The 500 - #92 - 20 Golden Greats - Buddy Holly & The Crickets

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #92

Album Title: 20 Golden Greats (aka) Buddy Holly Lives

Artist: Buddy Holly & The Crickets

Genre: Rock and Roll

Recorded: Between 1956 - 1958

Released: February, 1978

My age at release: 12

How familiar was I with it before this week: Quite well

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #166 - dropping 74 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Everyday

In the late 1970s, something strange was happening. Pop culture had fully embraced a revival of the 1950s. From fashion to music to slang expressions, North America was fully embracing an idealized version of Eisenhower-America.

Now, to a 12-year old kid growing up in the small farming and fishing town of Kingsville, Ontario, this seemed entirely normal.  When you are that young, everything is your "normal". You don't have enough life experience to know that the world could be any other way. A child who grows up wealthy assumes everybody takes vacations, flies on airplanes and has a family cottage somewhere. A child raised during the Second World War came to accept blackouts, ration books, bomb shelters, and fathers away in uniform as part of everyday life. The remarkable becomes ordinary when it is all you have ever known.

A young boy wears a ‘Mickey Mouse’ gas mask produced for children
between two and five. The facepiece was red, and the breathing
section was blue and green to make them more friendly.

So, in 1978, I found myself surrounded by a pop-culture filled with greasers, jukeboxes, sock hops, leather jackets, and the ever-present influence of Arthur "Fonzie" Fonzarelli. Somewhere between the  successes of American Graffiti, Happy Days, Laverne & Shirley, and Grease, popular culture of the time collectively decided to take a 20-year step backward.

American Graffiti film (1973), Happy Days
debut (1974), Laverne & Shirley (1976)
Grease (1978).

In the late‘70s, Tuesday nights belonged to Happy Days. If you had any hope of participating in school discussions the next morning, watching was mandatory. Missing an episode meant standing on the sidelines while everyone else debated the latest exploits of Richie Cunningham, his family, friends -- Ralph Malph, Potsie Webber --and, of course, the king of cool, Arthur "The Fonz" Fonzarelli.

Scene from Happy Days, (l) Richie Cunningham (Ron Howard)
with The Fonz (Henry Winkler), outside Arnold's Restaurant.

The '50s nostalgia craze spread everywhere in the '70s. American Graffiti had planted the seed first by introducing audiences to a romanticized vision of the time and the music that accompanied it. By 1978, television had fully embraced the post-war Eisenhower era. Happy Days became a new phenomenon which continued with its first spin-off series, Laverne & Shirley. Looking back, it is remarkable how thoroughly a generation of children became fascinated by a time period we had never actually experienced. From Jukeboxes to Fats Domino, to saddle shoes and poodle skirts -- I think I knew as much about America in the '50s than I did about Canada in 1978.

For elementary school kids in 1978, a Happy Days lunch box 

was practically standard issue.

One of the more baffling examples of 70s nostalgia for the 50s was the emergence of the rock and roll and doo-wop revival group Sha Na Na. The ten piece musical ensemble performed a song-dance and comedy repertoire that featured, and parodied, the music of the 1950s and the era’s New York gang culture. The group’s syndicated television series (1978 - 1981) somehow became appointment viewing, despite being (objectively speaking) generally unfunny.

Sha Na Na - musical group and television show cast.

The humour relied heavily on exaggerated characters, corny catchphrases, slapstick antics and broad mugging for the camera. Even as kids, my friend circle understood the jokes were pretty thin. Still, we watched every week, happily offering our own terrible Bowzer impressions on the playground the next day. The appeal was never really the comedy. It was the energy, the music, and the simple fact that, with only a few TV channels to choose from, a bunch of greasers singing old rock-and-roll hits seemed like perfectly reasonable entertainment.

Jon "Bowzer" Bauman was the 'breakout' character
on the Sha Na Na television series.

Then came the summer of 1978, when Grease seemed to take over the world. The soundtrack was everywhere and songs from the movie dominated the charts. Even if you had not seen the film, you knew the music.

Album cover for the soundtrack to Grease.

