MUSIC, IN ANY SHAPE OR FORM, is an important weapon in any teaching arsenal. There are no limits to its constructive use, whether a child is learning to play an instrument or a teacher simply wants to reward diligent study habits with listening time. I have seen creative teachers put math facts and grammar rules to popular black tunes and rap songs that helped students successfully navigate these difficult concepts.
I remember one particular MLK Jr. student from later years who bet me bet me $20 bill that he could rattle off the entire Periodic Table without the assistance of a computer or glancing at the palm of his hand every three seconds. Since I was on a teacher's salary, I immediately took that bet, figuring it was good for some gas in my car and maybe even a slice of pizza.
"In fact," he told me, "you can blindfold me while I recite them to ya!"
Here was a bet I simply couldn't lose. First, he was all of 12 years old. Second, he wasn't a biologist or scientist. Third, he had some attention/hyperactivity issues going on, so there was no way I was losing this bet. I thought about doubling the amount but my conscience got the better of me. How could I take $40 from the kid when his parents were already paying for extra tutoring sessions with me?
To my utter amazement and shock, however, three minutes later I was 20 bucks in the hole. I lost that bet hands down. How did this 12-year-old non-scientist accomplish such an awesome feat? In one word: Music! More specifically it was Tom Lehrer's wild and crazy, Element Song that did the trick. Set to a rapid-fire beat, this tune indeed goes through all the elements.
Isn't it interesting, that nearly every student who's ever taken chemistry could seldom name all the elements despite hours and hours of focused studying? We're talking millions of chemistry students throughout the world, and I would wager that only a few are able to name all of them. Here was this 12-year- old student of mine, with some special needs mind you, and he knew the elements cold! Kudos to him, and to Mr. Lehrer for inventing such a wacky and wonderful tune. My student told me later that it only took him a few hours of listening and repeating the lines of the Element Song, to completely memorize it. Someone definitely needs to write a tune about Einstein's theory of relativity.
The most productive strategy is to actually involve everyone in the act of making music. In other words, rather than just listening to drums, they become drummers. I always tell parents and other educators, "teach your kids how to play an instrument, or two, or ten."
I make a concerted effort to learn from the latest hits. Usually, I listen to "their stations," (my student's), for ten minutes or so on the way to or from work. It's all part of job preparation. I've won over some very difficult students by simply bringing my guitar and knocking out a few hip tunes. This small investment of time has paid great dividends toward improving my relationship with students.
"There goes that white teacher who can play Stevie Wonder on his axe, (guitar)," someone would whisper as I walked through the hallways. "He break dances, too!"
They'd always talk just loud enough that I could catch it. Of course, I would take advantage of the situation and "throw a wave," (a break-dance maneuver, where the arms move in a wave-like fashion, beginning at one hand, moving up the same arm, across the shoulders, and concluding with the opposite hand). Tough kids? Yes. But also young adolescents who appreciate it when adults interact with them.
Music can reveal a lot about a child. Terrence, for example, had an interesting diagnosis from the Buffalo Public School assessment team: He reportedly had "severe auditory memory and sequencing problems." I surmised that he probably couldn't even remember his name. I planned an entire remedial program based on his supposed strength areas. Almost everything I taught him tapped into his visual realm, with minor reinforcements in the auditory area.
One day, during the first couple of weeks of school, he began "rapping" at his desk, while completing a math assignment.
"I said a hip, hop, hip, hop, you don't stop..."
I watched in amazement as he carried on for ten minutes straight.
"Hey, Terrence," I called from my desk. "Come here, please."
He put down his pencil and straddled over to me.
"What was that?" I asked.
"Just a rap song, Mr. Laz."
"I know that." I said. "Was it your own? Did you just make it up?"
He looked very shocked.
"No way. That's one of the new tunes I was doing!"
"You know that whole thing by heart?"
"Yeah, sure, Mr. Laz. Why not?"
"Nothing," I said. "It's just that's a whole lot of words to memorize. Know what I mean?"
"You got to know that stuff or you just ain't happenin, ya know?" he replied. "I wouldn't be able to show my face on the corner or nothin'."
"Yeah, I guess so. Okay, pal. Thanks. You can finish your math assignment now."
"If you want," he said heading back for his seat, "I'll teach it to ya."
"Might take you up on that someday."
This was a kid with severe auditory memory problems? Right. So much for an unbiased, "culture-free" assessment. Put any auditory memory expert against Terrence in some nice, long, rap song memorization contest and I know who I'd bet on.
