"Pause Button" follow up

These last couple of weeks I've been running myself ragged. Too much to do, not enough time to prepare... I don't mind being busy, but that feeling of not doing things well (or just barely throwing them together) really eats at me. Finally, I had a couple of days that made it all worthwhile:

Cultural Exchange With Foreign Students:

Some months ago I was contacted by a representative from a language program who was hosting a small group of students from a school in Europe who wanted to do some kind of a mixer with American students. We arranged to do a joint musical recital. This was supposed to be an informal thing, but I stressed out about it anyway because my mind kept flashing back to this time (years ago) when a traveling student jazz group from Poland came to perform, and they were kind of insulted when only a handful of our music students showed up to watch (apparently, a couple other schools arranged for the entire student body to pack into the gymnasium to watch them.) In the end though, the recital came off nicely, and all the participants had a wonderful time getting to know each other. The principal from the other school even presented me with a box of chocolate and a bottle of wine.

Joint Rehearsal with Youth Orchestra:

Again, some months ago the director of the youth orchestra that I work for on Saturdays and I decided it would be a good idea to do a joint performance with the top orchestra and the advanced choir at my school. It wouldn't be the first time we put the two groups together. The piece I ended up selecting was one of the Masses by Haydn.

At first it seemed like it would be just another joint project, but the mass turned out to be heavier than I had anticipated. It was in a bad key for the student instrumentalists, and the choral parts included heavy solo parts. There was also a problem with preparation: The orchestra only meets once a week, and the choir was distracted by multiple projects. Iwas beginning to fear that we wouldn't have enough time to bring it together. The other detail that I hadn't looked at too carefully was the concert date: it would be the first Sunday of Spring Break for my school. Ugh.

It was too late to change our minds, both sides had already dumped a ton of money into the sheet music, and the concert arrangements had been put into place.

But yesterday we had our one and only rehearsal with both groups combined and it was.... wonderful. The choir people spent a lot of time outside of class learning the parts, and the orchestra kids whipped it into shape as well. They were ready for each other. It was awesome.

I love big combined choral and instrumental works... they make me feel like a real conductor!


School Fund-raiser:

The only thing that stresses me out about doing jazz combo gigs is the effort I have to put into recruiting kids out of the jazz band... especially on a Saturday night. We made it work, though. Here's the exchange that made it all worthwhile.

(We had finished playing for the fund-raiser attendees, and was invited to have some food by the hosts. We were standing around with little party plates when the bass player spoke up)

Bass Player: Hey, is that Palpatine's husband?

Me: I don't know, I've never seen him.

Bass Player: Well, when I passed him in the food line I thought his name tag said "Palpatine" on it.

Me: Let me check (I nonchalantly mosey over to where the gentleman is sititng and glance at his name tag)

Me: Nope... it's a different name. Close spelling, but not quite. Besides, If she were here, I'd know.

Piano Player: Maybe... it's kind of crowded.

Me: I would sense a disturbance in the Force.

Trombone Player: ...you mean as if millions of voices cried out in terror and were then suddenly silenced?

(This is the part where I spit mushroom pasta back onto my plate)


Yeah.... good times.....

Llama of the week

The knife may be a little intense. I'm thinking of changing it to a club or a bat or something (ooohhh a hammer?)

Ye Olde Teaching Strategies

It's funny how some of my strategies came not from my methods classes, but from my music history classes.















A long time ago, a dear old music professor made me memorize the origins of instrumental music in the Renaissance period:

* Dance music
* Technical exercises
* Choral preludes
* Transcribed vocal music

At the time I thought I was just applying that bit of knowledge to the test that he was giving that week. Lo-and-behold... I still remember it to this day, and whats more it's gotten me out of a bind more than once.

So what do you do when you have eight wind players enrolled in band... and you know for a fact that no one has written music for that particular instrumentation?

Simple... you do what Gabrielli did and just re-write some vocal music music for whatever instruments you have, and... Voila! Madrigal-turned-instrumental-octet!

