Tales From the (Massage) Table: You Know What's NOT Relaxing?

In the parlance of the day, I shall write this in the form of an open letter.

DEAR MASSAGE/MEDITATION MUSIC PRODUCERS:

In my recent quest to avoid almost certain repetitive-music-induced narcolepsy, I have been delving into a colleague's stash of "relaxation" CDs. After a few days of sampling the more frequently-used discs, I would like to submit a list of things that are not, in fact, relaxing to hear during a massage.

• Loud, sudden, frightening thunderclaps that inspire a client to bolt upright and cry, "DAMN, THAT WAS CLOSE!"
• Crickets.  I know, they seem like they'd be soothing.  They are not.
• Monkeys. Really, does this need explanation? Actually, primates of any kind.
• Dogs and/or wolves. And possibly bears.  Barking, baying, howling, and growling.  That caused my pleasant foot rub to seem like something out of a Goosebumps movie.
• Percussion.  No matter how gently played, a hi-hat is disruptive. Also tom-toms, snare, triangle, and any other percussion toys.
• Tornado winds. Scary.
• Finally, cows.  I am not kidding here.  I know they're gentle and have big brown eyes, but hearing one mooing in the distance is disconcerting.

Thank you for your attention in this matter. 

Sincerely,

Everyone

Making Kids Cry When They Do Well. It's a peculiar talent I have.

Today, I judged middle school Solo and Ensemble contest.  This is a very different thing than judging High School (which I did last week), because some of these kids are absolute beginners, and even if they're not, they're on that cusp between childhood and adolescence.  Emotions are volatile, feelings are tender, and parents are very protective.  I had to give a couple of 3s (ratings go from 1 as best to 5 as ridiculously bad), but they understood why they earned those ratings.  BUT... the two kids who CRIED were kids who got 1s.

One kid cried after I told her that her duet was the very first "All-1" performance of the day (there are several sub categories that we give scores to).  They were beginners (flute and clarinet), best friends, and adorable.  They were dressed alike, and they came into the room with absolute confidence.  It was obvious they had rehearsed everything, including how they would set up the stands, how they'd tune, and how they'd stop and start the piece.  It was more prepared than some of the adult performances I've seen.

They played two little pieces (I think one was from "Water Music," and the other was a little march).  The pieces were in two different keys and time signatures, and they did each one perfectly.  They communicated non-verbally with each other before, during, and after each piece.

But most significantly, they played with a depth of understanding of each other's parts, so when one made a misstep, the other quickly accommodated. I was floored.

I gave them comments verbally as well as written, and they were polite and receptive. After I'd released them, they waited in the hallway for their score, as they all do.  This time, I wanted to deliver the score personally (I usually had the room assistant do that, since I was busy writing comments or preparing for the next entrant) because it was early afternoon, and they were the very first entry to have "Straight-A's" if you will.

I popped out into the hall and saw them clinging to each other's hands, with their parents hovering nervously nearby.  "Girls, I wanted to let you know that you got a Gold Medal!" They jumped up and down and screeched and hugged, but I touched one lightly on the shoulder and continued, "Also, you were the very first entrant of the day -- and keep in mind, I've been judging new entries every 6 minutes since 8:00 this morning -- you're the first to get ALL 1's on the score sheet.  This is significant, and I thought you'd enjoy the rest of your weekend if you knew that."

Surprisingly, the little blonde flute player's face crumpled and she buried her face in her mom's coat and sobbed.  "What did I do? Is she ok?" I worried.
The mom laughed, "I think she's just a little overexcited," and patted the girl's head. The clarinet player girl came around and hugged her from the back, and laughed and teased her until she came up, rubbing tears off her very pink cheeks, and she looked shyly up at me and smiled a bit.

------------------------------

There was a young boy who was dressed stiffly in a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and very shiny shoes.  He tuned very calmly, almost with bravado, to the piano.
Again, it was pretty clear that he was in his first or second year of playing, but he handled his solo with aplomb until the very end.  About four measures from the end, he tripped up a little and got separated from the piano part for maybe 4 or 5 beats, but they got back together by the last measure.
As he played his final note, I saw his eyes fill with tears.  He quickly turned away, laying his flute on a desk by his mom.  I approached him, telling him to grab his flute because I'd like to help him with a few fingerings.  He moaned to his mom, "But I screwed uuuuup!" He was shaking.

I told him that missing notes occasionally is common and no big deal, and I proceeded to tell him all the things I liked about his performance, hoping he'd pull it together and be able to improve a few things.  He did, for the most part, and I was able to get him to acknowledge that many, if not most, parts of his piece were very good. I showed him a few alternate fingerings to simplify a few spots, and then congratulated him and released him.

I thought he'd be happy after that, but he began to cry -- sobbing cries -- and saying, "I can't believe it! It was bad! I got so upset!"  I was busy writing my comments (which were almost all positive), and scored the sheet.  he got a 1 (top score), because the small problem at the end did not come close to outweighing the good in the performance.

