Tina Fey's Four Seasons
I recently watched Tina Fey’s Four Seasons mini-series on Netflix. While the show features clips of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, it also includes other Vivaldi favorites. I was already familiar with Alan Alda’s original movie, though I’d never watched it.
I'd like to suggest that some of us can approach our appreciation for things through four stages. Call them seasons if you like.
- Awareness,
- Rejection,
- Embrace,
- Reflection
At least my own relationship with the first four concertos of Vivaldi's opus 8 was like this.
From Awareness to Rejection
This essay, however, isn’t about the show or the movie. It’s about how I first encountered Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and learned about the film, both of which happened in the band room on Avon Beldon Road in Avon Lake, Ohio, around 1990 or ‘91 during my junior year. I was taking all the music classes I could. Our high school had an excellent music program, and I played trombone. It was Harry Pfingsten’s last year as our symphonic band director, and he also taught the music history course I was taking in the afternoons.
As I’ve written before, my love for classical music developed independently. I’m uncertain if someone could have successfully pushed it upon me, but that wasn’t how it happened. I discovered Bach specifically through headphones and an HIPP recording, and that was it. I felt as if I’d discovered something otherworldly. The feeling was akin to how cats react to catnip. My dad liked rock, the blues, and even some country, though I honestly think he was secretly Neil Diamond’s biggest fan. I didn’t think he’d understand my discovery. I’m not sure why I hadn’t shared it with my mother, but when she saw “Bach’s Sonatas and Partitas for solo violin” on my Christmas list, she’d told me she hoped I wouldn’t be asking for more.
This all occurred during my eighth-grade year. I’d heard of Vivaldi’s Seasons but initially dismissed it as trash. The recording I’d heard was sappy and overly romanticized, and my ignorance led me to avoid it.
Embrace
Then, my teacher—the one we all thought had inspired the band director Harry in Tom Batiuk’s comic strip, Funky Winkerbean, as he had been Batiuk's student—pulled out the Time-Life record collection that formed the basis of our music history curriculum and played the Winter concerto. He pointed out the connection between the poetry and the musical effects Vivaldi created. I sat back in wonder.
I then borrowed the Standage version with the English Concert and eventually purchased my own recording, as I figured my parents weren’t too thrilled about my growing interest in baroque music. I found a new recording by Monica Huggett and listened to that disc repeatedly.
Harry had told us about The Four Seasons, the movie where Vivaldi’s music played a role, suggesting we should check it out when we were older. I regret that I never did, even though his suggestion stuck with me. (Now, thanks to Netflix, it’s available for streaming.)
Teacher Appreciation
We recently celebrated Teacher Appreciation Month, and our boss encouraged us to reach out to an old teacher. He mentioned that he’s done it in the past and his old teachers have appreciated hearing from him.
Two teachers came to mind, one being Harry. I knew he’d passed away recently, which I confirmed to be this past March 2021. It then struck me how shortsighted I’d been in never reaching out to him earlier.
I had attended Avon Lake’s middle school where Jerry Severns, who had taken over the marching band from Pfingsten, was the director. He was a showman, known for having us snap our instruments up at concerts and wearing a sharkskin suit. I liked him, and he was a good fit for middle schoolers. When I joined the marching band, his talents were evident. He didn’t focus on the marching as much as creating a “wall of sound.” Though I didn’t love marching band, nothing beats the feeling of playing loud on an open field with other musicians. It was a thrilling experience. (Although peeling off our wool uniforms after sweating them up, was, honestly, not my favorite part.)
My place was in the Symphonic Band, directed by Harry, where I was first chair. I was the type of kid who didn’t know I was good, but he told me I was, and so I believed him. During one of those music history classes, he invited me to bring a tape of my own music. He listened to it, closing his eyes and tapping out the rhythm of a slow section I’d written for piano in rondo form. He stopped the tape and asked, “Where did that come from? How? That rhythm?” He rewound and played it again, not just for himself and me, but for the entire class. He was genuinely taken with what I’d created, telling me unequivocally how good it was.
