The Music s Breath. A reading for every accordion

 
lover.
And for music lovers as well.

Ïîñëåäóþùèé òåêñò - ïåðåñêàç íà àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå ìîåãî ýññå "Ìóçûêè äûõàíèå". Íà ðóññêîì ÿçûêå ýòî ìîæíî íàéòè íèæå, â ñïèñêå ïðîèçâåäåíèé. Ëþáèòåëÿì àíãëèéñêîãî - ïëàìåííûé ïðèâåò. Îðãàíèçàòîðàì Ïðîçà.ðó - íèçêèé ïîêëîí çà âîçìîæíîñòü òàêèõ ïóáëèêàöèé.

That’s how it happens sometimes — you go about your business, not
expecting any surprises, and then — wham! There you are.
I was sitting quietly, working on a fairy tale, when—bang!—a package
arrived by mail: an electronic accordion I’d snatched online for next to
nothing. I have this weakness: whenever I see something labeled “for
parts only,” my brain starts itching—what if I can fix it? Maybe it’s
nothing serious, just someone gave up too soon? And then—no rest for
me. The idea won’t leave.
Most of the time, I’m right. What the seller calls a fatal flaw usually
turns out to be a small, fixable thing. And along the way, I learn all
sorts of new tricks. To repair an old amp or a used laptop, there’s no
telling what corners of the internet I’ve had to dig through, what
priceless knowledge I get.
Once, I owned a Roland FR-7. Loved that instrument—knew every
screw and setting by heart. But I had to sell it when the transmission
on my semi-truck broke, and times weren’t the best. I got three
thousand for it—exactly what I’d once paid.
This new one, the one that came by mail, was a humbler—a two
octave model, but compact and practical. Wouldn’t take up much
space in my truck sleeper.
So I couldn’t stay with my fairy tale any longer. I opened the slightly
dented box.
But first let me tell you why I have such a weakness for accordions.
Do you remember ABBA’s song “Hasta Ma;ana”? It means “See you
tomorrow.”
If you don’t, go listen to it.
A friend of mine once said: “Even though they never brought an
accordion on stage, you can tell it lived in their hearts.”
Exactly! The accordion was the first instrument for both ABBA boys,
who later gave the world those incredible melodies. In many of their
songs, I can clearly hear that same breath of the bellows.
And not just in ABBA!
I was ten years old. We had just moved into a new apartment. My
little couch stood by the wall outlet—and, on the other side of the wall,
in the neighboring stairwell, was another identical outlet. Through it, I
could hear everything going next door. Usually nothing special—except
on Saturdays, when our neighbors celebrated yet another
housewarming. Probably their fifth by then.
There was always music—a real party, with a bayan player. And what
a musician he was!
No matter what the guests, half-drunk and out of tune, tried to sing,
he picked up their melody, and suddenly the ragged chorus
straightened out and shone. He played so beautifully that they must
have felt ashamed to sing sloppily. But I wasn’t listening to them—I
was following him, the miracle of his playing. Even the tricky line
“Whether warm rain falls or snow comes down...” he played perfectly
smooth. Ah, to play like that!
I’d fall asleep frustrated—my guitar lessons brought no joy. My teacher
was brilliant, but to reach that level meant drilling endless scales,
slogging through “A Birch Tree Stood in the Field,” and other dull
exercises. I wanted to play like that accordionist—to grab the
instrument and make the devils wince.
The neighbors’ endless housewarmings eventually stopped. A month
later they had a birthday, but the accordionist was someone else—
 played horribly. The guests sang off-key; it all ended in a loud scandal
with fight and broken dishes.
But that first, gifted musician—I still remember him. His accordion
didn’t croak or bark or whine; it sang, alive.
Now I understand—he had the Holy Spirit beside him. Without divine
help, no Art truly comes alive.
Yet that didn’t make me beg my parents for an accordion.
Back then, the guitar was king. The boys down by the ravine sang so
soulfully the girls could hardly breathe watching them. Vysotsky and
Galich sang to the guitar, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones had
them, and strumming a few chords wasn’t hard. My classical guitar
teacher, with his “Birch Tree,” was quickly forgotten. Soon I was
strumming that simple A minor as well as any kid in the ravine—and
didn’t advance much beyond that.