1978 also brought the film The Buddy Holly Story starring Gary Busey to audiences. For many people of my generation, this became our introduction to the music of Buddy Holly. Coincidentally, 1978 was also around the time I began spending more time digging through record bins and developing my own musical tastes. I distinctly remember seeing the 20 Golden Greats record with the hastily scrawled Buddy Holly Lives on the cover. I didn’t buy it, but I picked it up more than once, turning it over in my hands and wondering what all the fuss was about. Like so many kids my age, I was beginning to discover older music just as the rest of popular culture seemed determined to rediscover it.

Movie poster for The Buddy Holly Story.

I've written about Buddy Holly before. Back in June, 2020, I wrote about his record, The Chirping Crickets, (#420 on The 500). Four songs from that album appear again on 20 Golden Greats. They are among my favourites, particularly, That'll Be the Day, Not Fade Away, Oh, Boy! and Maybe Baby. If you are looking for Holly's biography and the story of his untimely death, that article covers the details.

Album cover for The Chirping Crickets (#420 on The 500).

This time, I am interested in something different. Why did Buddy Holly become popular again in 1978?

Part of the answer lies in nostalgia, movies, and television. Another part lies in the music itself. Holly's songs are short, direct, energetic, and built around unforgettable hooks. Listening today, they almost feel proto-punk...maybe even proto-proto-punk (if there is such a thing). At the exact moment when punk was exploding and progressive rock's sprawling concept albums and marathon guitar solos were beginning to fade from fashion, Buddy Holly's catalogue suddenly sounded modern again. A teenager starting a garage band in 1978 could find plenty of inspiration in those records.

The similarities between Buddy Holly and The Ramones are striking. Songs including Peggy Sue rely on three basic chords, relentless backbeats, and short track lengths, matching the exact formula of the Ramones' 1976 self-titled debut album (#33 on The 500). Additionally, London punk legends The Clash and 70's San Francisco hardcore punkers The Dead Kennedys famously covered I Fought The Law, a song written by Sonny Curtis of The Crickets. 

Album cover for the single release of I Fought The Law, by The Clash.

So, in 1978, nearly twenty years after his death, Buddy Holly was back in the record bins, back on the airwaves, and back in popular culture and even permeating the brain of an impressionable Canadian adolescent who was starting his search for a musical identity. Perhaps the title Buddy Holly Lives was not seem quite so far-fetched.

The 500 - #93 - Sign O' The Times - Prince

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #93

Album Title: Sign O' The Times

Artist: Prince

Genre: Funk, Soul, R&B, Rock, Avant-Pop

Recorded: Multiple Studios

Released: March, 1987

My age at release: 21

How familiar was I with it before this week: Several songs

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #45 - rising 48 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Sign O' The Times

As an educator, I am always chasing the perfect school year. I suspect most teachers do the same. Perfection in the classroom, however, is not necessarily defined by the highest grades or the fewest challenges.

It is the year when everything seems to click. The curriculum feels alive, students are excited and engaged, relationships are strong and the classroom becomes imbued with creativity, laughter, curiosity and growth through learning.

In this ideal environment, students all get along, avoiding the social drama that often befalls adolescents; they collaborate respectfully and productively. The teacher leaves work exhausted, but it is the satisfying kind of exhaustion that comes from knowing he or she is doing exactly what they were meant to do.

Of course, teaching rarely unfolds according to plan. External factors can quickly alter the trajectory of a promising year. Contract disputes, difficult parent interactions, administrative changes, staffing reorganizations, or even a global pandemic can derail momentum.

Sometimes, the obstacles come from within. Lessons that looked brilliant on paper fail to connect. Classroom dynamics never quite develop as hoped. A teacher can spend months refining a series of engaging, creative lessons only to have them met with unimpressed, blank stares. Sometimes it takes months to connect with a group of students, and a few "Negative Nancys" can steer others away from success, torpedoing lessons and activities with their resistance, cynicism and disengagement.