It all goes back to square one. If it's real and it relates to the child's experiential world, then it touches the child's inner being. Once the spark is struck, motivation and learning occur. Without these elements, any subject is relegated to dead words on dead paper. A teacher would get farther talking to a brick wall.
Being back on home turf inspired me to write a song about my alma mater school, good ol' Bennett High. I had spent four important years of my life there and well, I felt like I owed 'em something. I had already recorded a couple of records under the stage name of Reb Nature. One was a cute child's record called Adventures in Mitzvastone National Park. I played drums and did a bunch of the voices, including the one and only W.C. Fields. The LP was the result of a lot of hard work and "funzies" by some of our Buffalo friends. My "partner in crime" and dear friend, Gershon Wachtel, (an incredibly talented concert pianist), produced this baby.
My subsequent LP was basically a musical statement on Yiddishkeit in the 20th Century and focused on being a Baal Teshuvah, (someone who was not brought up Orthodox who returns to his religious heritage). This LP had some jazz, folk rock, and authentic down-home bluegrass, and featured some great musicians from the Buffalo area. The record, like my inner-city crew, attempts to shoot straight, honest, and from-the-hip. One song deals with the sanctity of the land of Israel. Another lauds the merit of having a big family and ignoring the folly of Zero Population Growth. Still another song, which I suppose is my Sixties-type protest tune, speaks about the preposterousness of rabbis giving out Mickey Mouse conversions just to increase membership in their synagogues.
While I produced these records to help young Jews find their roots, I decided to run the music past my students because they were so in-tune with what was hip. A few thought it was bad news: "Ain't much to dance to!" Most of them dug it, and many offered words of advice:
"Put in some rock stuff. You know, something that moves and will move ya at the same time."
"You need some good funk rock tunes in there."
"No man, do some rap stuff. That's what sells. That's what they want to hear!"
For my selected audience, my approach had been fine. Actually, it was quite unique, because no other Jewish contemporary group had ever used bluegrass alongside Jewish themes. Still, I began planning my next recording. It would be upbeat and a good listening piece. And as per my student's instructions, it would include some rap tunes.
Hopefully, (if I found them willing), I'd use my students as both singers and recording musicians. It was something I had always envisioned doing, and I knew it would be super for both the students involved and the school at large. At this point, however, it was only a dream. I should have anticipated that Divine Providence was about to strike and things were going to change real fast.
It was the end of a long day and I had stayed an extra half hour to work out with the weight lifting team in the school gym. My mind was zeroing in on a nice hot bath at home. As I came bombing down the stairs, gear bag in hand, I noticed a large group of students crowded together at the end of the corridor. Must be a fight, I thought to myself.
I kept going over the unwritten rules in my head. Show no intimidation. Stay calm and collected. I made my way toward the unruly crowd. Where were the other teachers? The administrators? Why me?
As I got closer, I could hear the distinct sound of rap music and funk drums. I breathed a sigh of relief. There would be no confrontation. The crowd, a good 100 or so, was grooving away. Some were dancing, but most were just listening to the student who was rapping in the middle of the group.
"I'm Prince Chill, the people's thrill. I dance in the night, to everyone's delight."
Prince Chill was a senior. Although he was blind, he got around splendidly with his special cane. He was far from being withdrawn. He could rap with the best of 'em and he often performed at school assemblies and sports games. Music was his way of communicating. It helped others forget about his handicap.
Next to Prince Chill was another student who carried a large backpack that I thought contained a "box," (a.k.a., a "ghetto blaster"). The box was playing a funky percussion beat to the rap.
After a few minutes, Prince Chill stopped and smiled. It was over. Students gave each other the handshake and exchanged yeah's, wows, all rights, and "chilly!" As the crowd dispersed, I made my way over to Prince Chill's sidekick.
"Nice beat, brother," I said.
"Yeah, thanks," he replied, zipping up his bag.
I watched him for a moment and added, "I'm a drummer and I really liked those chops. Can you play them again on your box?"
"What box?"
"The one in your bag."
"There's no box in my bag."
He saw my expression of disbelief and opened his bag to reveal its contents.
"See. I told ya," he smiled.
"Where can I get a hold of that tape?"
"Right here," he said pointing to his head. "But there ain't no tape."
I was still bewildered.
"C'mon. Who was supplying the percussion, then? I don't exactly see a drum set around here."
He picked up the bag, paused for a few seconds, and said, somewhat shyly, "I'm the drum. I do it with my mouth."
"Riiiight. Sure. With your mouth, eh?"
"Yup. You got it."
For some strange reason, I actually believed him.
"Can you, uh, do it, you know, just a bit, for me?"
