A/N- I don't hate music, its quite the opposite. Its just that music has
always been there for me, and I had had a particularly bad day, and gone
though it with the mentality of "if I can just get to orchestra, everything
will be alright", except it wasn't…
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Silence fell upon the orchestra. I hadn't counted properly. A bold cellist decided to voice his opinion. "It goes a lot faster than that!" The band director glared. Not at him. At me. Of course at me. I hadn't counted. My solo – my Mozart solo – and I hadn't counted.
The director sighed, and held her hands up again. "Start from three after A."
I forced my breathing to calm again, though there was nothing I could do for my face. It felt as if it had been exposed to the fires of hell. Silently I ran over the notes again in my head, then nearly missed the downbeat. Although I soon found it again. That cello had taken it upon himself to count for me. Damn him. Why couldn't he play the clarinet? Or trumpet…we needed a trumpet. Any instrument that would keep his mouth occupied.
We played the passage through, with minimal mistakes until our orchestra director came through the door. Cocking her head to the side, she exclaimed, a big grin on her face "Ah! The Mozart! Good…good…" Ridding herself of loads of music, she walked up and stopped us. Still grinning – she came directly from teaching a grade school strings class, and anything sounded good after that. She wouldn't tolerate the cello talking out of turn. Not during practice at least. And I could count now…just…concentrate…
She started the piece again, indicating for us to begin where we had left off. I had my four measures of rest…easy enough…then – oh God… My solo solo. Two measures of sixteenth notes that were over before I could ever tongue the first note. Oh no…not these...not now. The measures leading up to them pushed me into a false state of security, hopping along happily. I could play this…1 2 3 4, 1 2 3 4. Deep breath…AAAAAHHHH! I only hit half the notes. The orchestra conductor shook her head, but refused to stop. I still had another chance. The measure repeated itself later on, a few steps up. The violins mimicked, flying along the sixteenth notes like hummingbirds to my buzzard. And it repeated. It didn't get better.
"Stop, stop!" The orchestra director waved her hands, and I sunk behind my stand. She knew how to make a person feel horrible. Especially us winds. "Oboe!" That was me…oh god…she sounded so…frustrated. Perhaps I could pretend I was the flute? "Oboe, you have got to get those runs down! It's been a week now. Haven't you practiced?" I have! I have! I screamed inside my head, but I couldn't talk back to her. The notes were so fast…and high...and awkward. You try them, I wanted to say. But didn't. "Here, listen to Sam play it. Do you think you could get it then?" I nodded, feeling the heat spread itself from my face and behind my eyes. I wouldn't cry. No. I wouldn't. Sam picked up her violin and played the two measures simply, as if they were quarter notes. Except they were quarter notes unfortunate enough to have eaten three bottles of hot sauce. There was no way I could play those…ever. I had practiced until I couldn't stand it any longer, just on the two runs. "Can you play them now?" I nodded again. "Work on them tonight" Another nod. "Now, go back to the practice rooms and count yourself into a frenzy" I hated those words. She always said them. This time, though, they were just for me. For me. She turned, and her disappointed voice turned to one that wanted to get on with the practicing "French horn, you and the bass clarinet go back and work on your parts together, alright?" I gathered my case and music. The rest of the class washed over me, faces staring, then looking back to our director. The fires of hell were my face. I ran back to the practice room.
Music on stand…reed straight…deep breath…first note, embouchure, play! A tear fell. I couldn't play. More followed. I turned towards the wall, away from the music, away from anyone who might look through the door of the practice room. I couldn't play. I couldn't play. I can't play. I shouldn't be in this class. It doesn't make sense. Why couldn't I? I couldn't. Music had deserted me.
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Silence fell upon the orchestra. I hadn't counted properly. A bold cellist decided to voice his opinion. "It goes a lot faster than that!" The band director glared. Not at him. At me. Of course at me. I hadn't counted. My solo – my Mozart solo – and I hadn't counted.
The director sighed, and held her hands up again. "Start from three after A."
I forced my breathing to calm again, though there was nothing I could do for my face. It felt as if it had been exposed to the fires of hell. Silently I ran over the notes again in my head, then nearly missed the downbeat. Although I soon found it again. That cello had taken it upon himself to count for me. Damn him. Why couldn't he play the clarinet? Or trumpet…we needed a trumpet. Any instrument that would keep his mouth occupied.
We played the passage through, with minimal mistakes until our orchestra director came through the door. Cocking her head to the side, she exclaimed, a big grin on her face "Ah! The Mozart! Good…good…" Ridding herself of loads of music, she walked up and stopped us. Still grinning – she came directly from teaching a grade school strings class, and anything sounded good after that. She wouldn't tolerate the cello talking out of turn. Not during practice at least. And I could count now…just…concentrate…
She started the piece again, indicating for us to begin where we had left off. I had my four measures of rest…easy enough…then – oh God… My solo solo. Two measures of sixteenth notes that were over before I could ever tongue the first note. Oh no…not these...not now. The measures leading up to them pushed me into a false state of security, hopping along happily. I could play this…1 2 3 4, 1 2 3 4. Deep breath…AAAAAHHHH! I only hit half the notes. The orchestra conductor shook her head, but refused to stop. I still had another chance. The measure repeated itself later on, a few steps up. The violins mimicked, flying along the sixteenth notes like hummingbirds to my buzzard. And it repeated. It didn't get better.
"Stop, stop!" The orchestra director waved her hands, and I sunk behind my stand. She knew how to make a person feel horrible. Especially us winds. "Oboe!" That was me…oh god…she sounded so…frustrated. Perhaps I could pretend I was the flute? "Oboe, you have got to get those runs down! It's been a week now. Haven't you practiced?" I have! I have! I screamed inside my head, but I couldn't talk back to her. The notes were so fast…and high...and awkward. You try them, I wanted to say. But didn't. "Here, listen to Sam play it. Do you think you could get it then?" I nodded, feeling the heat spread itself from my face and behind my eyes. I wouldn't cry. No. I wouldn't. Sam picked up her violin and played the two measures simply, as if they were quarter notes. Except they were quarter notes unfortunate enough to have eaten three bottles of hot sauce. There was no way I could play those…ever. I had practiced until I couldn't stand it any longer, just on the two runs. "Can you play them now?" I nodded again. "Work on them tonight" Another nod. "Now, go back to the practice rooms and count yourself into a frenzy" I hated those words. She always said them. This time, though, they were just for me. For me. She turned, and her disappointed voice turned to one that wanted to get on with the practicing "French horn, you and the bass clarinet go back and work on your parts together, alright?" I gathered my case and music. The rest of the class washed over me, faces staring, then looking back to our director. The fires of hell were my face. I ran back to the practice room.
Music on stand…reed straight…deep breath…first note, embouchure, play! A tear fell. I couldn't play. More followed. I turned towards the wall, away from the music, away from anyone who might look through the door of the practice room. I couldn't play. I couldn't play. I can't play. I shouldn't be in this class. It doesn't make sense. Why couldn't I? I couldn't. Music had deserted me.