Since he wasn't letting his mom console him much, I decided to share a story with him.

"Several -- maybe many -- years ago, I was playing for a world-famous flutist at a very high-level flute class.  We'd play a piece in front of the teacher and ALL of the students in the group, so at least 20 people.  Well, as I played, I was getting overwhelmed by being near him, and having him paying close attention to me, and I started to shake.  I kept it in control and kept playing, but my shaking became obvious to anyone looking at me, which was everybody.  Bart (Barthold Kuijken, for you flutists out there) smiled at me when I finished and put his hand over his heart and walked to me.  He beamed kindness at me and said, "That feeling you're having... it's because you are a human person who is aware that something special is happening. That's a good thing. If you don't feel that way, you're not paying attention. Sometimes, if we're not expecting it, it can feel like we're nervous or sick or scared, but it's really just humanness. So LET YOURSELF feel that.  Realize that we all hope to -- need to have moments where we actually notice that something special is happening to us.
Next time, you'll be able to anticipate it, and it'll feel better.  Someday, it will feel wonderful. And then, you will want to feel that way more and more."

So, I said to the boy, "You're just a human person, aware that something special happened, and you just didn't see it coming. Some kids shake, others cry, some throw up (and I'm glad you didn't go with that option), some laugh, some get chatty. Let yourself feel it right now. Because that way, next time you'll see it coming, and it'll feel better."

And guess what?

He felt better, and his mom was happy.

Tales From the (Massage) Table: The Tragedy That Is "Massage Music."

I've been trying to find some music to play during massages, but, being a musician, I have some rather stringent guidelines.

1: NO. ENYA.  See here.

2: No symphonic music.  I have played so much of it, I get caught up in it. I find myself accenting along with Berlioz, much to my client's dismay.


3: No panpipe.  For god's sake, no panpipe. I feel like we should go all Terminator and go back in time and sterilize Zamfir's mother.  (I wouldn't kill her -- she may have had other non-panpiper children--wait.  That wouldn't work either.  I'd think of something.)


4: No synthesized covers of pop music.  My ears wanted to suck themselves back into my skull when I heard -- get this -- Greatest Hits by the BEATLES -- on PANPIPE. With synthesized backup. I shudder at the memory.

5: No 'classical' music played (synthesized or real instruments) at excruciatingly slow tempi "because it's for MASSAGE music. That will be so sooooothing." Except for the flutist/massage therapist who is slowly asphyxiating because I always tend to breathe along with the phrases of things I've played. Somewhere out there is an oboist with whom I need to have some serious words. Entre'acte from Carmen (Bizet) is supposed to be Adagio.  Not molto Gravissimo.  (That's not even a real tempo marking)

6: No religious/pentecostal/gospel music hiding as background music.  I recently got to the end of a massage, having used a borrowed CD to try it out.  My client commented that the music had been really upsetting, since it brought to mind years of being forced to go to "Revivals" at his parents' church. Oy.  I had no idea that music was anything but boring, cheezy Muzak (no, the CD case did not say anything about the origins of the melodies. I checked.).



7: Nothing with "surprise accents" or sudden percussion interludes.  Many a comfy massage-trance has been broken by ill-advised use of high-hats, triangle rolls, pings of gongs hit with hard-tipped mallets, or random bird chirps.  Which leads me to...

8: Crickets.  GodDAMN, I hate the crickets.  Does anybody really find that soothing?  Even bird chirps can be intensely irritating.  Anything that comes out of the blue, starts abruptly, and leaves you worrying about when the next occurrence will be is OUT.


9: This is a late add.  THE HAUNTED HOUSE. Just yesterday, I was using a perfectly lovely ooohhhh-ahhhhhhh, bonggggggbonnnnngggggoooooohhhhhh pseudo-asian thing, when ALL OF A SUDDEN, it went all Haunted Mansion on me.  These voices? Sounding like a bunch of ghosts who found some pot and got all stoned and were trying to go around scaring people at the local mall for kicks.  It was truly bizarre. I assume it was synthesizers, since I cannot imagine any singers who would be willing to record themselves making such sounds.  Unless they were also baked.  Possible, I suppose.


As you can see, I have my work cut out for me.  This is why I'm working towards creating, playing, and recording my own music.

At least I know that I won't use any frickin' crickets.

Being A Non-Flutey Flutist Makes Me Happy

I'm a flutist, but have had the good fortune to hear from many of my colleagues that I "don't seem like a flutist."  By this, they mean that I'm not an utter pain in the ass.

Good god.  Do you see this? A KITTEN, a FLUTE (put together incorrectly, natch), A ROSE, BALLET SLIPPERS *AND* a WHITE PIANO.  It's the grand slam of preciousness.

Anyone who has been in middle school or high school band knows what I'm talking about.  The flute players are the competitive back-biters.  The rumor starters.  The bitches.  Yes, there.  I said it.

