Drop the Needle

Back in the olden anaolog days when turntables and vinyl records were the thing, there was a game called Drop the Needle. Played by music history professors everywhere to test our thorough knowledge of repertory, they would drop the turntable needle randomly on a record and our task was to identify the composer, piece, key, opus number, and section of the music that was played. The more accurate we were, the more points and the higher the grade. The nerdiest of us played Drop the Needle at parties. It started out as great fun and a sort of study aid, especially when accompanied by alcohol or illicit drugs. Sometimes the competition got fierce, and that’s when the fun evaporated. Sometimes, when we encountered our peers from other schools and conservatories, competitions would ensue. It was just another way to be cutthroat.

One fine summer, I was assigned as solo camp counselor to Intermediate Girls Cabin 14, which would be home to fourteen twelve-year-olds and me for six weeks. Boobs Holly was down the lane in Cabin 10. She got her nickname on Move-In Day from the little brother of one of her campers. Holly may be one of the few people in Interlochen history to make cleavage work effectively in an oxford shirt. Many have tried, but Boobs Holly was legend, at least for that long ago summer.

Holly went to New England Conservatory and she was a glamorous, name dropping flute player. When she found out where I went to school, her fangs emerged and she publicly challenged me to a duel of Drop the Needle. She thought it would be “fun.” It was the musical version of throwing down a gauntlet. The duel was on.

I didn’t tell her that I was known at school for being weirdly good at Drop the Needle at nerd parties. I wasn’t the best, there were geniuses scattered about our huge classes who could name that tune in four notes. But with focus, I could usually be first to nail it. When Boobs challenged me, of course I took her on. Most of the Intermediate Girls staff gathered in the rec hall on the night of the duel. Our campers were fast asleep after their canoe trip down the Betsie River. We had watched our Division head, drive off with her beau. Whenever that happened, we snuck out of our cabins (it was forbidden to leave the children alone) to gather and play cards, smoke pot, drink whatever alcohol anyone had stolen. This night was solemn. All the windows of the rec hall were closed, so the campers couldn’t hear the music (and we couldn’t hear them, which was not wise). Dozens of records were borrowed from the music library by our impartial judge, Marion, who was a cello major at Oberlin and deadly serious about classical music. I mean deadly. She breathed opus numbers and orchestral repertoire, and she probably didn’t know things like who the president was or where to buy personal hygeine products. Marion was the perfect referee for our bout.

It was sweltering in the rec hall. The room was informally divided into two factions. Boobs had two staid supporters. Everyone else was gathered on my side. It was not necessarily because I was their favorite but more likely that Boobs had insulted them in one form or another in the two weeks we’d been working together.

The rules were simple. The contestant had to throw a hand in the air the second she could name the piece. Whoever raised her hand first would be allowed to answer. If she was right, she got a point. If she was wrong, the other competitor could attempt an answer. If neither of us got it, the piece and the point were tossed. The competition had to be won by two points, like a tennis or volleyball game. It would end if or when we ran out of recordings.

The first piece - too easy. The Pulcinella Suite, Stravinsky, Tarantella. The second, Boobs had in one bar, the Mozart Concerto for Flute and Harp. I got the Janácek Sinfonietta, she knew the Poulenc Sextet a second faster than me. It went on like this, neck and neck, for forty excerpts. We were both sweating rivulets down to our knickers. Eventually, I began to sense a breaking point in her. I spied a little drop of sweat on the end of her nose. I don’t know what the actual turning point was, maybe the Dies Irae from the Brahms Requiem. When I looked over at her, I realized that she didn’t know the piece. At all. And in that moment, I decided to go in for the kill.  I looked over at Marion. I knew she was going to play something obscure.

“Nielsen, Symphony No. 4, “The Inextinguishable” Opus 29, second movement. Danish National Radio Symphony Orchestra,” I threw in for good measure though of course I wasn’t sure. Who else recorded Nielsen but the Danish National Radio Symphony Orchestra? It had been a semi-wild guess, especially about the second movement. And: score!

Like a chameleon, Marion slowly flushed, the color rising from her fingers up to her head. She stood, putting a hand on Boobs’s shoulder. “We have a winner,” she said. Pause for dramatic effect. “And it is not you, Holly.”

I watched Boobs Holly’s expression go from haughty-defiant to a mask of nothing and then a flicker of fear settled in her eyes. She began to slink toward the door. The rest of us got out the beer and debriefed the competition. I could not ignore the yuck feeling in my chest. I was drained, empty, relieved – but not triumphant. What had I just proven? That I could guess? That I could outlast Boobs Holly in a completely meaningless duel? Boobs hung her head, utterly dejected. She put her hands over her ears. “Don’t talk to me!” she shouted to anyone who came near. “DO NOT.”  So no one did.

We had just reduced western musical repertoire to a pointless battle. Why did we take something beautiful and turn it into a fight that makes one person better than another one? Years later, when cooking competitions started being everywhere on TV, I had the same thought. Competing over food or competing over obscure musical facts? What even is the point?

The next morning, I saw Boobs Holly in the breakfast line at Pinecrest Hall. She seemed downcast. Defeated. The opposite of her usual holier-than-thou presence. We didn’t speak, just nodded a hello.

“I’ll never do anything like that again,” I finally said at the oatmeal station. “It doesn’t prove a thing. Great job, by the way.” I didn’t want her to feel terrible over this stupid thing, even though it was her idea.

“Oh,” she said. “I’m already planning the rematch.” She straightened up and looked me in the eye. “I will – and I mean WILL – vanquish you.”

The summer went on, concerts and canoe trips and roasted marshmallows by the fire. My cabin was invaded by raccoons one night. My campers stole my underwear and pinned it to the pine tree outside the front door, complete with tennis ball boobs which I took as a veiled tribute to my Drop the Needle victory. By the end of the summer, it was an open secret, how I bested Boobs Holly with Nielsen #4. Beating her: meh. Earning an underwear effigy and the admiration of my campers: priceless.