The accordion, meanwhile, was out of fashion.
On TV, Lyudmila Zykina sang with two accordionists at her sides—she,
grand and monumental, wrapped in a sparkling gown, belting out the
impossibly dull “Orenburg Shawl” or “The Volga Flows.”
And yet... somehow, the accordion kept finding me.
At summer camp, where my parents often sent me under the watchful
eye of the director, Nikifor Ivanovich, the accordion was king of the
evening orchestra. The camp was small—maybe a hundred kids—and
the atmosphere was almost homely.
Each night, by the little wooden bandstand, there were dances. The
director himself led the music—he adored his instrument. There was
also a drummer, a guitarist, and our stout supply manager, a Shveik
like fellow, who played the alto sax. There was even a double bass,
though a bit shorter than the man who played it—a lanky mechanic
who bowed deeply and grinned whenever people laughed at the sight.
But above them all ruled the accordion.
“B;same Mucho,” “Come Back to Sorrento,” and especially “Under the
Paris Skies”—he played them tenderly, and they took root in my heart
forever.
Nikifor Ivanovich, eyes closed, swaying dreamily, played not for us
campers, but for the Heavenly Father Himself. The others played their
best, inspired by him. I think now—that’s why he’d taken that
burdensome job: to make music on warm summer evenings.
Locals and vacationers would come for those dances. There were
rough boys around, but no fights ever broke out. That was the power
of Nikifor Ivanovich. I remember him for life, and his playing of “Under
the Paris Skies” still lives inside me.
Back then I told myself: Someday, when I’m grown up, I’ll play like
that. I’ll be that solid man with a beautiful accordion marked
“Scandalli.”
Later, maybe. Someday. And my heart swelled with those sweet
dreams.
Dreams? Yes, exactly—dreamings.
There was another accordionist, less remarkable, at our school.
Perhaps he wasn’t bad, but his partner, the rhythm teacher, stole the
spotlight.
Where those two came from—God knows. It was the only class parents
had to pay for—seven rubles a semester, a mere trifle. In the late
sixties, that was unusual, but there it was.
Several classes were gathered in the assembly hall for dancing
lessons. The accordionist played while a short, balding man with a
commanding voice pranced about, teaching us to move lightly. He kept
shouting, “It’s not your hands or legs that dance—it’s your eyes!” Then
he’d show us how eyes dance, and we’d all pull faces and laugh,
learning from him with genuine joy.
I think those two spent their summers as entertainers in seaside
resorts.
But what the accordionist played—I can’t recall.
I do remember, though, a summer evening.
We boys sat on a domino table in our courtyard, surrounded by five
story buildings. Someone strummed a guitar, sang a tune; the girls
stood nearby, listening.
Then a few tipsy men showed up with an accordion. Seeing the guitar,
they came straight over.
“Hey, give Fedya the guitar—let’s sing too!”
Fedya, an older man barely standing upright, took the guitar, sat down
on the bench.
He struck a few chords; the accordion joined in with that same street
A minor.
And then they sang—
The acacia bloomed in my garden,
Its flowers smell of kisses.
You period started at last
Means you’re not pregnant.
(In Russian the song sounds pretty funny. Here I gave just straight
translation.)
The girls scattered like leaves in the wind.
We boys didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe. It all ended in a
brawl, the guitar broken, the accordion resting in a puddle under a
tree. Fedya and our own Vitya rolled in the mud, trading punches,
while neighbors ran out yelling and pulling them apart.
That’s the memory I carry still.
Part Two — The Aristocrat and the Curse
What can I say? What’s Russian life without a squeezebox?
A hundred years ago, those old instruments were called talyankas. I’m
not entirely sure, but I suspect the name came from their country of
origin — Italy. The first harmonicas came to Russia from there, hence
“talyanka.” My little Italian lady! She plays; she tells stories. What’s a
song without a bayan, anyway?
But the accordion — that was another matter. Compared to the
homegrown bayan, it was an aristocrat.
Even my former mother-in-law — a golden woman, really — was first
surprised, even abashed, when she learned I’d started playing a
“garmoshka.” But when she realized that by “garmoshka” I meant an
accordion, she felt much better though still a bit offended!
“How can you call an accordion a garmoshka? That’s an instrument, a
completely different thing!”