He proceeded to mouth an amazing drum-sound. Actually, he did the bass, snare, and high-hat, intermingling the three sounds in a funk/rap-type beat. I was floored. Right then and there, I became his best groupie.
"I'm signing you up, guy," I said, feeling like one of those cigar-smoking tycoons. I already had the music to my new song. Now, if he agreed, I had a human incarnation of a drum set. "How would you like to do percussion on my next record?"
We talked briefly about the song. Having never recorded on any serious level before, he was just as excited about it as I was.
"It's gonna be some record," I said. "It'll be good for the both of us."
"Very cool," he said. "Very, very cool. Always wanted to do professional stuff."
"We'll talk more details tomorrow, okay? Never met a walking, talking drum machine before."
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Mr. Lazerson. They call me Laz."
"Mine's Eddie. They call me The Music Man."
"Can't argue with that one. Stop by my room in the morning."
Music Man. This guy was no trombone; he was more like seventy-six snare drums! But Music Man fit this versatile impressionist. Nicknames were a vital part of the school scene...they helped students gain notoriety. Most nicknames made a statement, became an "in card," and were a glimpse at one's alter ego. Anyone could have a nickname, an "a.k.a." (also known as). Generally, they were given to you, but occasionally, people made up their own titles. Sometimes, the name depicted the individual's personality and character. Other times, it suggested the exact opposite – sarcastically. The following belonged to students in my resources room when I taught at Bennett High: Papa Smurf, a large, fun loving, very popular, (and strong as an ox), junior. Tiny Tim, a huge monster of a guy, and the offensive lineman on the football team. Hit-Man and Shadow, a pair of characters that went everywhere together, to classes, gym, out skipping school, or the principal's office. The Irish Jig, a black freshman who loved to break dance and had no Irish blood in him, whatsoever. And finally, Buffalo Gal, always laughing, dancing, chewing gum, and sometimes coming to school totally blitzed on alcohol or other goodies.
I received my a.k.a.'s directly from my students. It was like being anointed...or knighted! Some called me Lucky Feet because of the way I rested my feet on top of the bench while doing bench presses. White Waver was my most common nickname. Some embellished it into The Great White Waver, a takeoff from white heavyweight boxer Gerry Cooney, known as The Great White Hope. (This title referred to my break dancing ability, "You ain't bad for a honkey!") Some students referred to me as Pzazzy Lazzy, which was one of my favorites. A bunch of the older students at school simply called me Cool Breeze.
My newest song was called T.D. Time; a rah-rah football song about scoring and winning. It's a real American be-true-to-your-school kind of thing. Someday, perhaps, it'll be played at NFL games when the home team scores. I have a few pro teams considering it for their theme song.
On the flip side of T.D. Time, I dedicated a song to my alma mater sports team. The song was called Tiger Ball. It used the same music as T.D. Time but had different words, of course. The Bennett Tigers set some incredible records the year I was there. The school's sport reputation always attracted the city's top athletes. This particular season the track team won its 108th meet in a row, a national high school record. The basketball team defeated a hot New York City team for the N.Y. State Championship. Curtis Aikens, our star senior player, was All-American and set several high school records, including most points in a game and highest scoring average, somewhere above 50 per game. One verse in Tiger Ball talked about Aikens, who despite national fame, always seemed like such a humble kid. Tiger Ball was my way of giving something back to a school that, for the most part, had been an enjoyable and meaningful part of my life. The music featured some hot sax work by Steve Rosenthal of the Amherst Sax Quartet. His group has played Carnegie Hall a few times. Papa Smurf, sang background vocals. Bass guitar was done by Punk Rocker, a student who always wore a black leather vest, (no matter the weather), and who had a real eye-catcher of a Mohican haircut. (He was actually a shy, but talented artist). I played guitar and sang lead vocals. Music Man mouthed the drums and became an overnight sensation in Buffalo from the moment we hit the studio.
During the recording session I described the game plan to the studio technician, discussing which instruments would be used and in what sequence they would be recorded.
"Sounds good," he responded. "I'll put in a click track so we'll keep perfect time. When we're done with the basics I'll remove the track, okay?"
"Gotcha," I said.
"Who's your sidekick?" asked the technician.
"This is Music Man. He's one of my students. He's gonna do drums."
"Super," he said, shaking his hand. "Well Music Man, why don't you get your drums set up while I do this here track?"
"He doesn't use drums," I said.
"Ha, that's pretty funny. A real panic. What's he plan on using? Garbage cans?"
"I know it sounds strange," I said, "but he does it with his mouth."
