Chris Ullman - Find Your Whistle

Chapter 2

Pucker Up and Blow: The Championship Path

You wrestle? he asked over the din of the live music in the bar.

No, whistle! Like this Puckering up, I let out a few notes and watched his brow furrow a bit.

Oh. Ill see what I can do.

At least Im on the list, I thought as I made my way to a seat at the back of the Sunset Grille, a casual burger and wings joint in Annandale, Northern Virginia that doubled as a blues club at night. Whether Id ever get summoned to the front to jam with the band was another story.

The first time Id whistled with a band was in college. I was at a small bar in Binghamton, New York, listening to a friends jazz band play. Out of the blue, a thought had popped in my head: wouldnt it be fun to jam with the band?

At the break, Id asked my buddy, a laid-back saxophone-player, if hed be open to me sitting in with them on a tune. Eric was aware of my whistling, and without hesitation, said yes.

What song do you want to do?

Like the proverbial dog whod finally caught the car, I hadnt thought that far ahead.

Hhhmmm? I thought out loud.

How about a basic upbeat blues tune? he suggested.

Okay, that works. When do I come in?

Well do the head, then Ill jam a bit, then throw it to you.

Cool, I said. Aaaahhhh! Whats a head? And what if I dropped his throw?

Two songs into the next set, I got the nod from Eric to come on stage. As he handed me a microphone, he told the audience of twenty or so that I was a whistler. I heard a Yeah, man, emanate from the dark, and a few people clapped. Someone giggled.

Eric nodded his head three times, and his band came alive with sound. I glanced at each of them and was comforted by their smiles and looks of Ive never seen this before but, hey, Im cool with it. That eased my nervousness.

The notes flowed from each instrument, the parts becoming a whole. Even though I hadnt whistled a note, I felt different. I was no longer a passive observer. I was now in the band producing the music. I was a cog in the machine, and my shot at turning the musical crank was rapidly approaching.

Erics eyes were closed. His cheeks puffed and deflated as he breathed life into his tenor saxophone. An accomplished jazz musician, Eric handled his instrument with the confidence of a Formula One driver on a twisty track. Since this was a blues jam, there was no discernible tune, but the rhythm and tempo were clear and a general feeling quickly emerged. As his riff came to an end, a silly thought popped in my head: what was I going to whistle?

But then his eyes opened and locked on mine.

And with a nod, it was my turn. I caught his pass and started running.

Notes came out. I dont know which ones or why, but I appeared to be in the right key. I grabbed the theme, I think, and twisted and toyed with it. Eyes closed, I tried to stay in sync with the bass and drums as they kept a crisp rhythm. That same guy let out another Yeah, man. A few people clapped.

But I wasnt sure when to stop.

Then the rhythm guitarist shifted to lead and merged alongside me. That must be my cue. I hit the exit ramp and lowered the microphone. The place erupted with hoots and applause. The freak show was over, but people had enjoyed it. Eric gave me a big smile.

I started whistling at five years old. My father, Joseph Bub Ullman, an avid whistler, paved the way with his own incessant music-making around the house and yard in Massapequa Park on Long Island, New York. Throughout my youth, especially on weekends, whether we were doing chores or tossing the Frisbee, Pop and I could be found whistling a happy tune.

His songs of choice were Gilbert and Sullivan. Mine were classical and romantic: Beethoven, Strauss (Richard and Johann), Tchaikovsky, Mozart, and Rachmaninoff.

To this day, my eighty-two year-old father has distinct recollections of me following him around the house and yard, helping and whistling. Those earliest days are especially hazy for me; I dont know if I actually remember, or if Pops stories and photos from that period are doing the remembering for me.

Classical symphonic music dominated my entire pre-teen life. It wasnt until fourteen or so that I branched out into rock, pop, show tunes, and later blues and jazz.

In those early years, my parents had a small collection of vinyl albums and a record player nestled in a honking piece of furniture in the living room. Inside a nook in the coffee table in the middle of the room was a stack of albums. My favorites were the Johann Strauss, Jr. waltzes and a collection of the worlds finest classical music called 120 Music Masterpieces. These albums featured snippets of famous classical tunes. It was a musical buffet, a smorgasbord of the greatest composers, symphony orchestras, and soloists.

Anyone who grew up in the New York metropolitan area in the 1970s likely remembers the TV commercials with John Williams, a crusty old British actor, singing the praises of the 120 snippets, noting that even the Polovetsian Dance #2 by Borodin was included. My mom mail-ordered those albums, and I played them incessantly. This multi-album set plus two albums of Johann Strauss Jr. waltzes provided fodder for years of whistling practice. Forty-five years later, if I hear one of the 120 snippets, I joyously whistle along and even know what song comes next, the tunes and song order indelibly etched in my brain.

It was a great blessing that my parents and siblings never harassed me about my whistling. They either actually liked it or (more likely) learned to tolerate it. As Ive heard over the years, many people dont like whistling. The sound can be too high-pitched and piercing. As an infant, our son Justus hated whistling. Any time I whistled while holding him, hed push my face away and say, No sing, Daddy. No sing.

Easily the most formative period in my whistling development was my early teen years. From thirteen to sixteen, I whistled two hours a day while delivering newspapers. Id get home from school, mount my Schwinn Stingray, pick up the papers a half-mile from our house, and take care of my fifty or so customers.

Whistling was my friend, but it also filled a void. I have always liked to be busy. Deep inside of me, there is a passion for movement, for productivity. So, though my legs were busy pedaling, my brain wasnt doing much. A missed opportunity! Looking back, whistling while delivering papers was my first real attempt at multi-tasking. Spinning legs and puckered lipsit sounds like a scene from The Wonder Years TV show.

In those paper delivery days, it was more about volume than quality. My customers often said, I heard you coming. But over time, mush turned to marvel. One time in college, I was walking out of a grocery store whistling. A man coming toward me in the parking lot recognized the tune and said, Beethoven. Second piano concerto. That was encouraging. I was able to hear Beethoven in my head and make it come out my lips. And he even seemed to enjoy itbonus. Perhaps thats how actors feel when they are recognized on the street for the first time.

I dabbled in musical instruments in my youth...recorder, drums, clarinetnot achieving much proficiency in any of them. Singing in choirs, though, was the constant that made me a musician. Through high school and for twelve years post-college, I sang in two choirs. Larry Holdridge and Betty Buchanan, my high school and Washington, DC conductors, respectively, were central to my musical formation. They brought notes to life, infusing them with joy and passion. They were wonderful teachers, explaining and motivating and shaping.