My own personal live music

"That brings joy to my heart," I said. "Not that you care about my joy, but it's what I've been waiting for these last couple of weeks."

Last year, every fourth hour, around 11:00 or so, five guys would strap on their guitars, slide behind the drum set, and crank their amps. Then they'd jam.

They had a set of songs they worked on. First the chords, then the sequence, then getting the structure of the song down, and finally, the start and end. It was a real hands-off kind of class. All I had to do was sit behind my desk and make sure they knew I was listening. It was kind of impossible not to listen.

The occasional request to turn down the volume notwithstanding, most every teacher in the building seemed to enjoy it to a certain degree, probably not as much as me, but they did kind of like hearing the five guys working together and producing a cohesive sound.

I considered it my own private live music every day. Loud, but mine. And I LOVED it.

I have a little confession: I was raised on opera and classical music. Yes, that's right. While I was in the womb my mother played her cello mere inches from my rapidly developing self. I went to my first opera at the age of five and have been to several dozen since. The Nutcracker ballet was a yearly ritual that I attended with my dad and my sister, just them, because my mom was playing in the orchestra. Organ music makes me weep with joy. I've heard or played about 70% of the classical repertoire, and the strains of a symphony orchestra or wind ensemble still elicit a visceral memory of sweat, spit, muscle coordination, furrowed brows, and the flash of a baton.

So why do I like rock and roll so much? Rebellion, pure and simple. Sorry Mom and Dad, but it's true, the electric pulse of amplified guitar strings and rhythmic drumming set my heart afire, too.

The hardest part for me is letting these five guys work it out for themselves. Unlike my other groups, where I conduct and tell them how to sit and when to breathe and what to do every second of the class, these guys, like most teenage boys, would rather splinter their guitars into shreds and never play again than be told what to do.

So I have to let go and let them do their thing. When they do, it's beautiful.

The first few weeks of school were a little out of sync. The drummer wasn't, or isn't, sure if he'll stay out his senior year or move with his parents. The lead guitar is the sweetest kid imaginable, and darn smart, but emotional when things don't go his way. There was a switch of a lead guitar for a bass, who had to learn the songs and then teach them to the old bass player. (Go figure.)

Last year they were in their element, doing what they loved, trying not to smile too wide. None are going to shatter records as an athlete, or become Ivy Leaguers. But every one of them is a musician to his soul, and I got to see their souls soar every day at 11:00 am.

This year, I figured, first day, they'd get right back to it. It took them two weeks. 'Til today, they sat and worked on their own stuff, and it sounded like, well, four guitarists and a drummer sitting and working on their own stuff. Chaos. Cacophony.

A little unpleasant.

Which is why, when they played together for the first time a song they did last year, it was like the heavens parting, revealing a ray of sunshine. I breathed deeply, soaking in the fresh waves of coordinated sound, and carried on with work at my desk.

And when they stopped, I told them with a big smile on my face, "That brings joy to my heart. Not that you care about my joy, but it's what I've been waiting for these last couple of weeks."

They laughed and kept on playing.