Werlein's

I was remembering the smell of my cornet case....ancient spit, valve oil, second-hand cigarette smoke, and an accumulation of potato chip funk....

Then there were visual flashes...the scuffed exterior, grungy, stained red velvet interior....

And then with a smile, I thought of Werlein's, a huge music store...an "old school" business, back when stores aspired to greatness....

I remember a gray stone building with columns going up three stories...accented in forest green around the windows. I also remember the gush of air conditioning that hit me on hot summer days... (Those big Canal Street stores were always a good place to be in the summer months.)

Werlein's was about six blocks from the Canal Street ferry, and across from Waterberry's Drug Store where folks caught the Magazine trolly...and not far from D. H. Holmes.

There was something in Werlein's I wanted.....EVERYTHING.

Everything was a big order for a kid like me, but I never left that big store without a smile and some little thing to add to a very personal, very private dream.

One thing that just hit me: I don't think that anyone ever went to Werlein's with me. Like many things I did, it was very private, very personal, and I was very alone.

For a time, my trips to Canal Street were never complete without a pit stop at Werlein's, but I didn't know how deep my love for the store went until, on a trip to New Orleans years later, I noticed that it had closed....just like everything else on Canal Street, it had withered and died as the soul of New Orleans drifted off to the malls.

Soul doesn't come easy!

The connection between my horn and Werlein's is hard-wired into my brain....probably because I started going to Werlein's when JoAnn Young generously put that old, funky, Old's cornet into my life.

The horn created a whole new set of needs, and that meant that I had a whole new set of needs....

First, there was valve oil that JoAnn said was a must if the valves were ever going to quit sticking....

Then there was the Big M Song Book that Miss Tisdale, my elementary school music teacher said I needed....

A bit later, she said that the wad of paper I was using to plug up one of the horn's spit valves would not do.

Pilgrimages that I made to my music heaven on Canal with a light heart.

Mr. Tweety suggested I get a Bach 7C mouthpiece....

I loved it! These were all reasons to go to Werlein's when the money turned up.

That felt good, something concrete to baby and pamper and dream on.

I remember hanging around outside the store just to watch kids coming down the street or exiting the street cars on the neutral ground carrying instruments for repair at the store...or for private lessons.

These kids were obviously well-healed.....

Cases without scars and scuffs meant new instruments, their clothes indicated a whole different social level than mine, and they walked with a confidence and assurance.... I never had confidence or assurance, just a lot of nerve.

But I always felt that there was something in them that we shared... The music.

Music was something that I soaked up, and there was so much inside that it oozed out of me....

Sometimes it gushed.

What really got my attention were the adults of all colors, some with gray hair, coming down the street carrying their instruments.... I had some of these folks pegged for professional musicians...maybe even jazz musicians?

How cool was that!

It was magic to see all these guys! People that had more in common with me than most of the adults I knew.... people I wanted to know because they would understand what I was about and give me their blessing.

It felt right to be near them.

I quickly learned to identify the instrument by the case, and if I was unsure, I was nervy enough to ask people what they were carrying.... flutes, guitars, trombones, oboes, bassoons, violins, French horns, cellos, flutes.... occasionally a big bass fiddle.

As I entered the store, there was a huge glass case that seemed like it went on for miles and miles...and God knows how patient the clerks behind the counter were with me!

There were so many things I wanted to touch and know, especially the instruments.....

And then there were the countless questions I had!

Kazoos, Jew's harps, various rhythm instruments, guitar strings.... That display case was a wonderland!

I remember a Martin trumpet on display that had two interchangeable bells...one straight and the other pointed upward to direct mighty blasts into heaven....like Dizzy Gillespie's.

Straight back from the entrance, on the far wall, was where they kept all the sheet music.

One reason to go there was to be by all the musicians buying music. I will confess to going out of my way to be seen handling something that I thought to be very complex and challenging to play....especially if there was some cute girl close by. I absolutely loved the girls in those dark blue or plaid skirts, knee length socks, and white blouses from the Catholic schools, but I also got turned on to composers and their works by thumbing through those stacks of sheet music the way that some boys flipped through girlie magazines.

It tripped me out to see 64th notes for the very first time...and all those exotic time and key signatures! I would see some gnarly piece of music that would sober me up for days....and humble me.

(Who would have thought?)

The second floor had small rooms for private lessons and a huge showroom for pianos. One afternoon I paid a kid a quarter to teach me to pick out "I Dropped My Dollar in the Dirt".



I dropped my dollar in the dirt.

I asked my dollar if it hurt.

It said, "No, it didn't hurt."

I dropped my dollar in the dirt.



It seemed like 25 cents well spent at the time!



There was more serious business on Werlein's third floor because that's where there were craftsmen with the ability to restore instruments that seemed beyond hope.

These were sweet guys who tolerated a short, chubby little kid standing around watching them work their magic....tolerated my endless questions as they hammered, soldered and pried unplayable horns.

There was hope here for even my dented, corroding horn if the money ever turned up. Hope for the dented and abused is important to a poor kid...hope that can become part of a dream.

Many nights these dreams would keep me wide-awake envisioning what it would take for me or my horn to be brought around into something wonderful....something to be valued and admired. We're talking about a dream of possible beauty or greatness when everything seems broken and ugly.

These gentle men had that calling, and they so willingly shared their knowledge with me....showed me what was possible to do with products of unavoidable wear or carelessness.

I loved them.



"Werlein's for music!" That was their slogan, and I have JoAnne Young to thank for getting me inside with my need.