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Becoming a Music Teacher
Becoming
a Music Teacher
From Student to Practitioner
Donald L. Hamann and Shelly C. Cooper
1
1
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of
Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research,
scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide.
With offices in
Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece
Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore
South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the United States of America
on acid-free paper
CON T EN T S
Preface xxv
What’s in This Book? xxv
How Is This Book Organized? xxv
Why Should I Read and Use This Book? xxvi
How Can I Use This Book? xxvi
Acknowledgments xxix
Assignment 15
Observation 15
Personal Musicianship: Steps to Sight-Singing a Melody 16
Pre-Conducting: Independence Exercise 17
Classroom Setup 17
Exercise 17
Assignment 19
Observation 19
Professional Knowledge: Professional Educator—Canine or
Feline—You and Your School Community 20
Discussion 21
Module 2 References 21
Classroom Setup 39
Exercises 39
Assignment 45
Observation 45
Professional Knowledge: Are You Trustworthy? Ethical and Moral
Decisions in Teaching 46
Discussion 47
Module 4 References 47
Suggested Reading 48
Assignment 97
Observation 97
Professional Knowledge: Teaching Music in Early Childhood 98
Discussion 99
Module 8 References 99
Exercise 140
Assignment 141
Observation 141
Personal Musicianship: Discovering Resonance through
Humming 142
Pre-Conducting: Preparatory Gesture for the Downbeat in 4/4
Meter 14 4
Classroom Setup 14 4
Exercise 14 4
Assignment 145
Observation 146
Professional Knowledge: Motivation 147
Discussion 148
Module 13 References 148
Assignment 186
Observation 186
Professional Knowledge: Asking Good Questions 187
Discussion 188
Module 17 References 189
Exercise 382
Assignment 383
Observation 383
Professional Knowledge: Legal Issues II 384
Assignment 406
Module 39 References 406
Suggested Readings 406
Index 413
PR EFACE
Introduction to Music Education is one of the first classes that music edu-
cation students complete during their journey from student to practitioner.
During an introductory course, students begin developing the necessary
skills to become effective, dynamic classroom music teachers and immerse
themselves in the craft of teaching. Yet, students often complain that the
learning content in an Introduction to Music Education class is too far
removed from the “real classroom,” is not practical, or is too theoretical
in nature. Becoming a Music Teacher has been designed to be an interac-
tive, hands-on text, focused on developing individual skills—skills that all
music educators need to function effectively in today’s music classrooms.
Becoming a Music Teacher focuses on making direct connections
between the college classroom and the school classroom transparent, vis-
ible, and relevant. If students view the classroom as disconnected (not “real
life”), they cannot visualize how the transfer of knowledge and activities
in the college classroom manifests itself in the public school classroom.
Becoming a Music Teacher, through the in-class activities within the various
components, demonstrates “real life” transfers. As prospective teachers, all
students need to develop body-awareness skills, conducting skills, and sing-
ing skills. No other Introduction to Music Education text includes student
self-development skills in the areas of body awareness, public-speaking
refinement, pre-conducting exercises, and personal-musicianship acqui-
sition. Rather than simply presenting materials in a discourse fashion,
Becoming a Music Teacher directly engages students through hands-on
self-development awareness, conducting, singing activities, and vocal exer-
cises. Component activities focus on developing effective classroom deliv-
ery, classroom and self/teacher-awareness skills, conducting techniques,
singing aids, music-reading fluency, solfège training, and creating vocal
and/or instrumental accompaniments. Becoming a Music Teacher guides
students to become professional music teachers, taking them from indi-
vidual discovery to discovering their ability to be classroom leaders.
CHAPTER I
It was the height of the season, and London was very full. One had only to
take a stroll “down west” to be convinced of the fact, for there was scarcely
a house to be seen in any of the squares that did not display the window-
boxes and sun-blinds, which signified that the owners were in residence.
The fashionable hotels were crowded, the restaurants thronged; and big
social functions were the order of the day.
A stream of carriages and hansoms rolled down Regent Street, giving the
weary pedestrian a panorama of gaily-trimmed hats and dainty sunshades.