Even so, most teachers can identify a few years that stand above the rest. For me, one of those years was 2004-05 with a Grade 8 class at Lorne Avenue Public School in London, Ontario. Another was 2016-17 at Eagle Heights Public School. That year actually began with considerable uncertainty. I started with a Grade 5/6 split class before a school reorganization in October forced everyone to start over.
In many ways, it felt like building a classroom community twice within the span of a few months. Yet the class that emerged from that upheaval was exceptional. The students were funny, adventurous, creative and eager to learn. Looking back, it remains one of the most enjoyable years of my career.

The challenge with a year like that is not surviving it but surmounting the obstacles. Once you have experienced a truly satisfactory year, it becomes the measuring stick for every year that follows. Whether admitting it or not, with the onset of the following school year, teachers hope lightning strikes twice. We are encouraged by memories of spontaneous moments of humour, class discussions that took on a life of their own, and the projects that exceeded every expectation. We become convinced that if we work hard enough, plan carefully enough, and bring enough energy to the classroom, we can recreate the experience. However, the bar is set quite high -- perhaps unfairly for the new group.

The reality, however, is that every class has its own personality. The conditions that made one year magical can never be perfectly duplicated. Different students bring different strengths, interests, and challenges. What worked beautifully with one group may leave another group completely unmoved. Teachers know this intellectually, but emotionally we often find ourselves comparing new experiences against our personal high-water marks.

I imagine entertainment legend Prince faced a similar challenge after 1984.

With the release of his sixth studio record, Purple Rain (#76 on The 500), Prince became one of the biggest stars on the planet. The album generated massive hits including When Doves Cry, Let's Go Crazy, and the explosive title track. The accompanying narrative concert film of the same name was a commercial success, and Prince found himself occupying a rare position in popular culture: He was not simply successful; he was defining the musical landscape of the mid-1980s. For many artists, a project of that magnitude would have represented the unquestioned peak of their careers.

His next two albums, Around the World in a Day and Parade, were also hits by any reasonable standard. They contained memorable songs, showcased Prince's expanding musical interests, and sold well. However, they existed in the enormous shadow cast by Purple Rain. Critics and fans inevitably compared them to the album that had turned Prince into a cultural phenomenon. Fairly or unfairly, there was a growing sense that Prince's greatest work might already be behind him.

Then came Sign O' the Times. Rather than attempting to recreate Purple Rain, Prince took a different approach. He broadened his creative scope, embraced experimentation, and produced an album that showcased every facet of his artistry. Across its 16 tracks, he moved effortlessly between funk, rock, soul, pop, psychedelia and gospel influences, infusing the whole with social commentary. The title track examined AIDS, gang violence, poverty, drug addiction and the threat of nuclear annihilation with a seriousness rarely found in mainstream pop music. Elsewhere, songs such as If I Was Your Girlfriend, U Got the Look, The Ballad of Dorothy Parker and I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man, demonstrated an artist operating at the height of his creativity and confidence.

Many Prince fans and music critics now consider Sign O' the Times to be his masterpiece. It lacks the commercial footprint of Purple Rain, but it offers a more complete portrait of the artist. It captures Prince at his most adventurous, ambitious and fearless. Instead of trying to repeat a previous triumph, he pushed himself into new territory and created something even more enduring.

There is probably a lesson there for teachers. The goal is not to recreate our perfect year. The conditions that produced it no longer exist, and the students who made it special have moved on. Our task is to bring the lessons we learned from those experiences into the present and remain open to fresh possibilities. If we spend all our energy chasing the past, we risk missing the unique opportunities sitting right in front of us. I thought about that a lot over the summer shutdown as I began preparing for the new Grade 7 students I will work with in the 2026/27 school year.

Sometimes, the years we remember most are our Purple Rain years. Sometimes, however, our greatest work arrives only after we stop trying to repeat old successes and face the challenge of creating something new. Sign O' the Times is the sound of Prince doing exactly that.

The 500 - #94 - 40 Greatest Hits - Hank Williams

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #94

Album Title: 40 Greatest Hits

Artist: Hank Williams

Genre: Country, Honky-Tonk, Blues

Recorded: 1947-1952

Released: March, 1978

My age at release: 12

How familiar was I with it before this week: Several songs

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #132 - dropping 38 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: I Saw The Light

When I was in my twenties, Hank Williams was a punchline. Actually, it was his son, Hank Williams Jr., who earned that distinction. The senior Williams was merely collateral damage, swept up in the barrage of juvenile jokes my friend Paul Dawson and I traded whenever we were trying to crack each other up.

