Every good boy does fine A love story, in music lessons

Jeremy Denk

Book - 2022

"In this searching and funny memoir, based off his popular New Yorker article, renowned pianist Jeremy Denk traces an implausible journey. Life is difficult enough as a precocious, temperamental, and insufferable six-year-old piano prodigy in New Jersey. But then a family meltdown forces a move to New Mexico, far from classical music's nerve centers, and he has to please a new taskmaster while navigating cacti, and the perils of junior high school. Escaping from New Mexico at last, he meets a bewildering cast of college music teachers, ranging from boring to profound, and experiences a series of humiliations and triumphs, to find his way as one of the world's greatest living pianists, a MacArthur "Genius," and a fre...quent performer at Carnegie Hall. There are few writers working today who are willing to eloquently explore both the joys and miseries of artistic practice. Hours of daily repetition, mystifying early advice, pressure from parents and teachers who drove him on-an ongoing battle of talent against two enemies: boredom and insecurity. As we meet various teachers, with cruel and kind streaks, Denk composes a fraught love letter to the act of teaching. He brings you behind the scenes, to look at what motivates both student and teacher, locked in a complicated and psychologically perilous relationship. In his imaginative prose, Denk explores how classical music is relevant to "real life," despite its distance in time. He dives into pieces and composers that have shaped him-Bach, Mozart, Schubert, and Brahms, among others-and gives unusual lessons on melody, harmony, and rhythm. Why and how do these fundamental elements have such a visceral effect on us? He tries to sum up many of the lessons he has gotten, to repay the debt of all his amazing teachers; to remind us that music is our creation, and that we need to keep asking questions about its purpose"--

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Subjects
Genres
Autobiographies
Published
New York : Random House 2022.
Language
English
Main Author
Jeremy Denk (author)
Physical Description
xi, 368 pages : illustrations ; 25 cm
ISBN
9780812995985
  • Prelude
  • Part 1. Harmony
  • 1. The Earliest Lessons
  • 2. Harmony, Lesson One
  • 3. Forty Days and Forty Nights
  • 4. Harmony, Lesson Two
  • 5. Moments of Truth
  • 6. Harmony, Lesson Three
  • Part 2. Melody
  • 7. The Real World
  • 8. Melody, Lesson One
  • 9. Motivations, Pure and Otherwise
  • 10. Melody, Lesson Two
  • 11. Self-Destruction and Self-Salvation
  • 12. Melody, Lesson Three
  • Part 3. Rhythm
  • 13. "Nothing Is Done, Everything Is Done"
  • 14. Rhythm, Lesson One
  • 15. More Europeans!
  • 16. Rhythm, Lesson Two
  • 17. The End of the Line
  • 18. Rhythm, Lesson Three
  • 19. So You Want to Go to Juilliard
  • Coda (transitions)
  • Acknowledgments
  • Appendix: An Annotated Playlist
Review by Booklist Review

Concert pianist Jeremy Denk looks back on a lifetime of music lessons in this reflective memoir sure to be treasured by fans of classical music. A gifted child, Denk was launched into an accelerated program of study, beginning piano lessons at the age of six and entering college as a music and chemistry double major at sixteen, all at considerable cost to his social life. With short chapters that insightfully expound on the principles of harmony, melody, and rhythm, this book is a paean to the complex relationship between musicians and their teachers as, together, they embark on a journey in pursuit of musical excellence. It's a life of grueling drudgery in practice rooms, electrifying moments of inspiration, and numerous humiliations dealt by teachers along the way, typically any time the student's ego begins to inflate. Denk demurely and sweetly touches on his late-blooming love life, among other domestic issues, such as his parents' strained marriage, but the gripping drama of his long search for the right teacher is what gives this story its beating heart. Denk's often high-flying insights into the work of Bach, Beethoven, Brahms and their ilk is honed from decades of thoughtful study and grounded by a personable sense of humor and a practical yet deeply considered approach to the craft. (Of piano technique, he quips, "Often the division of the hands is just juggling, a logistical question of which hand is available to pick up the notes--like which parent is able to pick up the kids from soccer practice.") Music fans will swoon.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

A boy tumbles into manhood while learning classical piano in this raucous coming-of-age memoir from concert pianist and New Yorker writer Denk. He surveys his youth through the lens of his piano studies--from his first plinkings in 1976 at age six with a neighborhood teacher in New Jersey to his rigorous studies at Juilliard's PhD program--while navigating complicated family relationships and his awakening homosexuality. It's a story of mind-numbing practice; obsessive attention to fingering, tempos, and tone; and wan hopes of glory, all made engrossing by Denk's shrewd metaphors ("Imagine that you are scrubbing the grout in your bathroom and are told that removing every last particle of mildew will somehow enable you to deliver the Gettysburg Address"). At its heart are evocative sketches of Denk's teachers and their lessons--which can feel like philosophy seminars ("You need to learn the difference between character and caricature," one instructor says) or barroom brawls (" 'Why are you fucking waiting?' he yelled in my face, coating me with a fine film of scotch-scented saliva")--but always unveil some deep musical truth. Denk's sparkling prose, frankness, and humor make for an indelible portrait of the musician as a bewildered kid. (Feb.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