Why is this?  Don't know.  It doesn't matter to me WHY it happens -- it just does.  Just like trumpet players are arrogant, tuba players are funny and euphonium players will never get a job, it's a fact.  I have indulged in the Flute Player Syndrome (FPS) while in junior high and high school, I had my comeuppance in undergrad, and even more so in grad school.  It wasn't fun.

I finally learned that in order to be a person MYSELF that I could stand to be around, I had to get off of it.  I needed to develop some tact, some empathy, and a whole lot of modesty.  There's ALWAYS going to be a better flutist.  And she's probably going to be younger, thinner, and have better clothes.  Again, fact.

Know what I found out?  It's more fun to be the nice flute player, as long as you are also a kick BUTT flutist.  People like playing with nice musicians.  People like to hire them!

However, sadly, it's humbling to do this.  I simply had to give up trying to prove that I was the BEST EVER. I just had to act like I am the most awesome KATE around.  Here's the thing -- if I get around another flutist (other musicians too, but mostly flutists) who is still deep in the snotty-attitude thing, my antennae go up and it's HARD to resist the pull.  I want to name-drop, to brag, to talk about all my orchestra jobs, my degrees, my auditions.

I KNOW!  It's wretched.  I have to make a conscious choice to NOT jump into that pit.  It's a deep, DEEP pit.  Lots of people are in there, too.  They are the ones who warm up on "Daphnis and Chloe" when you're getting ready for some community performance.  They're the ones who hear YOU playing your solo that you're going to do on tonight's concert and THEY start playing it too.  Ugh.  You know the type.  That's the mythical "flutist from Juilliard who bent the keys on her competitor's flute the minute before the audition."  I doubt it's ever happened, but if it did, it was a flute player.

Whenever I start out in a new location, I have to remember which flute player I want to be.  Do I want to be the snotty, rude, entitled, name-dropper? Or do I want to be the mature, elegant yet fun, educated and comfortable with herself lady?  It's tough to go with #2 sometimes.  It's so deeply satisfying to rip somebody a new one when they're begging for it.  ("You think YOU'RE hot?  I did  masterclasses with GALWAY, bitch missy!" "I gave Jeanne Baxtresser rides to the airport! She told me she liked my purse!")

I have run into a few flutists in each and every location who fall into the FPS category.  Oh, they are SO easy to spot.

One of their first questions is always -- without fail -- "What kind of flute do you play?"

Gag.  Hint, people:  If you have to ask, you don't deserve to know.  Most of us can tell by looking, and really? It's rarely polite to ask outright, because it implies that their sound comes from the instrument.  Please.  There are ways of finding out.  First think of it this way:  Do you know her/him well enough to ask what brand of underwear they like or what dentist they use?  No?

Probably should mind your own business then.

Enya Poisoning

You're a massage client at the local massage school.  You and 11 other lucky people fill out forms in the waiting room while you hear laughter, the rattling sound of curtains being pulled, and the clank of pens being thrown back in a coffee cup.

One by one, cheerful blue-shirted massage students open the sliding door and call out a name.  The typical "I'm trying to remember to do a good greeting" greetings occur, with introductions and handshakes.  Clients get escorted to their curtained-in cubicle, and the usual questions get asked. "Any changes since your last appointment? How's your diabetes doing? Any tingling in your feet or toes? No? Good. Any particular aches or pains you'd like me to work on today?"

And so it goes.  The overhead lights are off, but the side lights are on, giving the cubicles a nice cozy feel. Some atmospheric "waves and birds" music is going on in the background.

The therapists step out into the aisle, closing curtains behind them, as the clients undress and get on the tables, covering up with the white rented sheets. Laundry service is a wondrous thing, really.

When the clients call out, each therapist begins his or her session. Warm hands, deep and deliberate strokes, lotion, stretches.  The clients drift off, if all goes well. After a while, the room is quiet. We hear the occasional murmur of a question being asked, an instruction given. We hear a rattle of a chair being pulled around, or a cough.

The "waves and birds" switches to to some "woooooOOOOoooooSAILAWAYSAILAWAYSAILAWAY" stuff. The therapists' hands stiffen for just a second.  Just a wee pause. Then a stifled snicker. The room is suddenly awash in tiny sounds of amusement, annoyance, and resignation.

Another Enya album has come up on the rotation of background music.  Another one. I swear, the instructor promised to never do this to us again. Oh for god's sake. Can't we EVER get through a session without that repetitive Irish woman?
The one with the guy on the panflute playing the Beatles is bad enough. And that one that's trying to be Native American? It's synthesized.

But really?  Enya??
Please sail the hell away.

Beauty -- When Is Too Much Enough?

I've been teaching a lot lately. 

Oddly, I've been using "Dancing With the Stars" as a metaphor.  When you watch the pro, you see each motion extended to its fullest.  Each step is precise; exaggerated, even. The legs are long, the toes are pointed, the necks are arched just so. 

With the amateur, there's a degree of uncertainty.  Incomplete fulfillment.  The envelope is not pushed.

