For the Record(er)

It was 1977. The year of the first Star Wars (none of this subheaded "Episode IV - A New Hope" business for us back then). Scooby Doo was in full swing Saturday mornings (the detestable Scrappy Doo was a good two seasons away). Punk rock had broken in New York and London, although it would be a few years before it registered on the radar of anyone my age.

I was eight years old in 1977, and was in the third grade. The powers that be of the Los Alamitos School District had decided, in their infinite wisdom, to bestow upon the parents of third graders across the community a device of torture so hideous, so terrifying, that even mentioning the word would send the average pre-minivan suburban mom into hysterics. (On that point, what did people cart their kids around in back then? My neighbors across the street had a 1971 Oldsmobuick station wagon, painted light blue. I guess, despite the fact their dad was a lawyer, he wouldn't spring for the faux wood panels that so defined that particular moment in automotive history). But this device of torture, with its roots grounded firmly in medieval Europe, was sure to draw gasps of horror from any person confronted with it... especially when you consider the school district expected our parents to pony up six bucks for it.



Parents and those who would be, meet thy enemy: the baroque recorder.



I hadn't played mine in many a year, although it was one of the storied "million things" that managed to make its way from 4208 Birchwood Avenue in Seal Beach to my current domicile in the Pacific Northwest. For those not in the know, a recorder is called as such not because it mimics the sounds of birds and other sounds of nature, but rather because the parents of kids who have them would just as soon listen to a recording of one of the following at full volume: a) three-inch-long nails on a chalkboard, b) baby harp seals being clubbed to death (in Dolby surround sound), or c) any recording by Mariah Carey.

Recorders do have their place in the musical pantheon. It's not the instrument itself I abhor, it's what parents across the country know as the "recorder shriek" that gives me chills.

See, when I was but a wee lad of eight, I had a hard time with the notion that a recorder requires "soft, gentle puffs of air" to produce sound. Being as how the notion of anything "soft and gentle" is anathema to the average eight-year-old boy, I went with the notion that, if a little air was good, a lot of air was much, much better. Hence, the recorder shriek.

The little boy (age eight) who lives next door is a master of this. He sticks the operative end of the recorder into his maw, and blows with all his might, sometimes with grubby hands clutched around the sound holes, sometimes without. It doesn't really make a difference. All I know is, there are water buffaloes over at the Oregon Zoo across the river who are either wincing in pain or pining after lost loves when the recorder shriek is sounded.

Now, my little girl brought hers home today. Unlike the ascetic brown that mine is colored, hers is see-through pink. "Look, Daddy! I got my recorder today!!"

Now, the Emster is rarely subtle about anything - most everything in her expressive life is, shall we say, over the top. So when she put her recorder to her lips, I expected the worst...

...and got that old recorder standard, "Hot Cross Buns." Played at a nice volume, without gale force winds blowing through the instrument. I know it's only a four-note song, but it sounded good.


Let the boy next door call to the water buffaloes. My girl is playing music.