Portly dowagers accompanied beautiful girls; and it was a noticeable fact
that whilst the dowagers sat bolt upright, alert and on the qui vive, most of
the débutantes leant languidly against the cushions with an air of
supercilious boredom, the exacting demands of the season combined with
the oppressive heat having apparently drained their vitality.
All roads seemed to lead to the Queens Hall that afternoon, and judging
by the ornate escutcheons on the panels of some of the equipages, there
were great people on the road. The occasion was the much-advertised
charity matinée, organized by the popular dramatist, Guy Haviland, in aid
of a well-known London hospital. Society had been pleased to bestow its
patronage, and as the tickets had been disposed of at fancy prices, it was
sufficiently select for the élite to honour with their presence.
The function promised to be a highly interesting and successful one, for
Haviland had prevailed upon several stars of the musical and dramatic
professions to give their services in the cause of charity. Moreover, the
gifted young singer, Celia Franks, who had made her début in Paris—where
she had finished her studies—was to make her first appearance before the
English public; and as her wealth, beauty, and attainments had been so fully
discussed in the society papers, society was curious to see whether the
numerous eulogies of her merits were justified.
The hall was packed long before the concert began. Stalls and balconies
were filled with women of fashion and men of note. Those who knew said it
was one of the most brilliant gatherings of the season, and that the names of
some of those present would have made a condensed edition of Debrett.
Everybody seemed to know everybody else; and the hum of conversation
buzzed loud and strong.
A well-groomed man of forty, with a gardenia in his button-hole,
sauntered leisurely about the hall, stopping every now and then to greet an
acquaintance, and chat about the weather and the opera. He was a popular
man about town, being a peer in fairly prosperous circumstances, and still
unmarried. Anxious mothers, with several daughters on their hands, made
much of him, and the girls themselves declared him “so interesting, don’t
you know.” But the wiles of the mothers, and the charms of the daughters
were alike of no avail, for wherever he went he proclaimed himself a
confirmed bachelor.
As he was about to return to his seat, a lady sailed up to him, her long
silken skirts trailing on the ground. She was a regal-looking woman,
magnificently dressed with perfect taste; and her bearing indicated that she
was fully conscious of her own importance.
With a bewitching smile she invited the noble lord to buy a programme;
she had only three left, she said, and was very anxious to sell them before
the concert began.
“Mrs. Neville Williams a vendor of programmes!” exclaimed the peer
with mock astonishment. “I am indeed sorry that it should have come to
this!”
“One can do anything for such a good cause,” she answered
sententiously; and then, with a coquettish glance from her dark eyes, “Of
course I cannot hope to compete with the pretty actresses who are my
colleagues, but will you buy a programme, Lord Bexley?”
She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, and had a peculiar way of
pronouncing her “r’s.” There was a suggestion of artificiality about her
voice, as there was also about the brilliancy of her eyes, the bloom of her
complexion, and the whiteness of her teeth. Bexley did not consider her
beautiful, for what good points she possessed were due to art—the art of her
French maid; but he admired her personality, albeit there was some thing
about it which repelled him.
“Where have you been hiding yourself all the season?” he asked, when
he had allowed her to sell him a programme for sixpence and keep the
change out of a sovereign. “I really believe this is the first time I have seen
you since we met in Cairo last winter.”
“Yes, I have been abroad for some time,” she replied, trying to cool
herself with a small ivory fan. “I was in retreat at a convent near Cimiez for
nearly three months, and since then I have been to Paris and Trouville. You
see, the poor Duke’s death upset me terribly—we were to have been
married a fortnight later, you know—and so I thought that a few months
spent right away from society would prove beneficial to my health. My
nerves seemed quite unstrung.”
“Yes, I understand,” said Bexley, sympathetically. “It was very sad about
poor Wallingcourt’s death. I never had the slightest idea that he was
consumptive. Do you feel better after your period of seclusion?”
“Oh yes. It was so quiet and restful at the convent. The very atmosphere
breathed unworldliness and sanctity. I read no books and attended to no
correspondence whilst I was there, but, in company with the Sisters, passed
my time in prayer and meditation. It was quite a delightful change.”
Lord Bexley turned away his face to hide a smile. The idea of Mrs.
Neville Williams as a kind of temporary nun tickled him immensely. He
was far more inclined to think that her absence from society had been in
order to undergo a treatment of rejuvenescence at the hands of a Parisian
beauty doctor. However, it would never do to doubt the word of a lady.