I had a young lady playing some tango duets with me, and it was adequate.  Accurate, possibly.  But exciting? Not hardly.  Then I tossed out the phrase "self-destructively beautiful."  You know those people, right?  The ones you just KNOW will go up in flames.  They can't keep up that level of intensity. 

When she played the piece again, it was ravishing.  Her heart was on her sleeve, and she went so far beyond what was on the page, she was shredding the paper (metaphorically).  I felt like I heard her heart beat in her sound.  I did not tell her quite how I felt (I almost teared up) for fear of freaking her out and making her feel weird.  But wow. 

Later the same week, I tried the same description with an adult student of mine.  There is this point in Debussy's Syrinx, where the story goes off the rails.  Madness.  Ecstasy.  Dangerous, self-immolating beauty.  After that point, the music is just like ashes and smoke.  It burnt itself up, and now it's just ... dying.  It's the beautiful afterimage etched into your eyes from glancing directly at the sun. 

You can only see it when you close your eyes.

Green-Eyed Monster, Thy Name is Kate [Updated, Happily]

So yesterday, I was teaching.  This was a beginning flute student, 4th grade.  Still trying to remember how to finger A-flat sometimes. 

From down the hall, I hear a flutist playing.  Really, really well. So well, in fact, that it was distracting me.  Then the pieces started to filter through to my mind.

Daphnis and Chloe
Afternoon of a Faun
Ibert flute Concerto
Tchaikovsky 4
Beethoven Leonore #3


This person is preparing for an orchestra audition.

I know all these pieces too.  I have taken and won orchestra auditions.  But now, at this moment, I'm reminding a little blonde girl that A-flat is left hand, all keys. 

It took all my professionalism and self-control to NOT grab up my flute and play those excerpts by memory, flawlessly. 

So....

Dear flutist down the hall;
Nice job.  But I'd have beaten you in that audition.  
Sincerely,
The woman teaching the beginner lesson down the hall

[Addendum:  That very evening, I got asked by a local (volunteer, non-professional) symphony if I could come in and play Principal flute on Holst's "The Planets" because their regular flutists couldn't quite cover the parts. Since one of my adult students plays in it, I said yes.  So there.]

A Silver-Ribbon Day

Remember The Bloggess, and how she declared silver ribbons were for depression?  Yeah.  I'm wearing one today (metaphorically).

You see, my depression is so spotty.  When I'm doing something fun you or relaxing, I'm fine.  I'm cheerful.  Don't have to fake it a bit.  But then I get irritated and it all goes to pot.

I've been thinking about the body's 'pain-gating' mechanism.  You know -- where if you, for instance, break a leg, you don't really feel the sprained finger or the sunburn quite as much.  Your body prioritizes its pain.  That is why we scratch an itch.  The irritation of the itch gets replaced by the minor pain of scratching it, and the irritation diminishes.

I think that's why I get angry when I'm irritated.  Anger feels better -- more active -- than irritation.  I lash out (usually on quite a small scale) at whomever has bugged me (sadly, usually my family), and it is a release.  Right before I lash out, I feel overfull.  Bursting.  Like my eyes are being pushed out from pressure, like my very breath is being pressurized.  A quick yell or slapping my hands down on a desk or stomping my feet opens the valve a bit and brings the pressure back down.

But when I'm having a kind of tough time, the pressure just rises right back up.  What helps?  Exercise.  No, really.  The actual physical act of running or lifting weights or using the Elliptical just whooshes the pressure right out.  It really empties me out, in a good way.  Gives me a lot more room.  Also a glass or two of wine helps temporarily in that it seems to loosen the outer skin of my balloon.  It also gives me some flexibility, but it's not ideal by any means.

If I could get myself to exercise nearly every day, that would be a valve that I could rely on.  I must do this.  So far (other than the meds I'm on and the talk therapy I participate in sometimes), that's the best control I have.

[Amended:  Yesterday, I played some terrifically difficult and cathartic music on my flute for an hour.  THAT was almost as good as a physical workout.]

Crazy Passionate Post

Oh, what a night.

I'm talking about music, friendship, and more music.  And PEOPLE!  you see, there's this guy -- Bobby Carcasses.  He's a musician from Cuba, and is probably in his 70s.  He sings, plays piano and flugelhorn, drums, you name it.  Oh, and he came here to give a massive concert Friday night.  He was the resident artist for a few days at the university, and then gave a sell-out concert at a big hall.

Last night, we got a call from a colleague of Dr. Smartypantz's, saying that he was having a little reception at his house for Bobby, and would we like to come?  Bring the kids!  Um.  YES!?!

Bobby Carcasses

We show up, and over the next hour or so, people trickle in.  Our kids played with the host's kids and some others who came later.  Soon, the catered food arrived (Jamaican chicken, rice/beans, oxtail, cabbage, and plantains).  A total of maybe 20 adults finally settled in to eat, drink, and be merry.

However, two of Rodney's (the host) kids had had birthdays recently and he had been in Indonesia playing some concerts, so there were birthday cakes!  The kids began clamoring for cake.  Well, you can't have cake without singing "Happy Birthday," right?