And she kept repeating it for days: “Imagine that — he calls his
accordion a garmoshka!” You could hear the secret pride in her voice.
She liked the idea that her son-in-law could play something proper,
not just the girlish piano — an instrument fit for a man.
My ex-wife, though, thought differently. That “garmoshka” became the
last straw that overturned the basin of her petty grievances, spilling
out in a ridiculous act of revenge that led to eventual divorce, and a
long illness that almost carried me off.
She’s still somewhere out there, running with her tears and grudges,
and I’m here, playing Under the Paris Skies on my loud and proud
Italian Scandalli. Just as Nikifor Ivanovich once did: eyes closed, head
swaying in rhythm, breathing each note through the bellows like a
prayer.
It was a tiny harmonica — a gift from my daughter — that brought my
passion back to life.
The moment I blew into it, that little thing responded with such cheer
that I just couldn’t stop playing. A wild dance burst out — one I’d
never heard before. As if elves and fairies, tired of sitting around, had
leapt up and spun into a joyful mazurka or a jig.
Heaven knows what possessed that harmonica, but whenever I raised
it to my lips, the same invisible company gathered again, and the
music flowed on its own. Everything dances around me.
I tried to play something classical on it — no use! Dances, dances,
dances only.
And then I decided: I was nearly fifty, blessed with a good trade; the
Lord had been generous with me — only one thing was missing: the
fulfillment of my childhood dream.
So I bought myself an accordion.
“If I’d known you were an accordion player, I’d have never married
you!” My ex screamed.
She hated any kind of squeezebox.
And there I was — bringing one home, filling the house with scales and
exercises. “The Old Maple Tree” trembled above the murky river of our
endless quarrels, while “The Bird-Cherry” wilted in the storm of her
shouting.
Why is such hatred, you ask? What’s so terrible about accordions?
The reason soon came to light.
When my future wife was sixteen, she lived with her parents in a Ural
industrial town where bayans were part of every festivity — and often,
every drunken evening.
Once they went to visit as a family. The adults drank, ate, and soon
someone fetched a bayan.
They started singing bawdy ditties... unbearable stuff.
Her parents — tipsy, laughing along — were a disgrace in her eyes. I
suspect that the same crude courtyard song I once heard in my youth
was sung there too.
So, what about it? What does that have to do with me? Should I stop
playing because of it? Stop breathing, maybe?
Anyway, we fought bitterly.
“It’s either me or that accordion — choose!”
Well, my wife was wrong, in this and much else. I chose my Scandalli.
And I’ve never regretted it.
Though I did earn a vicious neurosis from all that drama — at first, I
found it funny, but soon it owned me. Whenever I picked up my
instrument, something strange happened to my hands. I couldn’t pull
the bellows right; it always felt like, if I played too loud, that witch
would run in and smack me with a slipper over my head. Then I’d have
to chase her through three floors of our beautiful house — instead of
practicing.
Curses are no jokes. Beware them, good Christians: they hit hardest
those who cast them. The Lord sees the truth, but what of it?
Still, my playing slowly grew steadier.
I’m no musician — more of a literary man — but I simply can’t live
without music. So, I try, as an amateur.
Once, when I was twenty-two, I decided to learn the piano. I was
living then with my first wife, in Tushino, Moscow district. At the local
culture house, they looked at me in surprise: no adult classes, but
there was a children’s choir school that also taught piano.
I was too old to sing “The Puppy’s Gone Missing,” so they didn’t expect
me to, but they enrolled me anyway.
A wonderful woman with rare father's name Yevtikhievna began
teaching me notation, scales, little pieces.
We even got to the Moonlight Sonata, and I loved playing that
nocturnal music — when suddenly my first divorce happened.
My settled, well-tuned life collapsed. I had to start over: a new
marriage, a new place of living — a grimy communal flat on Krasnaya
Presnya — and I lost the piano, which belonged to my first wife.
Then life became so busy that music simply disappeared.
Yes… if not for that tiny harmonica my daughter gave me, I’d never
have returned to my accordion dream.
I wouldn’t have left that capricious second wife. I probably wouldn’t be
alive at all, since no one was around to drag me out of that terrible
illness.
And really — was it worth going back to those daily quarrels?
