Orchestra...5 Minutes!: My Crazy Life in the Phoenix Symphony

By Damien Michael Shindelman

This book follows the life of , Damien Shindelman and the bizarre series of events that shaped his unique personality and path to be coming a professional oboist. From his abusive grandmother, deplorable grade school years, to his early childhood adventures, his unique story is a cleverly woven saga that will leave you shocked, bemused, and openly laughing.

His jaded yet comical portrayals of all the instruments in the orchestra will give you a new perspective on life in the symphony orchestra. From fact to fiction, every instrument has it's roast, as well as the more interesting musicians in the ensemble.You will also be able to follow the history of the Phoenix Symphony with all its struggles, set backs, and triumphs, including all the varied conductors who have graced its stage over the past thirty years.

If you ever wanted to know the inside scoop on the Phoenix Symphony and the town itself, this is the book for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452050904

Damien Michael Shindelman

Damien Michael Shindelman has been a professional oboist with The Phoenix Symphony for the past 34 years. He has used his varied and unique experiences within the orchestra to create captivating yet mind provoking tales. The Misadventures of Maestro Maximilian is a dark comedy that delves into mankind’s foulest impulses and hidden desires. The tale is loaded with bizarre twists and turns that will keep your mind wondering from page to page. Damien lives with his partner Michael in Phoenix Arizona along with two Great Danes named Captain Kirk and Locutus of Borg, and Lady Di, an elderly Boxer. Please check out his other titles, “Orchestra..5 Minutes,” From Gods Lips to The Devils Ear, and Waltz of The Psychotics. If you are looking for a book that will keep you on your toes; fully loaded with action, adventure, and intrigue, The Misadventures of Maestro Maximilian is sure to please.

Book preview

Orchestra…

5 minutes!

My crazy life in the Phoenix Symphony

Damien Michael Shindelman

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2010 Damien Michael Shindelman. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 9/10/2010

ISBN: 978-1-4520-5090-4 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-5088-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-5089-8 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010913644

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

All subject matter contained in this book solely expresses the opinions of the author and does not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of the Phoenix Symphony Association, or its employees.

Adult topics are discussed, so this book is recommended for readers 18 years of age or more.

Furthermore, the contents of this book may cause possible minor yet temporary discomforts such as excessive snickering, prolonged smirking, eye-tearing, head scratching, misdirected anger, abject confusion, and open disbelief.

The author cannot be held responsible for any possible maladies, disorders, or traumas, known or unknown, resulting from reading the contents of this book.

For your complete reading enjoyment, I recommend a hearty merlot or vodka martini and three or four hours of undisturbed time. Enjoy!

I would like to dedicate this book to my mother, Maethel Shindelman. Without her love and support, I would have never realized my dreams of becoming a professional oboist and musician. Through thick and thin, she was always there with her time, advice, money for instruments, and whatever I needed to pursue my craft. You have my love.

Contents

Chapter 1: Symphonic Prelude

Chapter 2: My Early Formative Years

Chapter 3: My Elementary School Years

Chapter 4: My Musical Awakening

Chapter 5: North Carolina School of the Arts

Chapter 6: Marian

Chapter 7: Intermezzos

Chapter 8: Professional Orchestral Realities

Chapter 9: Theo Alcantara

Chapter 10: The Clarinet

Chapter 11: Mistress of Mayhem

Chapter 12: James Sedares

Chapter 13: The Brass Section

Chapter 14: The Violin and String Sections

Chapter 15: Hermann Michael

Chapter 16: The Percussion Section

Chapter 17: James Depriest

Chapter 18: Woodwind Section

Chapter 19: Michael Christie

Chapter 20: Personnel Manager

Chapter 21: Cast of Characters

Chapter 22: Management and the Orchestra

Chapter 23: Conductors

Chapter 24: It’s All About the Music

Chapter 25: My Brief Thirty-two-year History of Living in Phoenix

Chapter 26: Finale

Chapter 1: Symphonic Prelude

It was early September, 1978.

I had spent the last two hours driving from Tucson in my trusty and much-adored army-green ’72 Ford Pinto to Symphony Hall located in downtown Phoenix. It was my first day at work as a full-time symphonic musician. I had beaten the odds and landed a regularly paying job playing the oboe. If I played my cards (and oboe) right, the job would be mine permanently in three years’ time. It was my long-sought dream come true.

It was a dazzling, yet hellishly hot, morning. Already into the 100s, it was typical Phoenix fall weather. The building walls were already shimmering with radiant heat, and you could tell it would soon be 114 degrees or more.

On that wonderful day, it could have been 150 degrees and I wouldn’t have cared. My first day of work as a legitimate professional symphonic musician! Half of me was beside myself with pride and joy; the other half was absolutely terrified of the unknown trials that lay ahead.

I found a place to park on Washington Street beside the hall. The setting seemed oddly contrary to me. Symphony Hall to the north was a large and impressive building constructed of rough block masonry with sixties-style modern architecture. To the south, a row of dilapidated honky-tonk saloons lined the street. I pondered this odd juxtaposition of classy versus trashy separated by a mere twenty feet of asphalt for a few seconds, then headed for the stage door entrance. I had arrived an hour early, driving to the hall from Tucson for that first rehearsal so I could test my reeds and get a feel for the acoustics of the stage. I wanted to make a great impression on my first, long-awaited day.