How about when your metronome runs out of batteries and you don't want to use something as invasive as a cowbell to keep time? You do what Lully did and use a long stick to pound out the beat on the ground. *

Ah... Dr. Moorefiled... wherever you are in heaven. I hope you're looking down and smiling. I may have looked like I wasn't paying attention, but apparently, I was.

* The trick is to not follow Lully's example entirely and stab yourself in the foot with your cane. He suffered an injury and later died from gangrene after he refused to have his toe amputated.

Llama of the week

Where's The "Pause" Button?

Here I thought March would be fairly smooth. Turns out I have one thing stressing me out after another. It doesn't help that I'm a chronic procrastinator. It also doesn't help that I have a fairly limited attention span (Adult ADD, I'm sure of it). That means I can't keep a general grasp of everything I'm supposed to do, I can only focus on one thing at a time. So then I have nights like last night, I'm trying to sleep and my brain is racing through all the stuff I have to do before the end of the month... and just when I've let go of something, another thing pops up... and another.

I love my job, but there are times I wish I were a low-level peon in a cubicle somewhere. No thinking, just being told what to do. I know, everyone has days like that.

This year in particular I've been having a hard time getting things done. My student officers are helpful enough, and not a day goes by where they don't ask me: "What can I do to help?" And honestly, most of the time the answer comes back "Oh nothing... it's all stuff I have to do."

But is that true? Maybe I just have trust issues. Maybe I just don't know how to delegate. It's the strangest thing... I have students and parents standing by waiting for me to give the word, and it's almost like I'm afraid to give the word.

In any case... I'll get the stuff done... I always do. I'm just longing for a few days where I don't have to worry about something. Probably won't happen until Summer.

Who was that (un) masked man?

So tonight we had a big combined district music event. It involved (theoretically) all of the music students from all the schools: elementary through high school. It was a big glorious mess... but one that seemed to come off well enough to impress the school board members.

Maybe tomorrow I'll blog about the logistical behemoth this endeavor turned out to be... but tonight I have just enough time to tell you the funniest thing that happened:

First of all, we had all of the music teachers in the district under one roof. Some of these people I see only once or twice a year.... a few I haven't seen since last year's uber-concert extravaganza. Keep in mind, this year I've lost weight, gotten rid of my glasses and (recently) had my hair cut to a drastically short length.

I was standing around waiting for my turn to conduct, when I had this exchange with one of the elementary teachers:

Karl: I haven't seen you around before, are you guest conducting?

Me: Heh... I've been getting that a lot, especially with this haircut.

Karl: Um... are you from one of the colleges?

Me: Sorry?

Karl: ..................

Me: Karl..... do you not recognize me?

(Karl turns red and doubles over.)

I feel bad telling this story, especially since later I told Susan and didn't know karl was standing behind me. I don't mean it in a "Hey, can you believe how stupid Karl is?" way... more of a "I can't believe how different I look to people now." I should e-mail him tomorrow.

You know... it just occurred to me that with all the changes to my appearance, people might think I'm having a mid-life crisis.

Meanwhile, in the teacher's lounge.....

Daniel: Happy St. Patty's Day!

Me: Thank you same to..... OW! HEY!

Daniel: .... no green....

Me: What?!? Are you blind? This shirt is totally green!

Daniel: ....mmmm.... it's more of an olive.

Me: You art people can be a real pain in the ass, ya know?

Letting Go

Some time ago, my apartment complex decided to install washers and dryers in all the units. As much as this came as a welcomed addition, it also meant that we (the tenants) had to clean out our outdoor patio storage closets. Thus 10 boxes of comic books found their way into the interior of our apartment, where they became permanent fixtures in our dining room*.

This weekend, my wife and I got tired of looking at the stacks of boxes and did some major reorganizing of our remaining storage space. We found loads of stuff in our interior closets that we decided we didn't need, and made continuous trips out to the nearest dumpster until we managed to make enough room to hide the comic book boxes behind closed doors. The expendable items included the four large framed photos of the band from the school where I was formerly employed.

