Flute-O-Phone Concert

 Flute-O-Phone Concert From Hell!

Suck It Bitches

Go tell aunt Rhoda, go tell aunt Rhoda, Go tell aunt Rhoda the old gray goose is dead. Ahh yes, every Catholic boy and girl in the 1960's knew this song and knew it well. It was just one of the many magical musical hits we learned to play on our "fluteophone" recorders in music class. You remember this musical instrument don't you?

The fluteophone was the Nuns favorite instrument for it was an amazing tool for them to wield power and influence over us Catholic school kids. It was a rite of passage that every Catholic child had to endure. And it was now my turn to carry on the tradition.

So there I was, about 9 weeks into the school year thinking that maybe the fluteophone curse would skip a generation sparing me the pain and agony of playing this silly annoying instrument. But, just like the swallows that return to Capistrano every Springtime, so would the fluteophone rear it's ugly face and sound. The Nuns, or Sisters as we sometimes called them, informed my class of the good news that our fluteophones would be arriving in several days and that we would begin practice immediately afterward. The Sisters were all giddy in anticipation, some almost smiling. An awesome day indeed.

The nuns rambled on and said that we would be taught many a fine songs. The classics they said. Like I wanted to learn how to play Mary Had A Little Lamb or Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Hell, I couldn't even begin to sing these songs let alone bring forth pleasant music from this instrument. I figured this had to be some sort of nun punishment and I for one wanted no part in this. A Line In The Sand had been drawn!

My 9 year old brain started to plot and scheme trying to reason a way out of this torture. Maybe I could be sick for 18 or so weeks. Maybe I could tell the Nuns that I had a severe throat infection and playing the fluteophone was detrimental to my health. Although these plans seemed to be perfect, I knew the Nuns would soon catch on and then my life as a Catholic would be over. My mortal soul would be lost on the river of woe for eternity. I needed a much more diabolical plan. I would need a little more time to see how the Nuns would play this out. I would wait for a mistake and only then would I make my move on them.

That fateful day arrived. A package had been delivered. The instruments of destruction lied dormant within. As the Sisters carefully opened the brown box, a silence like no other I had experienced fell upon the class. Not even breathing could be heard. Maybe all the kids were holding their breath much like I was praying to God that the box contained chocolate candy bars that would be passed out to all us kids. In an instant, I was snapped back to reality as the first white plastic flute emerged from the box.

Another Nun began calling our names in alphabetical order and as our names were called, we rose from our chairs and walked slowly toward the Nun holding the fluteophones. Moments later, my name was called and I was in the funeral march type procession to receive my musical instrument.

After everyone's name was called, the Nuns begun with lesson number one. They really weren't lying when they said they would jump right in with the lessons. Lesson one was all fire and brimstone. It was a warning by the Sisters that you were not to lose the fluteophone, break it, damage it any any way, chew gum while playing it, or using it for any other reason than playing music, and only the music sanctioned by the Nuns themselves.

We were even told not to play the music outdoors for fear that a dog, annoyed by the high pitch, might attack us thus making us drop the fluteophone and damage it. It would be OK if the dog mauled us but we better protect that fluteophone with our very lives.

To me, this was totally unacceptable but still I bided my time. As the days went on and the lessons increased, the Nuns would single us out and force us to play solo in front of the class to see just how far we progressed. Actually, I believed the Nuns did this exercise to see just how terrible we were. Of course, my name was called continually to perform the solo. Being the obstinate lad that I was, I would give it a half hearted attempt and then listen to the Nuns honest critique of my music ability.

If the Nuns were permitted to utter the word "Suck", then that would have summed it up. Since they were not permitted to utter such profanity, the nuns used words like slacker and deviant which were the nuns way of telling me that I sucked at playing the fluteophone.

Like I cared. It's not like I was daydreaming of one day becoming the greatest fluteophone player in the world. Maybe become more popular than Zanfir and his magic pan flute..... Ahh, dare to dream. Millions of fans coming to hear me play. Much like the Beatles were, only more popular.....

Anyway, the weeks went by excruciatingly slow as each lesson became more tedious than the previous one. The only benefit I could see from these lessons was that if I were somehow magically transported into a Johnny Quest carton and then cornered by a pack of poisonous vipers and my only chance of survival was to play the fluteophone and charm the snakes into submission. Again, I was snapped back into reality. The Nun was calling my name again to perform. Again, the same results, and of course the same critique. At least I was consistent.