Hank Williams (1950)

In 1989, There's a Tear in My Beer was re-recorded by Hank Williams Jr., built around a vocal his father had recorded nearly 40 years earlier. It was, in effect, a duet across generations. Hank Williams Sr. had died in 1953 at the age of 29, leaving behind a three-year-old son and a catalogue that would help define country music for the next 50 years. In hindsight, the idea behind the song is quite moving: A grown man sharing a record with the father he never had the chance to know. At the time, however, that sentiment was lost on us. We were young, cynical, and eager to find the joke in everything, and Hank Jr. had already given us plenty of reasons to target him.

Hank Jr. re-recorded many of this father's songs.

When There's a Tear in My Beer popped up on our radios or on television, we would mock the simplistic lyrics. We'd make up increasingly ridiculous and vulgar alternative versions because we figured the songs were old-fashioned and unsophisticated. To us, Hank Williams Jr. represented a kind of country music that seemed completely disconnected from our lives. To a bunch of suburban Canadian kids trying to figure out our own political identities, he seemed to embody every Southern stereotype we disliked. We weren't particularly left-wing or right-wing at that point. We were still sorting out all that. What we did know was that we were decidedly anti-racist and uncomfortable with anything that looked like a celebration of Confederate nostalgia and slavery. Fairly or unfairly, we transferred the resentment we had to the son onto the father and never really gave the music a chance.

In 1988, Hank Jr. released a song called If The South Would've Won,
in which he imagines the South wining the Civil War. Critics
have made the logical connection that it is a tacit endorsement of slavery.

As you may have realized during this journey through The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time, I'm open to changing my mind, even if I'm a little reluctant at first. Sure enough, about a decade after Paul and I were trading puerile jokes and mangling Hank Williams’ lyrics for our own amusement, I found myself becoming a fan...of the Senior, not the Junior. The credit for that transformation belonged largely to a new friend, a legendary London musician and vocalist named "The Reverend" Freddie Johnston.

London musician, "Reverend" Freddie Johnston.

Like many people involved in London's music scene, I knew of Freddie long before I actually met him. He was hard to miss, looking more like a road-tested bluesman from Texas, or a hippie biker from California, than a young man raised in Ontario’s Southwest.

His large frame and trademark bandana, or a wide-brimmed hat, made him easy to spot from blocks away. His wardrobe was a glorious mix of styles that became uniquely him. His turquoise rings, boldly patterned shirts and jangly bracelets captured one’s attention whether he was walking down the street or performing on a tavern stage. His large arms were canvases of colourful tattoos that hinted at a lifetime of music, friendship and adventure.

Reverend Freddie on stage at The Brunswick Hotel - drummer
(and former guest blogger) Steve Crew on the kit behind him.

Freddie had played in local bands for years, including Thundershack and Green Apple Splash, two band names that leaned delightfully into his love of "potty humour". However, I got to know him well in the late ‘90s when he formed a four- piece band dubbed Reverend Freddie and The Distillers. What stood out wasn't the musician or local legend. It was the person. He was one of the warmest, funniest, most genuinely kind people I've ever met. He welcomed everyone, loved a good conversation, and smelled fantastic. I have no idea what cologne he splashed on, but the man was consistently the best-smelling musician in the London region.

The Distillers were (l-r) Jeff Bialkowski, Freddie, Crew,
 and Oscar "Porchee" Macedo.

Reverend Freddie and the Distillers mixed multiple genres in their sets. From Hard and Southern rock, to blues, and honky-tonk country, they entertained in a way that felt completely natural. For several years, they became part of my weekly routine. I was in a Monday night hockey league, with games ending between 11:00 and 12:30.  After a quick shower, I'd head over to the Brunswick Hotel to catch a set, have a couple of beers and unwind before heading home.

