As I started to play football again I noticed that a void was there, a fire was lost. I didn’t have the same drive. I had shifted. I was becoming a ‘musician’.