The technician looked into my eyes, his hands dead on the console dials. A few seconds of quietness passed between us. (I realize I'm kinda dating myself here, but this way before the phenomenon of beat-boxing took off. Today basically everyone's great grandmother and great granddaughter are contorting their mouths into wondrous expressions of bass drums, snares, cymbals, and everything in between – but back then, it was a brand new ballgame).
"His mouth?"
"His mouth."
"He puts the drum stick in his mouth?"
Eddie and I laughed. The guy must have thought we were some clowns off the street.
"No," I said. "He makes the drum sounds, the percussion stuff, with his mouth."
"Okay, fellas," he said raising his eyebrows. "It's your money. Why don't you go in the studio and we'll hear you do your thing."
He led us in and set up a mike for Music Man. Returning to the console, he shut the door and motioned for us to put on our headphones.
"Can you guys hear me?"
"Loud and clear."
"Is it comfortable?"
"Yeah."
"Okay Mr. Music Man," he said rather sarcastically. "I'm gonna need to get some levels. Why don't you give me some of your drum stuff, okay?"
I turned to Eddie and raised my right fist in a gesture of support. "Go get 'em."
Music Man started his thing. A thudding bass drum. Crisp, sharp snare. Sizzling high-hat. All three sounds rolled from his lips with precision timing. I closed my eyes and saw a guy playing a full drum set in front of me. I opened my eyes to see the technician's face glued up against the glass partition that separated our rooms. His widespread mouth revealed his back molars.
"I don't believe this!" he exclaimed. "I really don't believe this! Is this kid for real?"
Eddie stopped when the technician's words filled his headphones. Again, we laughed.
Turning to Eddie, I said, "Looks like you got yourself another groupie."
The technician encouraged Music Man to do a few more trial runs.
"You know," he said. "You're not only amazing as a drummer, but you're so consistent and on-time, you've just replaced my click track!"
Eddie did his human drum routine for almost five minutes straight, while I played the song's rhythm guitar part. When we were done, we practically had to peel the technician off the floor. He had experienced the musician's ultimate high. He had witnessed a studio technician's Garden of Eden.
"In all my years doing music and seeing musicians," he said, "I've never seen anything like this guy. Nothing. Period." Turning to me he added, "Get this guy on That's Incredible! Hey, if you need a manager, let me know!
Months later, bolstered by our success with Tiger Ball, I did indeed write to the TV program That's Incredible about the human drum machine. Unfortunately, I never got a response. Locally, however, things were moving right along. The radio stations, both ebony and ivory, began playing our song. I was flying. Music Man was flying. Papa Smurf was flying. And the Bennett students were flying.
"How's it feel being famous?" the students would constantly ask me.
"The heck with fame," I'd answer. "Give me fortune!"
In reality, however, only the students and faculty from the high school were doing any serious buying. The recording hadn't even broken even.
On the flip side, the Buffalo newspapers ran some full-length feature articles about the song. One had three separate shots of Music Man engaged in his unique talent, doing the snare, bass, and high hat sounds. I started to get calls at school from sports announcers and various western New York deejays. One deejay from WBLK, a popular station that caters to the young black crowd, stated publicly on air, "I don't believe all the nonsense stories about this character Music Man! No way that percussion stuff is human made. We've been had folks!"
The next day the whole school was buzzing from his dissin' remarks. I really didn't mind. It just added to our PR.
One guy from the football team asked me if I wanted him to take care of the deejay. "I'll find out where his buggy, (car), is and pay it a visit. Okay, Laz?"
I declined.
That same morning, during my free time, Eddie and I hustled over to WBLK for a little visit. At the station, we found not only the deejay, but also a few musicians from The Rick James' band. As luck would have it, Rick James was a Bennett graduate. I was hoping they'd sign Music Man to a multi-year contract right them and there.
One of the musicians – they called him California – had long braided hair and wore several rings. Noticing my garb and appearance, he said, "You're Jewish, right?"
"Yeah," I smiled.
"You produced this song?"
"Yeah. You like it?"
"It's nice, man. Real nice."
I wanted to remind him I played guitar and sang on it, too! Maybe he'd sign me up along with Eddie. I didn't want to be left out in the cold.
"What's nice," he said, shaking my hand, "is seeing Jews and blacks working on a project together and digging each other. You know what I mean?"
"No doubt about it."
"We could use a lot more of this kind of thing, ya know."
Then, live on the Buffalo air waves, Eddie started his live drum thing. I "threw some waves," California started laughing and nodding his head, and the deejay basically went berserk.