The Distillers at The Brunswick Hotel.

Those Monday nights also became my introduction to new music and, in particular, the Hank Williams songs I had spent years dismissing. Freddie and the Distillers often performed Williams’ classics, including Jambalaya (On The Bayou), Hey Good Lookin', Move It On Over, and Cold, Cold Heart.  What surprised me was how much I enjoyed them, and I began re-evaluating my view of their kind of music.

I eventually came to appreciate Hank Williams’ simplicity. What I had once mocked was actually his greatest strength. His songs don't hide behind complicated language or clever wordplay. He said what he meant, directly and honestly. Songs like Cold, Cold Heart and I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry endure because they capture emotions that most of us have experienced. The older I get, the more I realize that writing something simple can be just as challenging as writing something complicated. I can choose a clever word or phrase to make my writing more impressive; but will they resonate with succeeding generations.

Outside of music, Freddie and I shared another interest: professional wrestling. For about a decade, WrestleMania meant gathering at the home of Freddie's close friend -- bass player Oscar Macedo. Along with Oscar's friend Claudio Sossi (another former guest blogger) we'd spend the evening laughing, watching matches, sharing stories, drinking beers and eating pizza.

Oscar, Freddie and Claudio meeting Olympic gold medalist
and Pro-Wrestling legend Kurt Angle at an event in Windsor.

As I aged, my bar visits diminished. Late nights were harder and life just got busier. I saw Freddie, and all my other music acquaintances and friends far less frequently. The Brunswick Hotel was demolished in 2008 and the music scene in London continued to shrink, a victim of changing economics and a new generation who were less interested in the music of my generation, let alone honky-tonk country from 1950.

Freddie performing at The Brunswick "The Wick" Hotel.

The last time I saw Freddie was on Saturday, September 25, 2021. He was playing at a charity event that my friend Jeff Lewis was hosting and I helped him unload some music gear.. He was gracious and funny, as always, and he still smelled great. I remember the date well because I needed to leave before he hit the stage in order to visit  my friend Art who was losing his battle with cancer. It was, painfully, the same day we had to put our lovely, but old and diabetic, cat, Manny, to sleep.

On April 6, 2001, Freddie and his band performed for the students
at my school (free of charge). I am still appreciative of them
for volunteering their time and talent when I was a fledgling music teacher.

Freddie passed away on November 18, 2021, just two months later. His death sent shockwaves through London's music community. We were still emerging from the long shadow of the Covid pandemic and its lockdowns, so much of the collective grieving happened online. As I read the countless tributes and memories people shared, I was reminded of just how many lives Freddie had touched through his music, his humour, and his generosity of spirit.

Freddie's hat and vest on display at the London Music
Hall of Fame in 2022.

Listening to Hank Williams' 40 Greatest Hits recently brought many of those memories rushing back. I could almost hear Freddie's enthusiastic cries of "Testify!" between songs, or see him raising a glass and declaring, "Let the good spirits enter your body," before launching into I Saw The Light or one of the many Hank Williams tunes I now love.

Somewhere along the way, Freddie taught me that great songs don't have to be complicated to be profound. Hank Williams' lyrics, which I once dismissed as simplistic, turned out to be honest, direct, and enduring. Every time I hear Jambalaya, Hey, Good Lookin', or Cold, Cold Heart, I don't just think of Hank Williams. I think about Monday nights and long conversations at the Brunswick; watching WrestleMania's with friends; and specifically a larger-than-life musician in a wide-brimmed hat who helped me hear those songs with new ears.

The 500 - #95 - Bitches Brew - Miles Davis

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album: #95

Album Title: Bitches Brew

Artist: Miles Davis

Genre: Jazz Fusion, Psychedelic Jazz, Avant-Garde. Jazz Rock

Recorded: 52 Street Studios, Manhattan, New York, USA

Released: March, 1970

My age at release: Four

How familiar was I with it before this week: Somewhat

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #87 - rising Eight spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Pharoah's Dance

I took music all the way through high school and played with the school band every year, except one. Looking back, I probably didn't practise as much as I should have, and I certainly didn't take every lesson as seriously as I wish I had.