“It must indeed have been delightful,” he said, glancing at her again, and
noting the unwonted demureness of her countenance. “But I am glad that
they have allowed you to return to the world. By-the-by, your niece, Miss
Gladys Milnes, is here. She is up on a visit to my sister. Won’t you come
and speak to her?”
Mrs. Neville Williams frowned. “No, thanks,” she answered tersely. “I
scarcely know her. She is a gauche little country wench, is she not? My late
husband’s relations have not treated me very kindly, and we are not on the
best of terms.”
Her gaze suddenly became riveted on two gentlemen who were passing
in front of the stalls to the artists’ room. They seemed to possess some
fascination for her, for she stopped fanning herself, and her eyes dilated.
Her expression reminded Bexley of a warhorse, when it scents the battle-
field; he did not quite know what to make of it. In another moment,
however, her sudden agitation had passed; she was demure and calm again.
“Those gentlemen,” she murmured, having noticed Bexley look over to
them and bow—“you know them?”
“Yes. The one is Mr. Haviland, the giver of this concert.”
“And the other?”
“The other is Herbert Karne.”
“Ah!” The exclamation was short and sharp. Bexley was not sure
whether it implied surprise or relief.
“I dare say you have seen his ‘Farewell to the World’ at the Academy?”
he inquired. “It is a beautiful picture.”
“No,” she replied nervously. “I have not been to the Royal Academy this
season. I have only just returned to town.”
She toyed absently with her long neck-chain, from which were
suspended, in cheerful incongruity, a small ebony and silver crucifix, a tiny
ivory death’s-head with diamonds set in the eye-holes, a miniature horse-
shoe, and a diminutive champagne-bottle designed in solid gold. Bexley
wondered why she wore them; they were certainly not pretty, and, as
charms, he considered them out of place.
“Mr. Karne is the half-brother of Miss Celia Franks,” he informed her.
“Did you hear Miss Franks sing in Paris? She made her début there.”
“Yes, I heard her sing. She sang very well. I had no idea, though, that she
was Herbert Karne’s half-sister. I was not aware that he had a half-sister.”
“Then you do know him?” Bexley interpolated quickly.
“I just know him, that is all,” she answered evenly. “I do not suppose,
however, that he remembers me. Our introduction took place many years
ago.”
The performers were taking their places for the trio with which the
concert opened. Mrs. Neville Williams bowed and swept away. She carried
herself with more hauteur than usual, and there was a bright spot, which
was not rouge, on either of her cheeks.
Lord Bexley returned to his seat, and affected not to notice his sister’s
expression of disapproval. He passed the programme to Gladys Milnes, and
then leant back and appeared absorbed in the music. The trio was one
composed by Beethoven for piano, violin, and ’cello, all three performers
being skilled executants. When the second movement came to a close, Lady
Marjorie spoke.
“You seem to have found plenty to say to that woman,” she remarked
caustically. “I should advise you to be careful, Bexley, or you will find
yourself the next on her list.”
Bexley shrugged his shoulders. When one lady designates another fair
dame as “that woman,” it is an infallible sign that there is no love lost
between the two.
“I presume you mean Mrs. Neville Williams,” he answered sotto voce. “I
am sure I don’t know why you are so dead against her. It is not like you to
be uncharitable, Marjorie.”
“I remember Dr. Williams, and I remember the poor infatuated Duke of
Wallingcourt,” she returned in a whisper. “They were good men in their
way, and she ruined them both. I don’t like to see good men ruined,
therefore I am uncharitable.”
The musicians struck up the third movement of the trio. Bexley was
silent, and his sister gave her attention again to the music.
Gladys Milnes, who sat the other side of Lady Marjorie, also listened
attentively, her face aglow with interest and excitement. She might have
been what her aunt had termed her, a gauche little country wench, but she
was very charming for all that. There was no deception about her wavy
golden hair and peach-like complexion; they were the gifts of Nature—
which her aunt’s were not. And if she were not a fashionable young lady
with the fashionable affectation of ennui, at least she was genuinely healthy
in body, mind, and soul—which, too, her aunt was not. It was her first visit
to the metropolis, and she had come for the sole purpose of attending this
concert. She was greatly impressed by all that she saw; the brilliancy of the
audience almost took her breath away. Never before had she seen such a
galaxy of fair women, such a profusion of beautiful dresses and magnificent
jewels. She began to wonder if this were what her father meant, when from
the pulpit he denounced the “pomps and vanity of this wicked world;” for
the elegant “creations” and “confections” represented an amount of money
which, it seemed to her, might have been devoted to a much more useful
purpose than the display of dress. She enjoyed watching them, nevertheless,
and was keenly observant of all that went on around her.