Flash back to 1994... I'm a snot-nosed 24-year-old getting ready for my first teaching job. I was hired in October to replace a guy who had spontaneously decided to switch schools. I went in to shadow the out-going band teacher (lets call him Darryl) for a week. I don't need to tell you how incredibly scared I was. It didn't help that the students could instantly see the fear radiating from my being. Had it been the current-day me that was following this guy around, I would have been shocked and disgusted at the lame-duck attitude that he had adopted**. At the time, I was too busy trying to figure out how I would be able to manage all of that chaos in the following week.

On the Thursday before he left for good, Darryl finally cleaned out his (well... my) office. He removed the large framed band photos from the wall and put them in a box.

"Uh... don't those belong to the school?" I said.

"Those are mine," he said... not rudely, but definitely in a way that made it clear that he didn't care if I objected . "You'll get your own soon enough."

Four years later, I found myself cleaning out the very same office, and when I looked at the four band pictures hanging on the wall, I realized what Darryl meant. The pictures were the mementos of an era that was closing... The years of Mr. Maestro... There was no reason for them to remain. The guy who was replacing me would probably take them down anyway. I pulled them off the wall and put them in my car. In hindsight I realized that taking them was my way of handling the feeling that I was abandoning the students there.***

Today, as I was cleaning out the coat closet in my apartment, I found them. I had forgotten that they were there. It occurred to me that I was keeping them out of loyalty to a bunch of students who had long since graduated and found their own paths in life. College... jobs... marriages... kids.... I realized that even if I found a bigger place to live (a house... oh please God...) The chance of them being hung again were slim to none (probably none). They weren't honoring anyone by sitting in the back of a closet.

I picked them up and walked out to the dumpster. It felt like every eye in those photos watched me as I piled them on top of the other stuff that I had hauled down earlier. I took one last look, drew in a deep breath.... and walked away.

That was an hour ago. I'm trying to decide how guilty I should feel.**** Maybe I just don't want to be a Darryl. But the way I figure it... no one, including the current band director (who replaced the guy who replaced me) and the students whose faces sternly gaze out from behind the glass of those frames, would want those pictures. Besides, it's not like I'm trying to forget my time there.

It's okay. I'm going to let it be okay.


* I use the term "dining room" loosely. It's not a room in and of itself; it's more of a patch of carpet in between the kitchen and the wall that boasts obvious spot for a table. Also, we stopped eating there years ago. We have since pushed the "dining" table against the wall and use it as a makeshift desk. Point being: there's not a lot of room.

** At the same time, that's the kind of guy Darryl is. I heard that in less than a decade, he quit teaching band altogether. It's too much work.

*** Which makes me wonder why Darryl took his photos. It was pretty clear he wasn't torn about leaving that school. He couldn't get out the door fast enough.

**** Or if I should feel guilty about not feeling guilty.

Meanwhile, in the teacher's lounge.....

Daniel: Hey there *MAESTRO*, is that a new haircut you're sporting?

Me: Why.... yes, yes it is...

Daniel: It's very nice.

Me: Thank you.

Daniel: You're a very handsome man.... Of course, I mean that in a very non-prison way.

Llama of the Week

Sometimes all the llama jokes in the world...

....won't help a kid in extreme distress.

Today in youth orchestra, I was taking the podium (Robert had just finished rehearsing the kids for about 45 minutes) when I realized that I didn't have my score with me. Robert and I were walking around looking for it when we heard a loud "POP" from across the room. When we looked up, little Petunia wasn't sitting in her chair, but was kneeling on the floor. With all the bodies, stands and chairs in the way, we couldn't quite see, but we knew that she had just dropped her violin... hard.

