I - The Lesson
Mr.
Medoff sits comfortably, legs crossed in his grey suit, at a paper-strewn desk,
smoking a cigarette. A few feet away, I sit at his grand piano. It is the last
few moments of the last piano lesson before Christmas. I ask a question
about theory.
“How do you know what key a piece is in?”
“What do you think?”
“Well, is it the first chord of a song?”
“No.”
“Is it the flats and sharps in the sheet
music?”
“No.”
“Does it have to do with the chord sequence?”
“No”
“Um. I don’t know then.”
“You think about that, and we’ll talk about it
next time.”
With that, he adds up the letter grades he
gave for each of my lesson performances, and congratulates me for an A- overall
for the day. He dodders across the room and sticks his head into a small
storage closet.
“Do you have Mozart yet?”
“Yes.”
“Brahms?”
“Yes.”
“How about Schubert?”
“No.”
He emerges from the closet and hands me a
miniature vinyl bust of the Austrian, my eighth such prize in 18 months of
study with him. I’m happy because it will create lovely symmetry at home, four
on each side of my piano sill.
II - All Lessons Are Cancelled
Two weeks later, my mother hands me two
quarters for two subway fares and a $6 check for that day’s lesson. I board the
T at Government Center and head out to Mr. Medoff’s Brookline home.
My mother was steadfast in her desire for me
to play the piano. She wanted to take lessons as a child, but couldn’t because
they were poor. So in first grade, my folks bought an Acrosonic spinet piano,
and I started lessons.
As I make a snowy five-minute walk up the hill
from the T stop, I ponder the question from the previous lesson. I have no new
answers. If sharps and flats don’t determine what key a song is in, I am eager
to hear what Mr. Medoff has to say on the matter.
To enter Mr. Medoff’s studio, you have to walk
down a side walkway and use the lower level entrance in the rear of the house.
I stop and read a handwritten message that greets me from the storm door:
“Due to an
unfortunate circumstance, all lessons are cancelled.”
After a moment’s consideration, I turn my
ass around and take the train back home.
III - Resolution
My mother’s reaction to my story is measured.
“There must have been a funeral or something. Just go back there next week.”
The next week I repeat the drill, with two new
quarters and the same $6 check. On the storm door the same note greets me:
“Due to an
unfortunate circumstance, all lessons are cancelled.”
Mom calls Mr. Medoff’s house. His wife
answers. “Oh, Arthur died.”
Taking a seat in the comfy chair in the den, I
mourn.
IV - Arthur Medoff
A
native of West Roxbury, MA, Arthur Medoff died on December 26, 1975 at 55 years
of age. I could have sworn he was older.
But hey, I was 11.
Four decades later, Arthur’s memory lives on the internet. One of his former students, now a piano teacher,
cites his influence on her professional profile. You can find Arthur’s magazine
writing, a column called Interlude
for the Boston Musician’s Union and book reviews for American Music Teacher. He had four children
with Evelyn, who outlived Arthur by 31 years.
V - The Question Remains
Through the years, I’ve asked musician friends
to answer the question, “how do you know what key a piece is in?” Nobody has
given me a satisfactory answer, because every idea staggers after we discuss
paradoxes or debilitating edge cases. The three responses I gave to Arthur make
some sense, but fall apart under the slightest scrutiny.
The internet provides no consensus, just a
bunch of overly complex stabs that ultimately miss the mark.
I consulted my copy of Arthur’s 1956 book
called Fundamentals of Style in Popular Music (not available
anywhere). Rich in theory, it never directly addresses the question.
Musicians ask no questions if told a song is in the key of F, yet nobody has a pithy definition for this process.
Everyone
knows, but nobody can explain. Maybe that was Mr. Medoff’s point?
Image references
https://www.themusicstand.com/Composers-Vinyl-Mini-Busts-p/599350.htm
References for the biographical information
