Without the care and guidance of Mr. Charles Palmer, the most insightful teacher I have ever known, I would not have been able to become a musician. Long before people were discussing emotional intelligence and learning styles, Mr. Palmer had figured this all out. Each student was a flower to him; a unique personality who, no matter what innate skills he started with, could learn and blossom if you said the right thing at the right time, and he spent his life honing his ability to do this, in the service of mankind and of music.
Long before people were discussing world music, Mr. Palmer had a house full of musical instruments from all over the world, which he encouraged you to try. If you were his student, you had to compose music as well as perform it. You learned about all the families of instruments, and you had to choose one and build your own so you understood how it worked. I studied violin and viola with him, but when I became interested in guitar, Mr. Palmer (who of course had bought one to see how it worked) gave me his copy of Mickey Baker’s guitar book, the best one available at the time. He refused to take any money for it. “You’ll get a lot more out of it than I will.” He was right about this, as about so many other things.
In addition to his individual teaching skills, Mr. Palmer was a tremendous conductor, one of the best I’ve ever followed. He instilled tremendous discipline and ensemble playing in his orchestras, and commanded complete respect without ever raising his voice. I’ve been in many situations since where I wished that the people I was working for realized that was possible. Mr. Palmer was also interested in avant-garde classical music and encouraged me to study electronic music with Professor Miller at the University of Hartford. This changed my musical life, as it exposed me to the world of synthesis and electronic manipulation of sound earlier in my career. My facility with guitar effects is directly related to his influence.
Though Mr. Palmer’s world was classical music, he would listen with intense interest to anything you brought him. He never said so explicitly, but I think he believed that being a good teacher meant learning as much as possible about your student, and any interest in music should be encouraged. When the Woodstock movie came out, I played him the Jimi Hendrix version of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and he was absolutely fascinated; he perceived it as avant-garde electronic music, which of course it was.
The most important thing Mr. Palmer taught me was how to listen. He said, “When you listen to music, it’s important to be able to follow one instrument all the way through a piece without getting distracted and listening to anything else. You like the Beatles. Next time you hear a Beatles song, just listen to the bass all the way through. When you hear it again, listen to the drums. It will help you learn what each instrument does and how they work together.” I took his advice; it was difficult at first but after a day or two of practice a whole new world opened up to me that I’ve been exploring ever since. I realized that music wasn’t just a gift that some people had and some didn’t; you could use any abilities you had to get better at it.
Mr. Palmer also had an amazing ability to say the right thing at the right time. He wasn’t a cheerleader; his whole demeanor was low key, and he wasn’t effusive when you got something right. But he was very sensitive to your state of mind. For a while the student after me was a young kid named Nicky Danielson, a prodigy who went on to a distinguished career as a violin soloist. Nicky was maybe seven years old and tiny with enormous brown eyes and a mop of dark black hair. He was so small he couldn’t even play a full size violin; I’d started on one. Nicky showed up for his first lesson with his mother, a beautiful olive-skinned South American woman with a nervous demeanor and a very thick accent.
Curious, my mother and I stayed for a few minutes after my lesson to watch. Mr. Palmer asked him to play the piece he was currently studying. Nicky launched into the first section of the Bach Chaconne, an epic concert level work, and played it exquisitely. We couldn’t believe how good he was. Even through the wooden door and played on a 3/4 size violin, his sound was magnificent. And it sounded like music, not empty virtuosity. After a couple of minutes, Mr. Palmer stopped him and they started talking. We didn’t want to eavesdrop so we left. But after every lesson we stayed for a few minutes to listen to Nicky. Every week he got better.
After a month or so of this, I mentioned to Mr. Palmer that we’d heard Nicky, and that I was really discouraged. “Mr. Palmer, what point is there in studying the violin? I can never play like Nicky. I’ll never be that good no matter how hard I try. Maybe I should stop.”
Mr. Palmer looked at me with great compassion. I don’t think he realized that I’d heard Nicky play. Then he said something that changed my life.
“Andy, Nicky is very gifted. He is a wonderfully talented little boy with a great feeling for the violin, and for music. But there are some things you do that he can’t do.”
“What do you mean?”
He smiled at me. “You play football. Can you imagine Nicky playing football?” At thirteen I was about the same size I am now, which made me big for my age, and I had visions of playing tackle for the New York Giants. Of course, Mr. Palmer had learned this in the course of my lessons.
I took a minute and visualized this. We played backyard football at a very high level; one of the guys on my street was a year away from being a Little All-American running back in college and I tackled him all the time, without a helmet. And most of the rest of us were good too. Nicky would be squashed like a bug on the first play. “No, I can’t. He’s tiny and shy. He’d get killed.”
“See, there’s something you can do that Nicky can’t.” I felt better immediately. “And even in music there are some things you can do better than Nicky.”
“Really? Like what?”