First-time author and MacArthur Fellow Denk immerses the listener in music throughout this memoir and love story to music. He narrates his own story quite well, bringing the amateur musician and music aficionado in on many of the secrets that composers and musicians use to paint pictures, tell stories, and produce a wide range of emotions. As a precocious six-year-old, Denk began his musical training with a string of teachers, each with their own take on theory and performance. They each shaped his musical abilities, teaching him much about music and life. Denk pulls listeners into vivid imagery and classical and romantic music's plethora of great composers. The listener feels like they and the artist are sipping tea as he tells of his life's journey. What makes the audio version the best way to consume this story is Denk's piano passages, which well demonstrate his points. For listeners who've ever abandoned a musical instrument, Denk will make them want to dig it out again. VERDICT Listeners will fall in love with music even more or all over again.--Laura Trombley

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

An acclaimed American pianist tells his story. Denk traces his journey from a tormented child to a globe-trotting performer. With remarkable detail, the author recalls the countless hours of music lessons, as well as the demands of his parents and teachers, that helped shape him into a MacArthur-winning musician and frequent performer at Carnegie Hall. When he was 6, Denk's family moved from North Carolina to New Jersey. Following a playground incident, his teacher suggested that he needed a hobby to keep him out of trouble. At the author's request, he began piano lessons. Unfortunately, as music began to bring stability, his "home life got worse. My father's job stress, in tandem with my mom's drinking, manifested for me…in the form of an unavoidable and senseless anger, a kind of autopilot screaming that inhabited the late afternoons." At age 10, his family moved to Las Cruces, New Mexico. Following a successful audition, Denk began private lessons with William Leland, a piano professor at New Mexico State. At the same time, Denk began an accelerated school plan. He graduated high school at 16 and entered Oberlin College, where he studied music and chemistry. At Oberlin, the author made the decision to pursue a career as a musician despite his parents' concerns. Working on his master's degree at Indiana University, he fell under the spell of his guru, Hungarian pianist and teacher György Sebők. While finishing his doctorate at Juilliard, Denk also took on a faculty position at Indiana. During this time, he began to fully comprehend the joys and frustrations that his teachers had endured. The author recounts the ups and downs of each phase of his educational career, with a particular focus on the input he received from his teachers. Along the way, he offers readers lessons in harmony, melody, and rhythm. Musicians and music enthusiasts will appreciate this journey of self-discovery. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