It’s funny how you don’t always recognize someone’s influence at the time. He was a class act. He spent money to bring in composers to commission pieces for us and encouraged his students to participate in regional groups with other strong players. One year, our special guest conductor was Gary Ciepluch, a professor at Case Western Reserve University. One of the pieces he chose was “Havendance” by David Holsinger. We rehearsed all day and then gave a concert the next day. It was challenging but exhilarating. Harry Pfingsten encouraged me to audition for Ciepluch’s special regional ensemble, the Cleveland Youth Wind Symphony.
(I later studied with Ciepluch for my master’s and became an associate conductor of that ensemble in the late 1990s.)
Another strong memory is from one of our Ohio Music Education Association competitions for chamber music. I believe it included both solos and chamber pieces. Both Jerry Severns and Harry were there, and right before our quartet was to play, I had my solo. I remember rushing into the room, and they were both concerned about me jumping right in. “Take your time,” Harry said, and then he told the judges we needed a few minutes, as I’d just finished my solo.
I didn’t need a rest, but it was clear he cared and wanted us to do well. And we did; I received a superior rating. He had a kind smile.
I’m not sure I connected my experiences with Harry Pfingsten in high school—or his influence on me—when I chose to study music. I was focused on my own thoughts, needs, and desires.
Batuik called Harry Dinkle, the band director in his comic strip, “The best band director in the world.” I hadn’t been to many other schools to compare, but we had it pretty good. I had it good. The experiences performing, rehearsing, and learning from him in that history class—which at the time I thought was a joke, since we’d just sit and listen to him talk and play records—stick with me to this day. He exposed us to music I wouldn’t hear again until college.
I’m very sorry I don’t get to tell him this now. It’s my fault I didn’t become more reflective while he was still alive. But I’m so appreciative of his service as an educator and musician. He had a significant impact on my life that went beyond music. In retirement, he continued making music with a band called The Patriots. If I still lived in northern Ohio, I would have enjoyed playing with him again.
For those who find this after Googling his name, you understand. And for those with teachers like him for yourself or your children, don’t wait to thank them for the incredible impact they’ve had. I know not all teachers are great, but those who are deserve to know they made a difference.
Then there was the haircut
I know I didn't give Harry Pfingsten any credit when I'd later champion Vivaldi's Seasons with my friends. After coming across my second Vivaldi Seasons album, this one played by the infamous Nigel Kennedy, my friend L and I would drive around Avon Lake, blasting that music from my car. I became so enamored by that recording that I later got the video cassette (music video) of it, and brought the cover to the Bay Village barbershop, a place I liked to get my haircut after another friend recommended it.
"You want your hair to look like this?"
The guy who owned the first chair in the shop wasn't my favorite, he was not nearly as friendly as the other guys, but he was also not as quiet and emotionless as the guy who took the second chair, whom we'd nicknamed "Gentle Ken." He looked me up and down, shaking his head, then attempted to give me the Nigel Kennedy haircut.
Needless to say, it was to be my worst haircut ever. I wore a hat for two weeks after that incident. But of course I can laugh about it now, and thankfully, I still have a full head of hair.
Final Thoughts
In all seriousness, my love for baroque and classical music is both the result of my own discovery and the influence of others. Like many things, we sometimes discover things we like by way of friends, teachers, and even celebrities. And we also find things all on our own. At this point I wanted to give credit to one of my better teachers for influencing me. Not for Vivaldi's Four Seasons specifically, but for the memories, for the pep-talks, and the support I was afforded in doing something I enjoyed.
If you've made it to the end, you can help me out a lot if you take a few minutes and reflect upon those adults who helped influence you and made a difference--whether that's a teacher, mentor, uncle, aunt, whatever. If you can, take the time to thank them? Or if like Harry, if they're not around? Take a few minutes and write out what they did for you and pay the effort forward.