Walking up to the stage door, I gave it a pull. To my astonishment, the glass doors were locked. No guard. No stage crew. No musicians to be seen.

Immediately, confusion set in. A million thoughts flooded my brain. Wrong day? Wrong place? My earlier euphoria was now replaced by alternating waves of panic and sweat. I dug through my informational sheets that had been provided to me by the Phoenix Symphony earlier in the summer. No, I was right. This was the correct day and place, ten am, Symphony Hall.

I finally came to the conclusion that I was just there too early, so I sat down next to the stage entrance and waited, thinking to myself to stop being such a worry-wart. I kept wondering how it could be so hot this early in the day and couldn’t wait to get inside the building with its blessed air conditioning.

All of a sudden, I felt a curious burning sensation, and I quickly stood back up, my ass now on fire. The sun had already heated up the asphalt of the loading dock to scorch, adding to my already sweat-soaked clothes a curious pair of wet spots on the seat of my jeans. Nice, I thought. I’m going to make quite a questionable impression now.

I could hear my colleagues who soon would be walking in saying, Who the hell is that sloppy, sweaty idiot, and what is up with that stain on the back of his 501s?

More waves of apprehension set in.

I waited faithfully at that stage door until 10:45 am. No one else showed up, just me, my oboe, and mass confusion.

I finally abandoned my post by the stage door and found a pay phone across the street at one of the dive bars. With salsa music blasting in the background, I called the principal oboist, the only contact beside the symphony office number I had. Gino answered and informed me with a laugh that there was a meeting at the Union Hall that I should be attending the next day. When I asked where everyone was, he responded with one word: lockout.

Lockout? What the hell was going on? I knew the musicians and management had been in negotiations for most of the summer, but a lockout on my first day of work? This unexpected news seemed ludicrous. This was not the way I had imagined my career was going to begin.

I had half a tank of gas left and had spent my last 250 dollars on a security deposit for a run-down, fleabag apartment on Twenty-fourth and Roosevelt. This highly-anticipated day was quickly becoming a complete disaster, and my once-euphoric frame of mind had completely vaporized.

Next, I called the symphony office number. I was furious at not being informed by the association that they had called a work stoppage. My call was met by an answering machine with a gravelly voice that sounded exactly like Harvey Fierstein.

Hello, this is Dee. I’m cleaning my desk and can’t answer the phone. Leave a message.

I thought to myself, this simply can’t be happening to me. I slunk back to my car, stunned at the events of the morning. I sat silently brooding inside my auto, now turned solar oven. With my sore rear end basting on the scorching black Naugahyde seat, I kept going over what had gone wrong, and what I was going to do next.

I wanted to head back to my grandmother’s house in Tucson, but I didn’t want to return there with my tail between my legs. She would be so disappointed and would worry needlessly about me.

I felt that in the long run, it would be better for me to remain in Phoenix and find a temporary job until the symphony’s labor problems were resolved. With no other viable options, I hunkered down in my un-air-conditioned, roach motel of an apartment, surviving on out-of-code hotdogs and Kraft macaroni and cheese. I practiced the oboe and was lucky enough to find a few private oboe students to teach. I made just enough cash to survive and pay my bills.

The lockout continued for the next eight weeks until the musicians finally caved in and the work stoppage was lifted. It was an unexpected adventure, to say the least, but I was young and tough back then. I was surprised at myself for managing to get through the two months on strike relatively unscathed.

Returning to work all but erased the harsh memories and trials of my first eight weeks in Phoenix. My dream of being a professional musician had returned, and all was again well with the world.

Looking back, I should have realized that this was just the tip of the iceberg of my crazy life in the Phoenix Symphony.

Welcome to my wacky world. Please enter stage right.

Chapter 2: My Early Formative Years

I was born on July 7, 1954, in Miami Beach, Florida. I was the second sibling in a not-so-normal family. Life in my family always seemed off-center and completely confusing to me as a child.

My father’s name was Larry; my mother, Maethel. That’s Mae and Ethel melded together. My older sister was named Martha. Our coal-black pet mutt was named Dammit.

Mom also had a canary named Dickey Bird that was allowed complete freedom to fly around the house. She had built her nest in the glass kitchen light cover over the dining table. The crazy bird would fly from the ceiling fixture to the table during meals to sample everyone’s food, hopping around your plate to peck and poop at random.

I have few distinct memories about my older sister during my very early years, but that was an entirely different story as my life progressed.

My dad’s first job, that I remember, was running a fruit stand with my mother named Fruit Fair in the greater Miami area. I’m not sure who came up with the idea, but my best guess would be my father; he always seemed to be scheming up things.

My early formative years were spent in a crib in the center of the store so both my parents could keep an eye on me. I was two or so at the time, but memories fifty-plus years ago are always a bit indistinct.

I do remember hating that cage and spending a lot of my prison time taking off my shoes and throwing them at passing customers. Of course my parents kept putting them back on me, and I, in turn, kept heaving them back at any moving target. At two, there’s not much else one can do while penned in a kiddie kennel.