Rodney is a bassist, and he has one of his basses in the corner of the living room, along with a cello and various other instruments (electric keyboards, amps, etc.).. 

Rodney

I heard from the living room "ba doom boom boom ba DOOMP ba doo DOOP" being played on the bass.  One of Rodney's students was trying it out, for fun.  Then Rodney took over.  More "baDOOMping."  Then a percussionist grabbed a cardboard box that had held the kids' CapriSun juice packs and ripped it artfully, making a drum pad.  He had his sticks and brushes with him, and so he started sssssshhh-ssshhhh-sshshshhshh--ing.  Somebody else grabbed a tin of Altoid mints and used them as a maraca.

Then the electric piano (in the next room) was being used to get the crowd singing Happy Birthday.  Let me tell you -- that was the best damned version of Happy Birthday I've ever heard.  Bobby started singing along, the two female gospel singers started twirling and flying their beautiful voices over the melody...

Pretty soon, all the instruments got corralled into one room, and they started to play.  Trumpets, 'drums,' piano, singers, Altoids, a beer bottle being tapped with a fountain pen in lieu of a cowbell.  Clapping, stomping, singing, hooting....

Then.  Bobby wanted to sing.  He sat at the keyboard and began.  Gorgeous, soulful Cuban songs.  There were tears in the eyes of so many of us.  He segued to something upbeat and hot.  The drummer joined in, then the trumpets.  Rodney's student played bass.  Pretty soon, Rodney's 3-year-old son grabbed the cello form the other room and planted himself next to the singer and pretended it was a bass.  Nobody stopped him.  Bobby smiled a bit.

Bobby asked the other musicians if they could accompany him on "My FUnny Valentine" in d minor.  And off we went.  He sang.  It was rough -- gravelly.  Gorgeous.  Then he picked up his flugelhorn and played.  One woman was a club singer (jazz mostly) and she started to croon, to sing over his flugelhorn solos.

The best way to describe it was this: imagine being in a room full of regular brown birds.  And every so often, one of them opened up their tailfeathers and became a peacock.  And they would show their azure feathers like it was nothing at all.  Then they'd close them back up, go about their business, as another little brown bird turned into a thing of beauty.

You'd never ever know how amazing these people were from just looking.  There were no stylish fashions.  No Botox or perfect bodies.  No riveting drama.  NOBODY handed out business cards.  Nobody exchanged phone numbers.  No flirting.  No arguing.  No crying in a bathroom.  No tension.

Just people.  Trading places at the piano or the bass.  Dancing in the hallway.  Dancing with the kids. 
Plopping down on the couch next to one of the most famous Cuban musicians in the world.

Music: From My Perspective

Music has colors. Music has shape and texture.

I can't believe the difference it makes when I can get that concept across to another musician.

Recently, I talked about how the piece, "Syrinx," (by Debussy) can end. It is a very abstract and Impressionist piece, and starts out rather coldly -- kind of silver gray. Thin and metallic. It widens out to a greenish silver, more fluid than flat. Then it dips into a rather hot sensuous orange (where the low triplets are). It swirls in on itself, almost repeating, but not quite -- but it's so swirly, it's difficult to tell if it's same or different. Then it gets fiery and red and very jagged (at the high point). It's narrow and has a thick, plastic skin. You can't puncture it.
Then, the narrow silver gray focus of the beginning is reborn but in a new form. It's now smoky and diffuse and gray. Undefined. Misty. The sun sets on the piece, and the empty gray becomes night.

Another piece, the 3rd Mvt. of Sonata by Taktakishvili, is great for interpretation.

It begins brightly, busily. It's in 6/8, and leaps around from high to low and back. It's a child who is well behaved by the grace of God only. You KNOW it's gonna be up to something soon. It leaves tacks on the teacher's chair.
This child has a diabolical side, but charmingly so. It's brainy and quick, but temperamental. Abruptly, in the middle, it is in a deep, imaginary Grimm's-Fairy-Tale forest, where it's worried about the Big Bad Wolf. It hides, it runs, it plots. The Wolf creeps and smirks and idly leans against a tree trunk, waiting to be noticed.
Then, just as rapidly, the kid is back in the kindergarten classroom, high on sugar from the birthday cake. Up, down, back up, all around. The child gets hyper-focused and repeats the same word Over. And. Over (this is the pianissimo high Cs repeated over the piano's melody). At long last, the horrible child wears out and falls into an exhausted sleep.

This is what happens in my mind as I play and as I teach.

Music Is Its Own Reward

You know, I get irked. 
Irked, I tells ya!

When some parent or student says that "music is GREAT for raising SAT scores!"
Next, we'll be hearing that Flute Playing leads to colon health. 

Who.  Cares?

Isn't the music enough? Isn't the sublime experience of letting all your bajillions of synapses float on a sea of sound enough?

[BTW: did you know that if you plopped your brain in the blender, it would come out to roughly 6 cups of material?  I'm just sayin'.]

So anyway.

