Shirley and I seemed to know everybody. We were on more than speaking terms with the High and Mighty, were invited to faculty parties, and had Professors over for dinner at our little student housing.

William Reynolds was the illustrious Head of the Music Department, Director of the Choir, and a personal friend, especially of Shirley who sang soprano in the Choir.

Neither Shirley nor I was impressed by Status, especially not Shirley. In fact we were more than rejectingly suspicious of it, sometimes downright dismissive. Too often we saw inequity. Why should some unworthy buffoon with purchased degrees lord it over the worthy poor? We joined causes and marched for right.

Which is why we were unafraid to approach the Throne and talk to the King. We leveled the playing field.

Especially Shirley. She had immediately entered the inner circles at UCR. Partly because she choreographed the production of Dido and Aeneas, and when the other dancers chickened out from a severe case of stage fright, she danced all the dances solo in lovely costume, and they talked about it for months. She was Royal Academy of Dance, and everyone knew it.

She was hired by Tommy Rall to dance the Bride in Milk and Honey, with Big Names in the production.

She sang and acted the lead role in the UCR production of Brecht’s Der Jasager. World travelers in the audience proclaimed it superior to the echt performance in Brecht’s East German Theater.

When, later, L.A.’s Mayor Villaraigosa was under fire for the poor condition of the L.A. streets and the proliferation of the infamous potholes, she marched up to him at the Greek Glendi at St. Sophia Cathedral and said, “Shouldn’t you be out filling potholes?”

If the Pope had been there, she would have given him a piece of her mind.

I, who thought just about the same as Shirley in every respect, was less courageous and assertive, but I too developed a reputation for being comfortable around the Exalted Ones, and my opinions were listened to.

William Reynolds, who also answered to Bill, was the UCR God of Music. Shirley and I had become friends of the family. I made a special custom tape of my favorite soprano arias and songs for Reynolds’ wife. She played it and liked it.

Shirley encouraged me to try out for the choir so we could sing together. I was reluctant, because I couldn’t read music fast enough. Reynolds was willing, except that I was not a student at the time and the choir was student only.

I asked him for recommendations for voice teachers. I really wanted to sing, but didn’t have much money. Reynolds gave me the name and number of Riverside’s most prestigious, just a little hesitant because he seemed to be passing it on from hearsay. He said, “He has the reputation of building the vocal Stradivarius.”

I purposely don’t remember the man’s name.

But Reynolds’ recommendation opened doors, and a class observation was scheduled just for me.

I was ushered into the studio and given a comfortable seat. One student was in the middle of a lesson. He was some sort of indeterminate baritone, seemed nervous, sweating, tried too hard to struggle through what sounded like beginning exercises, then slunk away in relief as the “stage” was set for the “Star Pupil.”

The indeterminate baritone sat by me for a moment as he gathered his things. I whispered, “How long have you been studying with the teacher?” I expected maybe two weeks. The shaky answer came, “Two years.”

I said nothing, except maybe, “Good luck!” I thought, “Good Grief!”

Then it was the Star Pupil’s turn. Apparently the Reynolds reputation was enough to schedule a display which might reach back into the community and produce future students.

I think, because I was shortish, unassuming, and looking younger than my age, the Maestro was somewhat disappointed but knew that appearances can be deceiving, and he put on the show.

The Chosen Student, the Leading Tenor of the Riverside Opera, came to this special session with a problem that had been bothering him. This was just a week before the opera’s opening performance, and he confessed his uncertainty about being able to keep up with the conductor.

The Maestro proclaimed loudly and for my benefit, “You’re the Star! He’s only the conductor. Make him follow you!”

And then the nail in the coffin. “Besides, it’s only Mozart. It’s not real opera. It isn’t Puccini or Verdi…”

That did it for me. Out of regard for Bill Reynolds, I sat through the last bit of the “lesson,” the tenor sang a little, and left, his concerns unalloyed.

The Maestro turned to me. I kept my expression blank, but he had already made up his mind. He was absolutely uninterested in me, didn’t ask me to sing a scale, not a single note, and said, “Maybe I could fit you in for a half hour in six weeks.”

I said, “I’ll let you know,” shook the dust from my feet, and undarkened his doorway.

Reynolds asked, “How did it go?” I came up with a tactful noncommittal response.

Reynolds himself was the Master of the Voice, sang baritone (I wish I could have heard him), and we talked about singers. The discussion got around to sopranos, and “Who’s the best soprano these days?”

He said, “People seem to feel it’s Elisabeth Schwarzkopf. The young people especially think so.” (I wondered if he was saying that for my benefit. Surely he couldn’t be pandering…)

I also had a special fondness and regard for Schwarzkopf, especially for her repertoire. However, I did find her tendency to “close” on some notes, to strain on a few high notes that seemed beyond her comfortable reach, to be troubling, or as they would say these days, concerning.

He had staked his claim and made his choice, so I didn’t intrude Victoria de los Ángeles. I had decided she was my favorite, certainly in the lyric roles, because her voice was virtually perfect and impossibly beautiful (the critics called it “ear-ravishing”), her repertoire was not only extensive, but she sang French songs French, German songs German, Italian opera Italian, and everything Spanish Spanish because she was too, and, as an added bonus, had started her career with renaissance. So, I thought about Reynold’s judgment, “Nobody is right all the time.”

And then we talked violin. He played the violin himself, so he knew. He told me, with that protracted emotion of a treasured memory that you could see in the distant focus of his eyes, “I guess the greatest violin performance I’ve ever heard in person was Zino Francescatti on stage playing the Sibelius Concerto. I was sitting in the fifth row, he was standing right above me, and played directly to me.”

I also cherish Francescatti, especially his performance of the Franck Sonata with Robert Casadesus, one of the wonders of recorded music.

So William Reynolds, in his inner circle of family, friends, musicians, colleagues, over-lapped our own circle of friends, musicians, professors, and we shared our lives.

Reynolds was a gentle man, cultured, intelligent, passionate with music in his heart and bones.

He reverberates in my long memory of friends, and I’m happy and proud to have known him.