1. The Earliest Lessons Playlist Saint-Saëns: Symphony no. 3 in C Minor (Organ), second movement Mahler: Symphony no. 1 in D Major (Titan), first and fourth movements Clementi: Sonatina in F Major, op. 36, no. 4 (as much as you can stand) My father was a monk. It's fun to drop this into conversation and watch for the double take. "Before I was born!" I add with a wink. When I was a child, Dad loved to tell stories about his decade with the church. One elderly brother refused to walk down the hall to the toilet and kept a pail in his room--he was dubbed "Thunderbucket." He dumped the pail out his window one morning, spilling its contents on a painting in the chapel below; this came to be known as "The Miracle of the Weeping Madonna." Dad went on and on about his roommate, Frater Lawrence, a brilliant thinker who didn't bathe, who "looked like an ape and smelled worse." Lawrence tutored my father on Dante, until he and his odors were mysteriously spirited off to Rome. My favorite characters were the spunky nuns Dad met when the abbey sent him to Notre Dame, cussing up a storm at the football games. Because of these stories, my brother and I found the monastery intriguing. We assumed it was somewhere you went for kicks, like a theme park or resort. "Why'd you leave?" we'd ask, not knowing we were questioning our own right to exist. Though he always gave the same answer, he made us wait for it. All those devotional years had made him desperate to perform, and no audience was too small or gullible. He hammed it up, frowning, sighing, appearing to shake off searing memories and shadows of existential doubt, until at last he said: "I just couldn't stand the fried chicken." We didn't know why this was funny, and Dad always followed his favorite lines with a stern, almost-furious face, so that you didn't know if laughter was allowed. I remember seeing that same expression years later, just after I'd moved my parents into assisted living. We were sitting around at lunch. An ambulance pulled up in the parking circle, lights flashing. "Here comes the meat wagon," Dad said, letting his gaze fall on a nearby resident, slumped in a wheelchair, hooked up to an oxygen tank. We all felt we had to laugh, but he kept at the frown, sustaining it like a pedal tone in music, insisting on the truth behind the punch line. In assisted living, Mom made Dad go to writing class with her. That's how my brother and I finally got serious answers about the past. The main class assignment was a memoir. Dad complained, but you could tell he loved it. He squirreled himself away in his room, keyboard clicking madly, like a journalist on a deadline. The resulting autobiography--"The Demythologization of Uncle Joe"--is written in a curious hybrid style, somewhere between Boswell's Life of Samuel Johnson and a Rodney Dangerfield routine. The elevated sentences are often too elevated ("As will be seen coloring the following barely historical and no doubt somewhat unavoidably fictional life chapters, the writing of which I now find to be inescapable, my life has been far from being epical"). The jokes have a way of circling back and making fun of themselves. There are lengthy factual passages where he seems to take special pleasure in boring you. But every so often, a sincere descriptive sentence slips through the cracks and breaks your heart. The first chapter alludes to tremendous guilt and refuses to specify a cause. Guilt for guilt's sake. Dad grew up in the Chicago suburbs: Irish mother, Bavarian father. The patriarch is mentioned least, but you sense he is the villain: grasping, disciplinary, severe. My father found his family escape in science: college in DeKalb, then a job as a chemical engineer in New Jersey. This lasted for a number of years. If you don't like the smell of the New Jersey Turnpike, you can blame him. But at this point in the memoir, without explanation, a new thread emerges: an interest in the theater, poetry, literature. Facts paled before beauty. Dad started venturing into New York City, frequenting bohemian cafés, far from his vacuum tubes. And there, in that den of iniquity (where I now live), surrounded by actors (whom I avoid), seemingly in search of adventure and freedom, he met the last thing you would expect: a nice Catholic girl, Mary Elise Rafferty, of East Orange, New Jersey. The dream of a creative life retreated. They got married a year later: "what they call love at first sight, but more accurately ought to be called an act of desperation on both our parts." But Mary Elise had asthma, which became pneumonia on their honeymoon, and later chronic bronchitis, of which she died on December 3, 1955, three years after their wedding. They weren't able to consummate their marriage. After her death, science lost what remained of its volatile luster. Dad began Bible study classes. They weren't enough, and so: off to the monastery he went, for ten years. Nothing in my life to date approaches this act of selling everything you own, surrendering self and ambition. Yet I feel that his choice wasn't one hundred percent faith. It had an aesthetic element. He craved to perform a moral act that was also beautiful. Dad and I eyed each other warily because we shared that underlying bias: overflowing tenderness for art and ideas; cautious irony toward people. If the boat was sinking, and the choice was between saving more passengers or the last copy of Bach's Saint Matthew Passion, we would both hesitate. And so, while the Sexual Revolution upended the nuclear Beavers, and the civil rights struggle raged, and Vietnam escalated, Dad was immersing himself in the Bible, studying Dante and Homer, finishing a doctorate in chemistry so he could teach at Belmont Abbey College, becoming ordained, learning rituals. But his guilt found a cunning new avenue of attack. As the world's arc bent toward justice, he felt he was engaged in a form of escapism--devotion to God was a moral failing greater than all the rest. He drove away from Catholicism in May 1969, and was stopped for speeding in Tennessee. I was born in May 1970. Dad gave me the middle name Martin, for Luther King Jr., a symbol of what he had missed. My mom's memoir portrays a stark but hilarious family split: prudent Prairie Home Companion types on one side; wild gumbo wastrels on the other. Her mother's ancestors were Swedish Lutherans, but father Orville came from New Orleans. Orville's aunt Zelda was fired from a department store for theft. Mom describes the moment Zelda was forced to move in with them: Zelda arrived jobless, and overweight, with high blood pressure, diamond rings, furs, fancy clothes, her love of parties, booze, rich New Orleans food, and a shiny black grand piano. Notice how she slips the piano in, at the end of a list of decadent, unnecessary, and dangerous things. Orville had a series of decent jobs in the auto industry, and so they lived in prosperity through the Depression, with money to share: A steady stream of men and women [rang] our back doorbell asking for handouts. Millie or Mother would answer the ring and shove me behind the door. Sandwiches, coffee, water, leftovers from last night's dinner were regularly doled out as the people sat on the back steps. They were never invited in. "They were never invited in": a classic Mom line. You can't tell if she approves of this boundary drawn on generosity, but she wants you to know about it. This way of life evaporated when cigar-smoking Orville, ignoring doctors' warnings, collapsed of a heart attack, leaving the family with no resources. I think it made it harder for my mother that they weren't victimized by world events, but by personal failing. Mom's response to fate was to worry about every action, freezing everything in place, a strategy that worked all too well. It made her more physically immobile, year by year, until even the three-inch step to her front door was a challenge. I try to make light of my mother's anxieties; but every so often I feel this paralysis creep up on me onstage, in front of thousands of people. After Orville's death and a few scrappy years, Mom married a police officer named Fran. There is no portrait of Fran in her memoir. She explains only the pragmatic: how they acquired a car, fixed up a bathroom, and produced three kids. The tone of her prose doesn't change--if anything, it becomes even more objective--when a note appears on the kitchen table, saying that Fran has decided to leave and won't be back. A pair of vanishings: her father from a heart attack, her husband from a different failing of the heart. In music, the return of a theme is often a comfort or delight, but in real life not so much. Excerpted from Every Good Boy Does Fine: A Love Story, in Music Lessons by Jeremy Denk All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.