She looked up at us, terrified... and at that moment, I knew it wasn't good. Robert rushed over to her and started surveying the damage. I quickly resumed my search for the lost score; I knew I needed to get the rehearsal back on track quickly. Petunia ended up a sobbing pile of panic in her chair while Dr. Robert was trying to tell her that the damage, while serious, wasn't difficult to fix (the neck had snapped completely off the body). The rest of the orchestra just sat quietly and stared. here was the heartbreaking moment... when she looked at Robert with watery eyes and asked "Could you tell my Dad when he shows up?"

Now, I don't know this family... I don't know if Dad is the loud yelling type (or worse). Even so, it didn't take much to sympathize with this kid. Susan (one of the other staff members) and I ran and rustled up a loaner violin for her to use for the rest of the rehearsal, I found my score (finally) and we were back in business.

But every time I looked down at little Petunia, I could see that she could hardly concentrate on playing. She kept looking over at the door, terrified of the moment that her father would return to collect her at the end of the rehearsal. Finally he did arrive, and I saw Robert pull him aside and talk with him. When we finally dismissed the kids, dad came in the room and made straight for Petunia's violin case. I couldn't read him very clearly... he certainly wasn't happy, but he wasn't yelling either. Susan went over to him and offered the use of the loaner violin while Petunia's went in for repair. They took both violins and left.

I'm sure she's okay. I don't think she got roasted for the damage. But I tell you, never have I seen a more terrified kid... and man, what I wouldn't have done to save her even a little from the panic that she was going through. I remember once when I was a kid I broke something that belonged to my Dad, and I can tell you the hours waiting for him to come home from work were the longest of my life.

Poor kid.

Adventures in Private Lessons

Me: "Okay, that didn't work... try starting.... there...."

Kid: "Where?"

Me: "..... there......"

Kid: "I don't know where you're talking about."

Me: "That's because when I point at the music, you should be looking at my hand and taking notice of what I'm pointing at"

Kid: "Why didn't you say so?"

Llama of the Week

Memoirs of a Young Clarinetist

Today, the mother of one of the kids in the youth orchestra shared with me an essay that her daughter wrote for her class. It was about me. It's interesting to see how a kid will alter the actual events in the interest of creative re-telling. I'm not complaining about this... I do it myself. Honestly, I like this kid's sense of narrative. I think she's got a future as a sit-com writer. Anyway, I thought I'd share it with you. You'll see my interjections in green.

Heather Simms (Name changed to protect the guilty)

7 December, 2007 (A date that will live in infamy)

I will never forget my first attempt at being in an orchestra. It was my first non-beginner experience and required a try-out. ("try-out" heh... try-outs are for sports. Auditions are for music groups. She's a cute kid. We'll let it slide.)

I've always played in band where everyone is screaming, goofing off and annoying the director. (and this is different from my school because......) In orchestra it's a whole other ball of wax. Most kids are afraid to blow a note without a signed sheet from the director.

In order to get in, I had to try out. (Aud.... oh bugger it all) I chose The Battle Hymn of the Republic to play and labored over it day and night. On the day of the audition, a tall, plump man with dark thinning hair and a Yoda on his shirt led me into a small eight by five foot room. (Okay, first of all, I don't own a Yoda shirt. Besides, it's highly unlikely I wore a T-Shirt at all on audition day; I'd want to look professional seeing as how the kids dress up when they audition. I think Miss Heather just wants to remember me as she knows me... as the guy who would wear a Yoda shirt, and in that she is correct. The words "plump" and "thinning" are distressing, but not unfair, unfortunately.) As I began to play I could feel the sweat trickling down my forehead and my fingers were shanking. I knew I was making a lot of mistakes but I just kept playing (Good Girl). Next the man gave me a piece of music I had never played and told me to play it,and then asked me to play a C major scale. (I'm a rat-bastard that way)

My mother received a phone call the next day. The orchestra had called to let me know I had made it in. My mom began screaming and jumping around like a mad woman. (Given the creative account of her first impression of me... I'm going to take this one with a grain of salt. It's a good visual image, though) When she finally got a hold of herself we discussed rehearsal and concert dates and times.