Then one day, it dawned on me that I would never be able to successfully perform the intricate maneuvers needed from my thumb and ring finger to produce the right sound. However, all was not lost.

I did find out that if I merely just blew as hard as I could into the flute and moved my fingers up and down as if I were playing chopsticks on steroids on a piano, that I made the most god awful noise. That noise was affectionately known now as the snake charmer song.

Revenge was at hand.

Finally, I saw a small sliver of an opening to aggravate the Nuns but I would have to bide my time. I would make the Nuns truly believe that I was really trying, that I was giving my best effort so as to deflect any type of scrutiny or suspicion.

More weeks went by and our group was coming together especially when we played Row, Row, Row your boat. And yes, there I was, doing my Catholic duty playing the fluteophone. After one particular practice, the Nuns proclaimed us ready to perform in front of an audience. What? A live audience? This was perfect. The Nuns continued with their news and said that we would be playing with all the other Catholic schools in the area the following week. We would be putting on a huge concert where all the schools would each have some solo time and also would play as a full force.

This thought was mind boggling. Several thousand students playing the fluteophone in one room. I would hope the foundation of the building was sturdy enough to take the brunt of the assault. I immediately felt sorry for my parents having to endure this punishment, not just once, but seven times, with me being one of seven children since my parents were good Catholic parishioners.

My time was approaching. The next week couldn't arrive fast enough. We all met at school and the Nuns had a surprise for us. Green capes! Yes, capes, the color of Robins cape from the television series, Batman And Robin. We were to wear these capes to show our school pride. I asked why the capes were green since our school colors were blue and silver. The Nuns put an end to all questions by smacking her yard stick ruler down hard several times on her desk. She yelled out to "Listen up children, and settle down". She continued with the standard Nun rhetoric that God was watching us all and that he was proud of us all for learning to play the fluteophone and that blah blah blah.....

Moments later we were all shuffling onto the school bus that would take us to the field house. It was a short trip and quickly we were all walking into the field house where we saw thousands of happy looking parents, (most of them having already inserted their heavy duty ear plugs) seated waving and smiling as their children passed by.

We took our positions for the concert. We were high up, about three rows from the top of the hall. Surely no one could spot me here. I was in the catbird seat. It was absolutely perfect. I was looking around, casing the joint, looking for Nuns, spies, and priests. None were in the area. At this point, the conductor began striking his pointer on the podium trying to bring the crowd to attention. His tapping worked. We were ready. Poised. Anxious.

The concert opened with the entire group of schools playing Row, Row, Row your boat. It was almost stereophonic as each school was playing several beats apart from each other. Of course, when the song was over, the parents applauded and it was now solo time. Several schools went ahead of us and we, being competitive Catholic kids, sized up the competition. (Like we could tell who were the better fluteophone players)

Finally, the moment had arrived. My moment. As we began our solo, (Our selection was Mary Had A Little Lamb) I took action. As loud as I could, I started belting out the snake charmer song. At first, I was a but a single voice in a crowd of precision playing. Several seconds later, the kids standing next to me also began playing my snake charmer tune. The snake charmer song swept through the group much like the "Fan Wave" at a National Football League game. In no time at all, the snake charmer song was being played by all, and not just our school, but by all the schools.

And of course, when we stopped, all the parents clapped supporting my theory that indeed they had heavy duty ear plugs inserted.

In a matter of mere seconds, Nuns were all over the place like a SWAT team bust. We were quickly escorted out with strict orders not to say a single word. Apparently, the Nuns didn't want to tamper with the crime scene and wanted to prevent any of us to discuss alibi's.

The bus trip back to the school was silent. Just glaring stares from the Nuns. As the bus pulled into the school parking lot, the Nuns spoke to us informing that a full investigation (Or rather the Spanish Inquisition) would be held on Monday when we returned to school.

When Monday did come, the Nuns tried unsuccessfully to crack us and drive a wedge between us. Not a single student admitted anything. Even the priests on Confession day asked us if we were involved in the snake charmer incident. When all avenues were exhausted, the only recourse left to the Nuns was complete class detention for a week. To me, this was a small price to pay. It was by far the lesser of the two evils of being sent to the principles office for a round of interrogation from the Pastor.

To this day, the Nuns did not know it was me that began the cascade of snake charmer tunes. Although they heavily suspected me, they had no proof whatsoever. I had beaten the nuns. It was a good victory over the Nuns. It felt good.

But enough of the fluteophone. It was now time to sign up to become an alter boy.

But that is another story.....

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