Still, I was a competent enough saxophone player to earn passing grades and survive recitals, concerts and exams. I also have music teacher Mr. Gwyn Beynon to thank for not booting me from class or band when my teen-age brain seemed hell bent on giving him a good reason to do so on a seemingly monthly basis.

Gwyn Beynon is now the Conductor Emeritus with the London, 
Ontario based Encore Concert Band. 

If I could go back, though, I wouldn't just spend more time in the practice room, I'd spend more time paying attention in music theory classes.

At the time, theory class felt a lot like math class. Which makes sense, music is math. It is patterns, relationships and structures. Unfortunately, teen-age me had already decided that I wasn't really a "math person," so I approached music theory with the same lack of enthusiasm that I brought to algebra.

Today, as a middle school teacher, that's exactly the mindset I try to instill in my students. I task them to see themselves as mathematicians. Understanding mathematical concepts isn't about being born with some special gift. It's about focus, time, practise and, most importantly, believing you are capable of learning difficult things.

I vaguely remember the lessons on the church modes from my Grade 13 year at Beal Secondary School. The church modes are seven musical scales derived from the notes of a major scale. Instead of always starting and ending on the first note of the scale, each mode begins on a different note, creating its own unique sound and mood. Long before they became important in jazz, these modes were used in church music during the Middle Ages, which is where they get their name. They are Ionian (major), Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian (natural minor) and Locrian, most easily remembered by the mnemonic I Don't Play Loud Music At Lunch.

I remember trying to memorize them. I remember writing them out. I remember learning just enough about them in order to pass a quiz and then...promptly forgetting them. At the time, with a head full of teen-age social anxieties and unrequited crushes, I simply didn't think they mattered.

Now, decades later, I realize those modes are essential in understanding jazz, especially the music of Miles Davis. I know enough to appreciate that fact, but I also believe that if I were to take music theory again, perhaps in retirement, a much deeper level of understanding awaits.

Which brings me to Bitches Brew.

Released in 1970, Bitches Brew arrived at a time when Miles Davis was determined to push jazz in a new direction. Rock music was dominating popular culture. Younger listeners were embracing electric guitars, amplified instruments, and more experimental forms of entertainment. Davis had already begun moving away from traditional jazz structures with albums such as In a Silent Way. However, it was Bitches Brew that blew the doors off.

Album cover for In A Silent Way, a CD I purchased during my
"I want to understand jazz" phase in the late 80s.

The recording sessions were unlike most jazz albums that had come before. Rather than bringing fully written compositions into the studio, Davis often arrived with sketches, bass lines and, of course, modal frameworks paired with simple instructions. He assembled an astonishing cast of musicians, including Wayne Shorter, Joe Zawinul, Chick Corea, John McLaughlin, Larry Young, Jack DeJohnette, Dave Holland, and Bennie Maupin. What emerged was part jazz, part rock and part improvisation.

Musicians credited on Bitches Brew.

For listeners expecting catchy melodies and familiar chord progressions, Bitches Brew can be a challenging experience. Many of the pieces stretch beyond 20 minutes. The music often feels less like a collection of songs and more like a landscape. Instead of moving quickly through traditional chord changes, the musicians frequently explored modes, textures, rhythms and moods for extended periods of time.

That is where those old theory lessons come back to haunt me.

While listening to tracks, such as  Pharaoh's Dance, Bitches Brew, Spanish Key and Miles Runs the Voodoo Down,  I can detect a different musical language by recognizing some of the vocabulary. I understand enough to know that the modal ideas I encountered in high school are playing an important role. And I am also aware there's a deeper conversation happening just beyond my knowledge.

Miles Davis, in his trademark trumpet pose, recording Bitches Brew.

Maybe that's one reason why this album remains fascinating more than 50 years after its release. Like a difficult book or a demanding film, it reveals a little more at each re-listen.

Fortunately, I'll be visiting friends at their cottage in a week. Their teenage son, Mitchell, is a talented guitarist who recently took up jazz. Perhaps I can pick his brain for the insights that eluded me in those music classes 40-plus years ago.