THE FRANK SCHOOL OF MUSIC

When we were growing up in the forties and fifties in Nashville, there was a music school downtown that my mother used to take us to at least once a week. Mr. Leon Frank, the owner, had given Mother piano lessons when she was in high school and college, and she was continuing the tradition with us.

The school faced Eighth Avenue between Church Street and Union and when you opened the door, all you could see ahead were dark stairs leading up. I’m sure it was only two flights, but it seemed twice that far; by the time we reached the top we were always out of breath. We approached the door at the top with terror (or at least dread) --- because the formidable Mr. Frank might be somewhere lurking about. (Occasionally, I dream about those stairs and turning to the right to go up two more steps to the waiting room.)

This school was not just about the piano – one could also take violin, dance (ballet or tap), or even something called elocution lessons. This last was really feared because those students also performed at recitals, sometimes in a play, or even in solo. All of us girls took piano and elocution (or speech).

When we first began the music lessons, we didn't have Mr. Frank for a teacher. He only taught the advanced students. And after what my two sisters said about him, I didn’t really want to. They said that he had a ruler in his hand that he would use to lightly tap on their knuckles when they made mistakes. Can you imagine anyone trying that today?!? The school would be out of business in a heartbeat.

While I was working up to Mr. Frank, I also took speech lessons (I was rooked into it because BJ flatly refused and Mother had already signed her up). So I agreed to do it on one condition - - - NO RECITALS!!!! But I hadn’t counted on the relentless nature of the teacher, whose name slips my mind. She was an Indian woman who wore her hair severely in a bun and had excellent posture. She seemed about nine feet tall to me. Needless to say, I was in every recital, taking the lead in several. I still remember rubbing burnt cork all over my face when I played an African American child who was dressed in rags. From outside, I looked through the window into a warm room and said the following lines:

Da wind is hollerin’, dare you to da shutters and da fire!
Da snow is sayin’ “gotcha!” to da groun’.
For da winter weather’s come without a’askin’ our desire,
And he’s laughin’ up ‘is sleeve at what he foun’.

Don’t ask me how I remember that little speech. It just proves that learning poetry and bible verses when one is young, stays with a person for a lifetime.

Eventually, I entered into the music room of Mr. Frank, himself. I had heard stories from my sisters and also from Mother. She had been playing in a recital when she was in college, and Mr. Frank interrupted her and told her she wasn’t playing her piece correctly. She turned around and told him, “If you can play it better, come and do it.” When he sat down on the bench next to her, he whispered to her that he didn’t care if she talked to him that way in the studio, but not here. And good old spunky Mother said, “Then don’t you talk to me that way either.”

I began taking from him when I was in the eighth grade. I was never very good about practicing, but I did for him. He inspired me and I wanted to please him. I wasn't afraid of him, and occasionally, I even joked with him. I think he really liked me because of that; at any rate, I never saw any ruler.

One day late in the spring, we climbed those stairs for my lesson, but when we got to the top, we knew something was wrong. Everyone was red eyed, some openly crying. We learned that Mr. Frank had died that morning of a heart attack in his hotel room (he lived in a hotel!). It was a very sad day for all of us. The school closed a few months later – without Mr. Frank there could be no Frank School of Music.