PARTING SHOT: My artistic past

I enrolled in a dance class my junior year and realized I had no business taking it. I wasn’t only uncoordinated, I also had no memory for movement.

A choreographed number to “Evergreen” (the song Barbra Streisand wrote for “A Star is Born”) looked like a devastating tornado had whipped through the Midwest. My arms and legs were everywhere and, let’s face it, I wasn’t cut out for a career on Broadway.

I was sure I was going to get an “F” in the class and, then, I happened to come upon the teacher and another student in a restroom and, let’s just say they were, um, doing more than just stepping out. When she realized who had caught them, she called me into her office and informed me I was getting an “A” in the class. She didn’t ask for silence, but I knew better. Two left feet don’t deserve an “A” no matter who’s doing the grading.

I took a class in jazz music, too, and lived in fear of “drop the needle” tests. The professor would pull out a dusty album, play a song and ask the students to identify the performer, the song, the genre and the year it was produced. Frankly, a lot of those musicians sounded alike, particularly during the 1930s. Oh, sure, you could spot Miles Davis a mile away, but get into some of those obscure horn players noodling away and you might as well be at the Blue Note on “lights out” night.

The “drop the needle” tests came with such frequency it was easier to memorize the record labels than it was to remember who was “freestyling” on something called “Autumn 1937.”

An art history class was much easier because most of those people were into “signature” pieces. If you couldn’t tell a Mondrian from a Van Gogh, you just weren’t trying. When, in later life, I actually got to see some of the stuff we saw projected on a cinderblock wall, I had the sudden urge to share my knowledge with folks next to me at the museum. It passed, but there was a part of me that just wanted to digress on brushstrokes.

The most bizarre class, though, was voice. After hearing raves from friends about a teacher who had trained major opera singers (and a list of Broadway stars a mile long), I thought I needed to take private lessons. Granted, I just wanted to hear war stories, but it was still another step on my road to self-improvement.

Because he was quite in demand, I had to get two professors and two students to vouch for me before he’d say yes. He also didn’t teach at the college. He had a studio over a jewelry store in Fargo, North Dakota. That meant bus time but, hey, I could go shopping after I was done, so it was a win-win, no matter how I looked at it.

Up a steep and very narrow stairway (as they sing in “A Chorus Line”), I reached the place where hundreds of careers had begun. Decorated with red flocked wallpaper, it looked vaguely like a bordello but I knew it wasn’t.

There, in the “music room,” were more than 100 paintings of Jesus. No matter where you looked, Jesus was staring at you.

Even worse, the maestro (as he preferred to be called) was not one to suffer fools. He asked plenty of questions about my past and my goals and said he could dismiss me from lessons any time he liked. If I wasn’t willing to put in the time, he wasn’t either.

“Do you have something to sing?” he asked. I didn’t have the heart to tell him no, so I offered to try “Evergreen” (the only thing I didn’t know about that song were the steps) and he shook his head. “No, we won’t be doing any of that trash,” he said and quickly led me to the grand piano where we worked on scales. For an hour.

Then, for a week.

Then, for a month.

I did quite well, but I wanted to be able to sing something – even if it was “Evergreen.” “Are we ever going to sing a song?” I asked. “No,” he responded. “That’s not what this class is about. It never has been. It never will be.”

I turned to Jesus. Even he wasn’t ready to comfort.

As he pushed my voice even higher and lower than I thought possible, the stately teacher smiled. “We’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Let’s try it again. But first, drink this.”

I took a swig out of a small glass and realized it wasn’t some throat soother. It was liquor. One hundred-proof liquor.

And, yes, my throat opened up and I was able to hit the notes.

Over the course of a year, I got fairly good, had more drinks than I care to count and never sang one song.

“You have potential,” he told me. “You could be a fine opera singer.” Jesus and I, though, knew better.

The only time I’d get in an opera was if I caught the conductor in the restroom with the leading lady.