“You notice how beautifully he plays. He plays everything like that. But if a passage is supposed to sound angry or exciting, it’s hard for him to do that. But you can do that, maybe because you play football. That’s something you do better than Nicky.”
I thought for a minute. Maybe two minutes. Mr. Palmer waited for this to sink in. Then he said, “Andy, the wonderful thing about music is that no two people interpret a piece the same way. You can’t be Nicky Danielson. But he can’t be Andy Bassford either. That’s what makes music so beautiful and special. Don’t let him discourage you. I don’t think you should stop playing.” I didn’t. In fact, I worked harder. Maybe there was a place in music for me too. Mr. Palmer thought so.
A year or so later, Mr. Palmer suggested that I switch from violin to viola. He said that the viola was more suited to my physique, and that there was always a need for viola players. (There were a lot fewer of them, too, so, given my level of skill, I had a lot better chance of getting work on viola, though of course he didn’t say this.) All through my time with him, he had given me composition homework as well as violin homework, and my pieces were getting longer and more adventurous. He told my parents that I was one of the few composition students he had whose work was not an attempt to copy something else, usually Broadway tunes, and that he thought I had a real talent for it. With me, he just corrected my notation to make sure that what I played for him was what I’d actually written on the paper, and gave me different assignments. He never told me that anything I wrote was wrong, though he would occasionally suggest things to try.
I wasn’t unhappy about switching to viola. I’d always thought the violin was a bit shrill and squeaky, and the viola’s range is closer to the guitar, which I already loved passionately. And I took to the instrument’s larger size immediately. I felt at home in a way I never had on the violin. But Mr. Palmer was not a violist and after he got me started on the C clef and the basic fingerings, he told me that it was time for me to find a more advanced teacher.
I was heartbroken. But, as usual, Mr. Palmer had very good reasons. “You need to study with a real viola teacher now, Andy. And I also think you should study composition with a real composer. You have a gift for it and I think I’ve taken you as far as I can go with that too. I’m going to recommend that you study with Mr. Missal. He’s the principal violist in the Hartford Symphony and he is also a professional composer. He gets commissions from orchestras and schools all over the country to write music for them. So you can study both subjects with the same teacher.”
I started studying with Mr. Missal, which was a mixed blessing. He was a terrific violist and a fine teacher, as well as a wild and crazy guy. But he was more interested in teaching me how to write compositions I could sell than in uncovering who I was as a writer. After decades in the music business I understand what he was trying to do, and that he was doing what he thought was in my best interests, but it wasn’t what I heard, or wanted to write. I continued for a few years and then, when it became clear to both of us that I was only going to be a mid-level orchestra player, I stopped to concentrate on the guitar and left orchestral music behind. I think classical music and I were both better off.
Maybe ten years after I stopped studying with Mr. Palmer, I recorded my first album with Horace Andy. After I gave my parents a copy, I went to look for him and gave him one as well. He listened to it intently and said, “You play very well. And the singer has a very unusual voice. Harmonically, it’s very simple but the rhythms are highly unusual. I can see that you’ve worked very hard.” That was the last time I saw him.
Shortly afterwards I moved to Jamaica and started playing sessions…when I caught my breath I realized that every single thing Mr. Palmer had taught me was incredibly useful in making records. There were no schools like Musicians Institute at that time with curricula that prepared you for the studio…because of his holistic approach to musical instruction, I probably had better training for the real world of studio playing than if I’d gone to music school and gotten a degree in classical guitar.
I’m not even sure that Mr. Palmer knew that studio musicians existed, certainly not studio musicians who played without reference to written music, but he helped me to develop every single skill you need to be one. He wasn’t an improviser, but his insistence on being able to compose is of course what you do when you create a part in a head arrangement for a session.
One other thing: Mr. Palmer was gay, something I didn’t realize until many years later. He had a partner, who we thought was a roommate…it was a long time ago. My parents, I am sure, knew, but I didn’t. When I hear people claim that gay people shouldn’t be teachers, or be around children, I want to scream. I wouldn’t have the life I have without the help and encouragement of a gay man, who was the greatest teacher I ever knew. Thank you, Mr. Palmer.
A coda:
Years later, my mother ran into Mr. Palmer in a shopping center. He asked how I was doing, and she told him that I was playing guitar professionally, had moved to Jamaica, and was touring and playing on records. She said that he was extremely pleased to hear it and congratulated her. Then he said, “You know, when he started, Andy really didn’t play very well.” Even for Mr. Palmer that was understated. I was dreadful, and I knew it.
My mother, who adored him, said, “I remember. His first teacher was awful. It was horrible listening to him practice. We couldn’t stand it.”
Mr. Palmer smiled. “In fact, Andy was the worst sounding student I ever had—that didn’t quit. All the other ones who were worse than he was gave up after a few months. I really enjoyed teaching Andy and I’m so happy to hear that he is doing something in music that he loves. Please give him my best wishes.” A year later Mr. Palmer was dead, far too young.