The man behind the music

THE DANCE studio is quiet except for the students' faint panting. The instructor glides across the room to demonstrate the next move, leaping for an instant and landing in front of her audience.

She counts aloud, and the ballet bunch obediently turns into a line as the dancers try to replicate her motion. Her voice is soft and stern as she guides the students in motion across the black floor.

A sea of tights and leotards bounces up and down to the beat of "Lady Madonna" by The Beatles. As the tempo increases, the man behind the keys nods his head at the same pace as the instructor's initial count, "five, six, seven, eight." He furiously pounds the keys, his concentration never wavering.

When the instructor stops the class, Bob Athearn lifts his fingers from the piano. His movements are gentle but concise, despite being 75 years old. He takes a bite off a raw carrot, waiting for his cue to begin playing again. The students listen to the new instruction and Bob closes his eyes to determine the next melody. His fraying jeans and faded black Caboose Saloon t-shirt clash with the students' leotards and tights. While the women's hair is tied into tight pony tails, Bob's wiry gray hair stands on end.

He's hardly acknowledged during the class, but when it breaks, the students say their thank-yous to the pianist, bringing the wallflower to life. Bob nods to each and waves, as the university students leave the underground studio.  He packs up his belongings before walking to the University Center Market for his daily cookie.

Bob could easily be replaced by a CD player, but instructors and students would rather have the understanding and dependability of a live musician than the hassles of play, rewind and stop buttons.

"Having live music gives us opportunities to experiment with different counts," senior Andrea Conzonetti says. "It's great to dance with Bob. He's very much a part of the class and the experience. You can tell he likes being here and we love having him."

WHILE BOB  is a fixture in the dance department and seems to belong in Montana, his story began on the other side of the country. He plays a combination of twelve-bar blues on a dime now, and no one would guess that his formal instruction is limited to a few piano lessons in elementary school.

His dad was an expert in Baroque music and played the organ for his church, but never forced lessons. When his dad split for the west, leaving Bob, his mother and brother, "That was it," Bob says. "There were no more pianos."

His father  established a new life in Butte, where 14-year-old Bob first visited in 1951 during Fourth of July. He was immediately enamoured by the mountains. He and his brother were overwhelmed by the abundance of wildlife and the stretch of the outdoors compared to the East. He found it to be romantic and unexplored.

After completing high school, Bob found himself returning across the country to study at the University of Montana in 1955, when his dad got him reduced tuition. He graduated with a bachelor's in English in 1963 after being drafted into the military, where he worked as a clerk typist at Selfridge Air Force Base just north of Detriot. When he was on leave, he would always hitch-hike back west.

After completing his master's in English at University of Washington in 1968, he worked as a backstage staffer at the Sky River Rock Festival in Salton, Washington. He moved equipment and instruments for Santana, the Grateful Dead and the Allman Joys (later known as the Allman Brothers Band), all the while thinking he should be in a band instead of a stagehand.

"I looked up at the stage there and thought, ‘That sure looks like fun,'" he says with a smile, turning over a rusted pin button in his hands that reads "Sky River Rock Festival" in bold type, with a cartoon frog smoking a joint under the text. He already had a piano, and after 30-some years, it was time to start playing again.

"This is when I started being a musician," Bob says.

He played when he could, but returned to Washington to start his PhD in English. After two years and more than 60 credits, he decided to drop out in 1970 for music. He joined a pick-up blues band with some friends he met in Seattle.

"I didn't talk to anybody, I just stopped going back to school. I just let it go," Bob says. "I didn't know very much, but I got an electric keyboard and a big old Fender amp and I started playing with those guys."

MUSICALLY REVIVED, Bob craved Montana. In 1977, his then-wife bought 40 acres of land in Granite County. His pictures show a lush, green paradise with a rising mountain range backdrop. He sighs, saying he tries to get away to his second home as often as he can.

"It's a very remote area, quiet — no trains, no cars, no telephone, no Internet, no electricity," he says. "Solitude is getting harder and harder to find."

The closest thing the cabin has to running water is a small creek that flows beside it. All light is by kerosene lamps or candles. Bob likes the simple life.

But his life is in Missoula, and even at 75, he's still agile and animated. He rides his bike or walks to campus from his Missoula home on the far-east end of town, and is ready to work at 9 a.m. for nine dance classes a week, including a children's evening class. He's also dedicated to his backyard garden after having owned his own gardening business some years ago.

He swears by his diet of organic vegetables, which he credits to his current wife Laulette's cooking — many things on the menu come from his own garden. He turns his head to the right to reveal two small earrings. He touches the first, a marquise-cut Yogo sapphire, and explains that his wife wears its partner — they picked them together to symbolize their marriage.