When I teach, I love to let the music teach the instrument.  I don't bother teaching scales and arpeggios (to the younger kids -- college students, yes).  I teach music.  If I sense a student has issues with some note combinations, I work on Vivaldi or Mozart of Perilhou or Rodrigo.  I find MUSIC that makes the idea of becoming fluent in these combinations ATTRACTIVE.  How Borrrring are scales?  Yet ask a kid to play "Joy to the World" in several keys (using different starting notes), they get intrigued.  "Can I do it?  how does it sound?"

Then they do it.  ANd they have just focused on the music, not the scale.

I hate when people make music boring.  Pedantic.  Methodical.

Let the damned MUSIC make musicians. 
Thoughts?

Ritual

It's almost Solstice!  Yay!  I love this time of year.  I also love Solstice rituals.  I have my own, and sometimes go to other people's.  It's so beautifully cold and crisp and shivery and dark.

Dr. Smartypants and I were talking about rituals recently.  I had gone to an Episcopal church to play a gig, and was amazed by the level of ritual there.  The minister (priest?) bowed every time he said the words "Jesus Christ" and they rang bells and whatnot, the choir processed up the aisle and back around to their seats, and the little acolyte girls lit candles while wearing their white robes. 

I was bemused and perplexed by my reaction.  It was "seriously?  You actually get on your knees?  You cross yourselves?  Then you go and act like you do outside of church?"

We discussed the point of ritual, after Dr. S said that he didn't really have a problem with rituals.  I said that I had a problem with mindless, meaningless rituals.  I thought for a bit, and then said that I thought of a ritual that meant something to me, but would not mean much to anyone else. 

Set the mental stage:
Musicians get dressed all in black (men in tuxedos).  They arrive at the usual time, and get their instruments, warm up a bit in the dressing rooms, then leave all their 'worldly' goods and go to the stage with just the instrument and the music.
The go to the semi-lit stage with the rows of chairs and stands.  The sit in their pre-planned, earned places.  There is a hierarchy.  The audience is rustling around, preparing too.  They have the programs in their hands, and are dressed up, anticipating.  They know what happens next.  Onstage, the musicians continue their warm up, preparing their thoughts for the night.  They are still individuals, but are moving toward unity. The house lights blink, and the audience settles in.  The house lights go down, and the musicians' warmup ends.  The concertmaster comes to the front to the applause of the audience, and the acknowledgment of the orchestra.  The musicians shuffle their feet, the string players sometimes tap their bows lightly on their stands.  He stands, back to the audience, and nods at the oboist, who sounds the unifying A.  This is the moment the orchestra members cease to be individuals.  The concertmaster's back to the audience also divides the players from the consumers.  This is the only moment that is for the musicians alone.  The players all unify into one pitch, one sound.  The audience is in darkness.  Then the conductor comes to the front, again witht he audience applauding and the musicians shuffling and tapping.  He gestures to the orchestra, and they stand, ending the shuffling/tapping sounds.  He is the bridge between music and audience.  He makes no sounds, but controls the audience's access to the sound.

For the next hour or two, the music tells its own story, and the musicians submerge themselves in the greater organism that is the orchestra.  Soloists are heard, but always in context.  The audience hears the total of the music, not the individual elements. 
As the last note is played, all eyes -- orchestra and audience -- are on the conductor, who gestures to end the piece.  There is a beat or two of ecstatic silence, during which time stops.  The sounds of the recent past are hovering in the mind's ear, and all are joined by the music-full silence.  No one breathes.  Then the conductor's baton lowers, and the spell is over, the circle is broken.  The orchestra stands one last time as a group, as a family, as an organism.  The conductor bows, the audience applauds, and the individuals are released from their covenant.

The lights go up.  The audience breaks into a thousand smaller pieces, all stretching, chatting, becoming individuals again.  The orchestra disassembles their instruments, thoughts returning to family, dinner, bills, dogs, dishes.  They remove their uniform black clothing, donning again the garb of everyday individuals.  They break apart and fan out, each to his or her own path. 

This ritual is significant to me, as are all of its smaller incarnations.  Each step is as vital as the candles being lit or the choir processing to their seats.  There may be no incense, but there is a odor of sanctity.  The smell of rosin on bows, of the wooden stage under the spotlights, the leather music folders.  There is no raising of sacred vessels, but there is the tap of the white wooden baton, the shuffle of feet, the hum of the percussionist to the timpani to check intonation.  There is the scrape of a cellist re-positioning her peg on the floor, the whisk of the swab in the clarinet in long rests. 

This is the ritual that means something to me.

A Day of Judging, lest I be judged. Or something.

Yesterday I listened to 56 high school flutists in the Detroit area.  As I drove out there the night before, I enjoyed the fact that I was going to a hotel by myself for a night, and that I wasn't in the nervous frenzy that I assume most of the performer were in.  I remember that night-before-contest feeling.  It's wonderful and awful.

