Of Food & Fiddles
At the Maine Fiddle Camp in Montville, music isn't the only thing on the menu.
Max Alexander
I blame Mr. Cobb, my elementary-school band teacher, for the fact that I was peeling potatoes in the kitchen at Maine Fiddle Camp instead of, say, practicing Irish jigs with auburn-haired maidens under a colorful tent. Mr. Cobb never liked me or my saxophone playing, the latter of which was understandable. I took up the instrument on the mistaken assumption that it couldn’t be much harder to master than the kazoo, which I felt produced a similar tone. When it came time for the annual holiday concert, Old Man Cobb cruelly assigned me a solo on “Good King Wenceslas” that Coltrane would have found challenging. I blew it, and my career as a musician was over.
But not my love of music. [Click here to hear music from the camp. For the rest of this story, see the April 2008 issue of Down East.]
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