Scooby Dooby Wubble Wubble Fishsticks

We started sending Weevy to music class when she was young — possibly before she could talk, but definitely no later than age 2.  She got to try a lot of different instruments during her tenure.  The violin made her sob uncontrollably because “it sounds so sad,” she’d say.  The accordion made her sob uncontrollably because she could never figure out how to play it.  There was a lot of sobbing in music class.  But one instrument she took a liking to, and on which could actually produce sounds resembling music a little bit, was the cello.  Go figure, right?  I happen to love its deep, round, mournful tone, so when she hit kindergarten, we signed her up for private lessons at a music school near us, rented her a kid-sized cello, and set out to make our kid a musician.

Two years in, she was starting to get pretty good, if not prodigy-level genius.  But the better she got, the more she hated it.  She didn’t like practicing at all.  She wasn’t crazy about her teacher.  They did one cello-piano duet together which made my heart swell with pride, but it wasn’t enough.  So the wife and I decided to let her stop.  For one reason or another, she’s never started music lessons before, despite showing interest in piano and then voice lessons.  Chalk it up to her parents and our unstable living situation.

If you sat Weevy down today and gave her a cello, a bow, and the Suzuki method book she last used when she was 7, I doubt she’d know what the hell to do — her ability to read music and manipulate the bow across the strings are probably lost deep in the recesses of her now 9-year-old, anime-obsessed brain.  But one thing about those lessons has remained lodged in her memory and mine.  Y’see, in an attempt to keep her practicing, I’d make up lyrics to the melodies she had to learn, and sing along while she played.  The lyrics didn’t make much sense and they were mostly made up on the spot, but we can both sing them to this day.  I believe the first one we came up with was “Go Tell Aunt Rhody”:

Go tell aunt Rhody that her supper’s here

She ordered pizza from the place downstairs

There’s more to the song, but those are the only two lines I came up with.

Then there was “French Folk Song”:

I went to France one day to buy a hat

But when I got there I saw a cute cat

He said “Meow” and he sat on my head

I ran away and I went straight to bed

Then the next day I had waffles instead

(Please note the frequent mention of food in my lyrics.  I think she would practice right around dinnertime.)

Then there’s “Long, Long Ago”:

I was a walrus so long, long ago

Long, long ago, when ice was cold

I was a walrus so long, long ago

So get me some crackers right now

When ice was cold it was made out of gold

When ice was hot it was made in a pot

I was a walrus so long, long ago

So get me some crackers right now.

(Pretty good, right?)

But our greatest “hit,” which we still sing fairly regularly to this day, is for a melody whose title I don’t remember: I’ll have to check out the Suzuki book one of these days and find it.  Get ready to have your socks knocked off:

Scooby dooby wubble wubble fishsticks

Handsome clownfish walked back home alone

Ding dang hot sauce got you in the armpit

If they’re not home, call them on the phone

Wash your face please in my sink, sir

Wash it ’til it’s shiny pink

Scooby dooby wubble wubble fishsticks

Handsome clownfish walked back home alone.

We did sing these tunes for her teacher one day — well, I sang while Weevy “accompanied” me on cello.  The teacher, who was not exactly a barrel of laughs or anything, seemed slightly horrified.  But the songs are still around and she’s not.  So basically, I win.

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