I’d built a house, planted trees, written a few good books... Wasn't it
the right time to peacefully pass away? But that mischievous dance of
fairies and elves from my little harmonica pushed me toward a new
path — a different life, one that, thank God, still goes on and on with
no end in foreseen perspective.
I needed a teacher who could show me how to play the Scandalli
properly.
Soon I found one — through the internet. He lived in Washington State
and gave lessons by mail. There was no Skype yet by then.
He’d send me a cassette with explanations, and I’d send one back.
Progress was slow — snail-paced — and my new neurosis kept me
from playing smoothly, earning me plenty of complaints. I never told
him why my bellows stuttered.
The pieces he assigned were traditional and dull; the microphone
catching every mistake became my enemy.
So I gave it up.
Still, with that teacher I learned to play Come Back to Sorrento — and
rather well, I might add.
I know now another reason for that strange hatred my ex had for my
music.
She didn’t talk about it much, but I think it played the biggest part in
our family’s drama.
Her parents hadn’t seen much talent in their first daughter. She was
quiet, almost invisible — yet could surprise them. Once, while guests
were drinking at the table, she sculpted from plasticine a little deer so
lifelike that everyone gasped. “Where did that come from?”
She just pointed to the empty wine bottle in the corner — on its label
was the deer she’d copied.
Another time, her mother took her to work. The colleagues there knew
the child well and called her “Fly” for her dark eyes.
Someone asked, “What will you be when you grow up?”
And the little girl said, “I’ll be beautiful.” Everyone laughed — nothing
in her yet hinted at it.
Then came the second daughter, five years later — fair-haired, blue
eyed, lovely from the start, beloved by everyone. 
The first girl found it terribly unfair. Nobody had tied ribbons for her
like that or dressed her in such pretty frocks.
Not that her parents didn’t love her — but they had more money when
the second came along and spoiled her like a doll. They even sent her
to music school — to learn bayan.
That drove the older one mad. “Why her, not me?” She fumed.
The lessons didn’t last. Even the family cat couldn’t stand that “music”
either — kept prying the little one’s fingers off the buttons. Soon the
bayan was buried in a closet.
A melodrama fit for Freud. And who had to pay for it all? Me and my
poor Scandalli.
Still, the elder sister came out ahead. She may not have become an
exceptional beauty as she once planned, but in her walk, posture, and
sense of style she easily outshone her younger sister — who grew up
into a tall, slender woman, a little awkward in movement but not as
attractive as her older sister.
The elder married a Muscovite — me — and later even moved to
America, became a painter, sold her art online, until the Chinese
flooded the market and ended that business.
The younger wasn’t so lucky. Life gave her little, and that unlucky
bayan, I suspect, still gathers dust in her parents’ closet.
Part Three — Let the Music Play
All right… I digress. With my second teacher, I truly got lucky.
His name is Joe Natoli—if you like, look up his videos on YouTube.
He didn’t force me through dreary little studies; with him I went
straight to the songs I love. He taught me to really play Autumn
Leaves, B;same Mucho, and even the now-forgotten Tie a Yellow
Ribbon ’Round the Old Oak Tree.
Health to you, patient, kind Joe—and many good years!
Why do most of us love music so much?
My daughter once confessed her favorite chord is F; major. I thought
about it and realized mine is Dmaj7. It’s quiet, full of joy—there’s a
sunrise in it, and a sense of music’s divinity. A little nostalgic; it smiles
through a tear of sympathy.
Three or four tones sounding together—and they take you by the soul.
Thank you, Lord, for speaking to us in a language everyone
understands.
Harmony… the harmonika.
It turns out the accordion may be the last great mechanical instrument
born of human genius. Someone had the bright idea to pack a whole
piano into a compact box! And more: the Stradella bass under the
left hand makes playing so much easier—changing keys with no great
pain. What takes years on the piano can be learned here in a month.
The hand-organ—the squeezebox—was music’s breakthrough into the
street.
The piano, with its cost and difficulty, belonged to the rich; only they
could afford theory and notation. But the squeezebox ran out into the
squares, and under it the people sang and danced—first across
Europe, then the whole world. You didn’t even need to study theory;
you could play by ear. And how you could play!