As i sat in the hotel, on the bed (which I totally checked for bedbugs, I'll have you know.  I googled it.), I again thought of those 56 kids cleaning their flutes, checking their copies, figuring out what to wear.  And I sat and Epilady'd my legs and gave myself a facial and watched Grey's Anatomy on Netflix.  Then I painted my nails (metallic silver, fyi) and used a PedEgg to file off a few pounds of grody dead skin from my heels and toes.  Blechh.  it was very relaxing to just do all that boring girly stuff all by myself.  And I kept marveling at the difference there is, being on the 'other side of the desk,' so to speak.  I wonder if even ONE of the competitors considered that the judge might be thinking of THEM that tense night before.  I was sending them good vibes, wishing them well, and hoping they weren't being too afraid of who _I_ might be.  Would they get the scary, mean judge?  The boring one?  The smelly ugly one? (hey - it happens)

Then, charmingly, at about 2 a.m., one of my neighbors started arguing with the woman he was with.  yelling.  I ignored it for a while, but at about 3, I called the desk and asked them to please deal with it.  "OH!  Well, if anyone ELSE complains, we'll sure come up and talk to them."

... um.  Anyone ELSE?  Gah.

I turned up the fan on the heater to high to muffle the shouting and rolled over.  Sleep must have come somewhere around 4.  I had scheduled a wakeup call at 6, and set my cellphone alarm to 6:15 for some snoozing.  I got a call at 6:35.  Cellphone's ringer was turned OFFFFF.  I must have STEPPED on it during the night when I got uup to adjust the fan.  I needed to be AT the meeting for judges (15 minutes away) at 7:15.  BLAHHHH!  And I sorely needed a shower.

Quickest shower in memory... semi-dried the hair, was glad to find I had some bobby pins in my travel case, so pinned up some rolled-up pieces of hair into something resembling a 'do, dried and curled the front and a bit in the back, and remembered to toss my makeup in my purse so I could do it at the red lights.

No breakfast to be seen (thanks a lot, Day's Inn.  hide the damn breakfast room), so off I went.  To find the car frozen shut.  Michigan in January =  AWESOME.  Couldn't find address for contest, so had to get on my phone and check email, which took time, as I seemed to be in a reception black hole.  Sigh.

On the road at 7:03.  Snowwwy and icy.  Shit.  Slapped on powder base and very red lipstick at redlights, put in earrings while carefully driving on a straight part of the road.  Eyeliner at next red light.  Fluffed hair that was finally drying while driving, then slopped on some amethyst eyeshadow to match earrings at next light.  Decided against taking off glasses to do mascara, because it was too icy. 

Arrived at the location (whew) and found a spot RIGHT OUT FRONT.  Which I thanked Ganesh (or whoever is keeping track of karmic parking coincidences this week) for that.  Rummaged around for my cell charger (naturally the phone had gotten unplugged last night when I stepped on it), and then dashed in.  Remembered too late that I was still wearing my black everyday clumpy shoes, not my pretty kitten heeled silver with rhinestone sparklies pumps.  Decided I didn't care. 

Found what I thought was the judge room, but everybody looked all colorful and happy and chatty.  Whoops.  Volunteer room.  They pointed me to the _next room_ full of middle-aged men mostly in dark suits and (horrifyingly) women in sweaters with music-themed appliques.  (WHY would an adult wear such an item?  I don't care how cold it might be.  NO saxophones and eighth notes on clothing.  NONE. Please.)  They were all sitting in chairs with music stands pulled up in front of them, busily pre-signing the comment sheets (a good practice, which I quickly did as well).  The food was better in this room.  Yogurt, bagels, donuts and pastries, fruit.  Bottled water! Coffee!  The other room was just a gallon jug of OJ and some boxed donuts.  Perks of the job, I guess.

Apparently in my rush, I sat in the "piano judge" section.  You see, these things tend to fall into the following categories:

• Piano people (thin, neat, high-strung, cheerful.  Often wearing cardigans and carrying large tote bags of supplies like hand sanitizer, nail clippers, metronomes, tissues, Tums.)
• String people (Asian or frumpy late-middle aged white, loudly talking about suzuki and NASTA, often wearing woolen shawls, sometimes guilty of having violin-themed accessories like earrings)
• Band Directors or Retired Band Directors (middle aged to elderly men in Republican suits, glad-handing each other and bellowing manly comments, ignoring anyone else.  often wear a lapel pin showing an association to a music fraternity, a team or university, or social lodge like the Elks)
• Young/New Enthusiasts (mostly men, but some more group-sports type women; very clean. Respectfully and conspicuously  listening to the BDs, but then breaking off into smaller groups, and gossiping about people they know from college and high school.  Often casting furtive glances at the BDs to make sure they haven't left yet. These are usually either student teachers or first/second year band/orchestra teachers.  Many just graduated from the local universities.)
• The Girls (usually woodwind people, some who teach in schools part time, or are private teachers.  Usually the best dressed, with makeup reflecting the actual current trends.  Eyeing each other competitively.)

I was running late, so I didn't bother to move.  Plus, I hate "the Girls."  I don't need that crap.  I'm here to get paid.