The trio was followed by a vocal duet, after which came a humorous
duologue. Gladys enjoyed them both, but she was longing impatiently for
Celia’s contribution to the programme, which did not come until just before
the interval. She had not seen Celia for nearly a year, and wondered if her
professional début had changed her in any way. She could not imagine how
her friend could have the courage to face that vast audience. Her heart beat
quite fast when the short wait before Celia’s appearance occurred.
By the steps at the side of the platform stood M. Lambert, the professor
of singing. He wore an antiquated opera-hat rakishly tipped on one side,
and a yellow rose in his dress-coat. Lambert always made a point of getting
into evening dress as soon as the clock chimed the midday hour, and loftily
refused to comply with the conventions of what he termed “tin-pot” society.
He was a Bohemian to his finger-tips. At a given sign he took off his hat,
and, having placed it carefully on the floor, made way for the accompanists
—there were three of them—to pass to their respective instruments. Then
with great dignity he himself escorted the fair singer on to the platform,
and, having favoured the audience with a bow all on his own account, took
his seat by the piano in order to turn over the music.
“Isn’t she sweet!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie, almost tenderly. “She looks
for all the world as if she had just stepped out of a picture.”
Her remark was justified. Attired in a prettily made frock of shimmering
white silk, with roses at her belt and in her Gainsboro’ hat, Celia stood, a
charming representation of feminine beauty. She held herself erect, with
gracefully poised head and loosely clasped hands; and, looking straight over
the heads of her audience, awaited with composure the close of the
instrumental prelude to the French ballad, “La Voix d’un Ange.”
It was the story of a forsaken and poverty-stricken mother, who, as she is
rocking her weakly babe to sleep one stormy night in her miserable garret,
receives an angelic visitation. Being asked to choose whether the babe shall
be left to grow up in puny ill-health, or whether the angel shall take it
before it knows aught of sorrow, she—although the babe is the one bright
spot in her life—chooses the latter alternative, and with patient resignation
watches the angel carry it away.
It was a dramatic little poem, and Celia told it well. Beginning in a low
but well-modulated voice, accompanied only by the low rumbling of the
organ, which depicted the approaching storm, she recited with unaffected
gesture the opening verses. It was the more difficult for her, being in
French, but she had acquired a good accent, and spoke distinctly.
When, accompanied by the rippling arpeggi of the piano and harp, and
the melting notes produced by the vox humana stop of the organ, her
glorious voice burst forth in all its rich fulness—“La Voix d’un Ange”—a
thrill of pleasure ran through the audience, and with almost breathless
tension, they drank in every note.
Higher and with more intensity rose the voice, deeper swelled the organ,
more celestial sounded the sweet notes of the harp; the effect was almost
entrancing. Then, in a little minor melody of exquisite beauty, the
enchanting voice gradually died away; the organ resumed its low rumbling,
and a few lines of recitative brought the ballad to a close.
A sigh of keen enjoyment broke from the listening crowd, and, after a
moment’s silence, the hall reverberated with applause. There was not
another number on the programme which elicited such enthusiasm as this.
For once society was taken out of itself, for once it forgot its usual placid
indifference, and forebore to grudge the singer her success.
Again and again she reappeared to bow her acknowledgments, and still
the audience clamoured and thumped for an encore.
“You must sing something else,” Haviland said excitedly. “Quick! what
shall it be?”
“Sing ‘Allerseelen,’ ” suggested Herbert Karne.
“No; give ’em something popular. They are just in the mood for it,” put
in Lambert with authority. “Sing ‘Killarney’—that’s sure to take.”
He hastily found the music; then, turning round to the young singer, gave
an exclamation of dismay.
“The heat and the excitement have been too much for her,” said
Haviland, regretfully.
Celia had fainted.
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III