I’ll stop. I’ve wandered into a whole lecture—let the music critics earn
their keep; that’s their field. I’m writing about my own road, my own
love for music that comes alive in the breath of these bellows. How
marvelous an accordion sounds in a master’s hands—and how awful it
can be in the paws of the half-trained! You know this yourselves; each
of us keeps memories of performances either enchanting or
unbearable.
Once I helped my capricious ex sell her paintings, writing little verses
to accompany them. On one canvas a melancholy lady sat at a red
grand. The verse went like this:
How can she make it clear? Music
Exists despite the power of sound.
What’s sound—air’s tremble? Funny
Even to think of it. No, music
Lives by itself. Musician only
Helps to deliver the distant echo
Of real melody that often
Needs not a sound but deep silence.
Whatever I might write, without air we cannot hear music.
Perhaps a time will come when artificial intelligence moves into our
heads, and then even ears won’t be needed. Music notation is, after
all, just numbers—frequencies arranged with precise timings of notes
and rests. That, too, can be encoded.
It seems everything may become digital.
But will the soul remain?
Will music still ache and heal and lift?
God forbid we live to see a world where it doesn’t.
For us—the children of Adam, the very one into whom the Creator
breathed the breath of life and man became a living soul—Music, and
our love for it, is a great gift from our Heavenly Father.
Part Four — Oh, my... What did I buy!
All right then. What was I talking about?
Ah yes—I’d been about to unpack the box with that troublesome
electronic accordion and somehow wandered into memories and
musings. The box had come from a pawn shop. Quite a find, I must
say.
Good heaven! I murmured when I finally reached the soft Roland
case.
Usually such cases look almost new, no matter their age—they just sit
on a shelf, barely used. But this one had seen the world. The shoulder
straps were worn; the fabric had split where they attached, and the
previous owner had stitched it back together with thick black thread—
 clumsy, but sturdy. Maybe he carried it to music school every day, I
thought. The pawn shop was in Los Angeles, a city I know well, so
walking there to lessons wouldn’t surprise me.
The case clearly begged for a trip to the laundry.
I took it to the washer and dropped it on the floor. Suddenly a few
coins rolled out and jingled cheerfully across the tiles—ninety-five
cents in total.
Well now, what is this? I wondered.
The instrument itself surprised me even more.
It had its share of scratches; the bellows a bit scuffed on the back—
 maybe rubbed by a belt buckle. Clearly, it hadn’t been gathering dust
in a closet; it had lived an active life. The row of white and black keys,
though, was even and true. No sunken bass buttons either. Of course,
this was no ordinary acoustic—it was electronic; a different beast
altogether.
Something rattled and shifted inside. What could that be? I frowned.
Carefully, I unscrewed the control panel—and out tumbled another
handful of coins. Then I understood everything.
I’d bought an instrument that once belonged to a street musician.
Warm California evenings under palms and stars, bright sunlight, a
sprinkle of rain—there he sat, playing at his regular spot. At his feet
lay this very same worn case; passersby dropped coins in, smiling at
familiar tunes. Judging by the forgotten change, that musician didn’t
play for money, but—like our Nikifor Ivanovich—out of love for music
itself.
Who was he? Don Pedro the Mexican? Jim Smith the Black Man? Kevin
the Irishman?
Maybe someday, myself, I will sit down with this accordion at the
entrance of a truck stop and play “Under the Paris Skies” for my
fellow drivers.
I’ll play from the heart—eyes closed, head swaying gently to the
rhythm—just as Nikifor Ivanovich once did.
I’ll play like that former owner, paying no mind to the jingle of coins
landing in the case.
Why not? I’ll make a sign:
Two and a half million honest miles across America’s highways.
Retired. Playing from the heart.
Listen, my friends—hear how the Lord speaks to you!
Music is His voice.
I’ve already prepared fresh batteries.
I pressed the power button—the little light glowed blue. The tiny
display came alive: “222.”
It was breathing.
I tried the bass—fine.
Tried the treble— complete chaos!
Wrong notes everywhere, and five keys making a helicopter rumble.
But I knew the cause: a voltage surge. The right side had switched
into button-accordion mode. It can be fixed. Soon, one way or
another, it will be a fine instrument again.
Who knows—maybe I really will play it someday for my trucker
friends.
Thank you, Lord.
Thank You for everything.