But I'm seriously getting ahead of myself.
Let me tell you a little about my musical career. Third grade, recorders, with the stodgy, dry, frighteningly stuck in the 70s Mr. Older. My favorite time of triumph with the plastic, noisy little things was the second week of auditions for holiday band.
Let me rephrase that.
The second week of standing up in front of the class and playing "Jingle Bells" for the honor of playing it with the other slightly more musically advanced third graders in front of the disinterested student body at the Christmas (excuse me, Christmas/Hanuhkah/Kwanzaa/Ramadan/Yule/etc.) Concert. (Or maybe it was just known as the Winter Concert? Hmm...)
Well, it was the second week that really got me excited. See, the week before, the only competitors for holiday band were myself and Jenna. Jenna, the math wiz, the kickball queen. Of course she was better than me, and the class made it apparent. So, I practiced my little heart out, and she, being bothered with better things, didn't. So what happened? Yes, folks, little old me sounded GREAT next to the Almighty Jenna! I obviously made it into holiday band along with her and some other people, and it was a beautiful thing.
The next most important thing in my development was being assigned an instrument at the end of third grade. Mrs. Tessler, our music teacher, brought us each down to the music room individually and asked, "What instrument do you want to play?" At first, I wanted to play cymbals. (Yes, just cymbals.) I was entranced by the cymbal-player's effect during a performance of "Star-Spangled Banner". Later, my mother (a percussionist herself) warned that if I made a mistake, everyone would know about it. So, I decided to try the only other instrument that I knew the name of: the flute. My dad and I had practiced on a glass bottle for this very moment, but as Mrs. Tessler stuck that flute in my mouth, no tone, no sound, no nothing appeared from the end of the flute.
"Hm," she said, cleaning the mouthpiece. "Maybe clarinet?"
"Clari-who?" I thought. She jammed the thing into my mouth. I blew. A note! She ran her fingers up and down the keys, satisfied.
"You're our newest clarinet player," she said, writing this down next to my name.
"Whatever a clarinet is," I thought, leaving the band room.
A few weeks after the beginning of fourth grade, the instruments were in. Imagine more than half of the entire fourth grade sitting out there in the parking lot blowing into tubes they knew nothing about and understood less as they waited for the bus. The poor parents.
I can still remember the first time I played clarinet - well, by myself, anyway. My dad helped me try to figure out how to put the thing together (namely align those two little platform thingies that connect the two middle sections). Sounded innocent enough, except for the fact that I sat there for hours, trying to play the upside-down mouthpiece. The instrument seemed so long and my fingers felt so stretched that I was afraid of hurting myself.
Lessons with Mrs. Tessler were another thing. Ah, the good old days of lessons. I can still hear her - "You need THREE GOOD REEDS. Three Good Reeds at all time." I still follow the advice - no, Almighty Command - of T.G.R., even when going to competitions. In my class was Heather, Jeff, Maggie, and myself, and I was probably the worst, right along with Jeff.
Isn't it funny how he and I are the only bandies from those innocent days of lessons?
There was Intermediate Band, Advanced Band, and later a Beginner Band. (I don't get it either.) I was always in Intermediate Band...I never made it into Advanced Band, much to the dismay of my mother. I remember, sitting there, listening to a beautiful (well, at the time) song by the Advanced band entitled "Abington Ridge", and coming very close to tears on the realization that I could be up there, part of that beautiful music....*heavy sigh*
Let me tell you a little about my musical career. Third grade, recorders, with the stodgy, dry, frighteningly stuck in the 70s Mr. Older. My favorite time of triumph with the plastic, noisy little things was the second week of auditions for holiday band.
Let me rephrase that.
The second week of standing up in front of the class and playing "Jingle Bells" for the honor of playing it with the other slightly more musically advanced third graders in front of the disinterested student body at the Christmas (excuse me, Christmas/Hanuhkah/Kwanzaa/Ramadan/Yule/etc.) Concert. (Or maybe it was just known as the Winter Concert? Hmm...)
Well, it was the second week that really got me excited. See, the week before, the only competitors for holiday band were myself and Jenna. Jenna, the math wiz, the kickball queen. Of course she was better than me, and the class made it apparent. So, I practiced my little heart out, and she, being bothered with better things, didn't. So what happened? Yes, folks, little old me sounded GREAT next to the Almighty Jenna! I obviously made it into holiday band along with her and some other people, and it was a beautiful thing.
The next most important thing in my development was being assigned an instrument at the end of third grade. Mrs. Tessler, our music teacher, brought us each down to the music room individually and asked, "What instrument do you want to play?" At first, I wanted to play cymbals. (Yes, just cymbals.) I was entranced by the cymbal-player's effect during a performance of "Star-Spangled Banner". Later, my mother (a percussionist herself) warned that if I made a mistake, everyone would know about it. So, I decided to try the only other instrument that I knew the name of: the flute. My dad and I had practiced on a glass bottle for this very moment, but as Mrs. Tessler stuck that flute in my mouth, no tone, no sound, no nothing appeared from the end of the flute.
"Hm," she said, cleaning the mouthpiece. "Maybe clarinet?"
"Clari-who?" I thought. She jammed the thing into my mouth. I blew. A note! She ran her fingers up and down the keys, satisfied.
"You're our newest clarinet player," she said, writing this down next to my name.
"Whatever a clarinet is," I thought, leaving the band room.
A few weeks after the beginning of fourth grade, the instruments were in. Imagine more than half of the entire fourth grade sitting out there in the parking lot blowing into tubes they knew nothing about and understood less as they waited for the bus. The poor parents.
I can still remember the first time I played clarinet - well, by myself, anyway. My dad helped me try to figure out how to put the thing together (namely align those two little platform thingies that connect the two middle sections). Sounded innocent enough, except for the fact that I sat there for hours, trying to play the upside-down mouthpiece. The instrument seemed so long and my fingers felt so stretched that I was afraid of hurting myself.
Lessons with Mrs. Tessler were another thing. Ah, the good old days of lessons. I can still hear her - "You need THREE GOOD REEDS. Three Good Reeds at all time." I still follow the advice - no, Almighty Command - of T.G.R., even when going to competitions. In my class was Heather, Jeff, Maggie, and myself, and I was probably the worst, right along with Jeff.
Isn't it funny how he and I are the only bandies from those innocent days of lessons?
There was Intermediate Band, Advanced Band, and later a Beginner Band. (I don't get it either.) I was always in Intermediate Band...I never made it into Advanced Band, much to the dismay of my mother. I remember, sitting there, listening to a beautiful (well, at the time) song by the Advanced band entitled "Abington Ridge", and coming very close to tears on the realization that I could be up there, part of that beautiful music....*heavy sigh*