Now, I just got invited to judge this contest maybe 2 weeks ago.  Another flute teacher in my town (who mostly retired from flute to run an import store in town) HAD been contracted to do it, but her store was moving to a new location and the move was happening this weekend.  So they called me to sub.  IMagine my excitement to be the Backup Judge.  Sigh.

So I had to go through each and every of the 56 sheets and sign each sheet, And I had to carefully cross out HER name and print my name below.  Yeah.  Made me feel so vital to the system.  "Hey KID.  You got the SECOND CHOICE judge today! Congrats!"

So much more to tell.  I am cold though, and must go warm up.  (note to self: get space heater for basement)

Cant' Get This Analogy Out of My Head

Hey - bear with me.  This is a not-fully-processed thought.

In music, we either phrase notes TOWARD something or AWAY FROM something. 
Not all "towards" are the same, just like not all "aways" are the same. 

Think of this:

in Autumn, there is burnished richness, comfort, harvesting.  A time for gathering warmth to yourself, preparation, closeness.Then you are moving towards the winter solstice.  You are settling in, preparing for night.  There is anticipation, but it's more like regret, or dread.  Hunkering down. Then, there's the moment of being still -- the moment of the deepest part of winter.  There is no motion, only dark. 
Cadence.

Then, you are freed from the darkness, and are sliding away from all that tension.  Released.  The energy of the release allows you to coast towards light, towards growth, towards green.  It's all openness and relaxation.  Possibilities.  You arrive at the spring Equinox, and there you balance perfectly on the head of a pin.  No motion, just balance and stillness. 
Cadence

Following that, you move towards summer.  Anticipation, excitement, fertility, growth.  You are energized and focused on where you are going.  It's a powerful motion forward.  There is increasing depth and richness, luxury.  Complexity and tangles.  Heat.  It inevitably climaxes at Summer Solstice.  You stand still at last, baking, panting, jubilant.  Triumph.
Cadence.

Then relief.  Bathed in the satisfied glow of a job hard-won, basking in the triumph, you accept your congratulations, you sit down with a cool drink, you let the rush of giddy power ebb away.  You're not ready yet for a new adventure.  Time slows.  You start to get organized, knowing you will have a job to start soon.  There's the cool in the air, the smell of leaves and pencils.  It's time to put away the lawnchairs.  Autumn Equinox poises you -- holds you back for one moment, before the ice.  Neither here nor there.
Cadence.

Effort

I'm struggling with the idea of effort.

I WANT to work out and get healthy.  But I'm realistic and know that unless I actually work up a sweat, it's not going to make much of a difference.  I will keep doing the bits and pieces I'm doing, but I need to really find a way to put some effort in.

A few weeks ago, I went through a teaching trend where I wanted to show my students what real effort was.  So we would choose a new piece for them and I'd work them through a section of it with the intensity and thoroughness that _I_ would use if I had to play it on a concert that weekend.

For instance,
a little Aria from the Baroque.

FIRST:
Looked it over for form.  Looked at the markings, the patterns.  Marked in what I like to call "invisibles," which are (example) whole steps that are in the middle of a bunch of chromatics, or recurring accidentals that would be easy to miss.  Or rhythms that resemble previous ones, but aren't the same.  Figured out the key, and identified likely modulations (to the relative minor, to neighbor keys, etc.).
ALL OF THIS was before we even picked up the flutes.

SECOND:
Worked through some of the tough rhythmic spots while counting aloud and fingering but not playing.  Examined difficult spots for possible alternate fingerings, etc.

THIRD:
Played slowly, no ornaments.  Played phrase at a time.  Looked for target notes, looked for melodic lines within the busy stuff.

FOURTH:
Played again, but with ornaments.  Dissected the ornaments once I played them, deciding if I did them right, and if they sounded graceful or did I need to change something.  Played again, but with different approaches -- just to be sure I liked my final choice.

Then played again, arching the phrase, choosing dynamic levels, vibrato, colors, nuance.

That was all for ONE small section. 

Then I'd stop and look at the kid and say, "Lot of work, right?"
They'd emphatically agree.  They would usually say, "Why didn't you just play it?"

And then I'd say, "because then I'd be a complete amateur."

I'd briefly explain that there's a reason I sound so good when I play.  It's the hours of intense preparation, thought, decision making, and experimentation that I have done in over 30 years of playing.  That's why SO many people who play instruments are NOT excellent musicians.  THey play.  That's fine.  But do they put in the EFFORT NECESSARY to really pull off performance after performance?

I remind them that EFFORT makes the difference.  Not winging it.  Not "going by instinct," although that's certainly an element.  No.  It's thoughtful, "on your own" preparation that does it.

And they are aghast.  They think that being a musician is just Playing.  I hope they understand that what I'm trying to show them is that even without magical inspiration, music is awesome.  You make it awesome.  It's not magic. It's not!  And it's NOT easy.  Not a bit.  It's DAMNED HARD.

Which makes it wonderful.