You would have thought Mom would just have not put the shoes on me to begin with. After all, I was incarcerated inside a non-air-conditioned building in Miami in the middle of summer. It wasn’t like I was going to freeze to death. In any case, my shoe throwing proclivity drove my poor mother crazy, and she talked continually about the aggravating shoe act until I was well into my thirties!

I’m not exactly sure why, but the tourist trap did not do all that well. I will assume that since there already was a cornucopia of fruit growing on most every tree in the state of Florida, bananas, tangerines, and kumquats were probably not an overly valuable commodity.

I’m sure at the time Fruit Fair sounded like a novel idea; the scheme was probably hatched next to a fireplace during a frigid upstate New York winter. Nonetheless, my folks soon realized they were not going to get wealthy peddling oranges, suntan oil, and stuffed baby alligators to out-of-state visitors.

Inadvertently, my father came upon another income-producing idea. Both my parents had vacationed in North Carolina and had spent time in the town of Cherokee. Upon seeing the souvenirs the Indians were selling in their shops, my dad figured he could make the trinkets better and cheaper. They quickly returned home to Florida with this new money-making scheme in mind.

Dad’s new enterprise was called Chief White Bear, and no, I’m not making this up. Back in the sixties, being politically correct was not much of a hot-button issue.

Still imprisoned in my inescapable crib corral, I watched my Jewish father and non-Jewish mother making headdresses, tomahawks, spears, war drums, and all variety of things Native American. I remember the production room always looked like a good ol’ Florida hurricane had just passed through. Along with the piles of wood, twine, boxes, and packing material, there were feathers strewn about everywhere like the week before Thanksgiving at a turkey farm.

To my three-year-old mind, the situation was insufferable. Trapped in my holding cell, I wasn’t able to play with any of the colorful objects just outside of my grasp or toss my shoes at passing strangers. So there I sat, like a canary in a cage, watching all the action through the bars of my big house. I think this is when my anger issues first started to formulate.

Once enough souvenir items were produced, or my parents just ran out of money for materials, they loaded up the ancient Airstream trailer and hooked it to the back of the Ford Fairlane station wagon. With Mom, Martha, and me holding down the fort in Miami, Dad headed back to North Carolina with their authentic Cherokee tchochkes to sell to the Indians.

Again, I’m not sure exactly how long this new enterprise lasted. I was still very young at the time, but my guess is that by the time I was ready for kindergarten, my mom had endured enough of the feathers, baubles, and beads. After three or four years at this new venture, my folks had figured out that trying to scalp the Indians at their own game was a money-loser as well.

With two young children to feed and a mortgage to pay, my dad started selling life insurance and my mom started work with the Miami public school system as a psychologist.

I began my preschool education. Finger painting, story time, and naps were the three main activities, and I excelled at each and every one of them. It wasn’t until elementary school that my education became painfully problematic.

Finally, some semblance of normalcy had entered my world … or so I thought.

With both of my parents now working full-time jobs, my sister and I spent much more time together by ourselves. During kindergarten and then grade school, I didn’t see much of my parents except early mornings, late evenings, and weekends. This lack of parental supervision was remedied by putting my older sister in charge when the folks weren’t around. This is when I definitely started remembering my sister, Martha.

Don’t get me wrong. I really do love my sister now, but growing up with her was sheer hell. I think that, like all first children, she was not at all too pleased when I arrived on the scene, so her childhood mission became an unholy crusade for complete and total dominance over me.

What I most recall about my sister was that she was one mean character and it was never wise to cross her.

Once or twice a week, for a multitude of reasons, she would systematically kick the crap out of me. As a boy, I was never allowed to hit her back.

This system of injustice worked well for her until I finally just couldn’t take it anymore and would swing back. If I did manage to land a punch, she would go insane, and I would then be pounded without mercy. When finished with her Muhammad Ali re-enactment, she would run to tell my parents, who would take over where she had left off.

In retrospect, I must admit I did ask for trouble on occasion. I loved raiding her room and finding her stash of babysitting money. I never took it all, sometimes only a dollar or two, never remembering the satanic wrath I was setting myself up for.

Even our first poodle, named Tinkerbelle, hated me. When that miserable furry flea farm would catch us fighting, she would always nip at me, never my sister. After her unprovoked sneak attack on my hindquarters, the pugnacious poodle would retreat to her lair under the sofa, hiding like some fuzzy, four-legged, growling ogre until the next scuffle broke out. I had bite marks from my thighs up to my lower back for years from that crazy dog!

Needless to say, for a variety of reasons, my home life was filled with discord and at times seemed intolerable. As the baby of the family, you might have thought I was destined to be the pampered and spoiled sibling, but that was definitely not the case.

In the eyes of my parents, my sister was the golden child. She was smart and polite and had an inherent knack for knowing exactly when to disappear when our home life became contentious.

I, on the other hand, was simply clueless and always in the wrong place at the wrong time. I also tended to be impulsive, never once considering the consequences of my actions. In other words, I was just a gullible and non-reasoning type of youngster.

Since Mom was working long hours