Finally the big day arrived. I walked into a room full of musicians older than me. I was the only Caucasian woodwind, the only female clarinetist and did I mention the youngest. I was the minority. (the token gringo baby chick) Everyone was sitting still as if they were statues. I walked over to the music stand with my name on it and took a seat. (I don't know about you, but as I'm trying to imagine this from her perspective, I'm seeing the stand and chair about three times bigger than they really are.) There were five pieces of classical orchestra music on the stand that were all very difficult and had notes that I didn't even know existed (Scientists had only recently discovered them in a tomb in Egypt.)


After sitting scared with no one to talk with or calm down or ease my nerves, in walks the tall plump man with dark thinning hair (phhhht) from my audition. Yikes! HE is the orchestra director. (DUM DUM DUUUUUUUUUUUUM)

"You, blonde in the back row" says the director.

"Me?" I ask sheepishly.

"Well, I can't call you blonde in the back row forever," says the director.

"I'm Heather," I Said

"Let me hear your concert A, OH! And I'm Mr. *MAESTRO*," he responds.

(Okay, I'm pretty sure this exchange didn't happen. Ms. Heather forgets that we put signs with the student's names on the stands facing the podium... which is the only way I'll remember these kids who I see only one day a week. But still, it's a good scene, and I like how I come across like Darth Vader in the beginning.)

By the end of practice my lips were sore, my tongue felt as though it was vibrating and my fingers seemed permanently curved as if holding my clarinet. When we got home, near lunchtime, my little brother and Dad had just started breakfast. (My kind of family) They asked where I had been and I explained every last detail to them.

It ends up I love orchestra practice with Mr *MAESTRO*'s sense of humor. The comical way of using the In-and-Out menu to explain timing and measure counting (...long story...) and he always has a funny nickname for every classic we play. (that's really Robert, the program director, with whom I share conducting responsibilities, but... whatever) Best of all I am no longer afraid to play in front of other people and now am a featured woodwind ind the Wind Ensemble. (Aww.... bring me the Kleen-ex)


Orchestra has helped my confidence in front of others. Oh, and Mr. *MAESTRO* is a great director even with his freakish obsession with Star Wars (I have no idea what she's talking about) and evil llamas . (Okay, she has me there) I have also learned not to judge a man by the Yoda on his shirt.

(I don't care that it isn't true... that is the best closing statement of any essay ever written. Ever!)

Ends & Odds

Just Can't Win

So here I think I've improved my appearance by getting rid of my glasses.... too bad I'm sporting one of the worst haircuts I've ever had in my life.

Always Two There Are... A Master And An Apprentice

So, you haven't heard about Weasel in a while. That's because he's taken back to kissing up to me again. Funny. Well, apparently Weasel needs community service, so he asked if I'd let him volunteer for my after school elementary music program. I fugured, how much damage could he do?

Today he was sitting behind the clarinet players. He was supposed to help them with their fingerings. While I was distracted by the trumpet player, he engaged one of the 5th graders about what high school is like. I caught the tail end of that exchange:

Kid: So... high school is like... really hard?

Weasel: Yeah, well. If you take a lot of AP classes it is. And you want to take as many AP classes as you can. It's the only way you'll get into college.

Kid: Whats an AP class?

Weasel: College classes at the high school level. Only really smart people are allowed to take them.

Kid: How do I get into them?

Weasel: Just work really hard. Oh, and theres these tests you have to take every year. You have to do really well on them. It's the most important thing.

Man.... does Palpatine own this kid. Not only did he drink the Kool-Aid, he's stirring up batches for everyone else!

Holy Fumigations, Batman!

Today, a kid handed me his saxophone because it wasn't working. I was looking it over and trying to figure out which key it was that was sticking when suddenly I was hit by the strongest, nastiest smell I'd encountered in quite some time. It was like... a diaper that had been sitting in a trash bag for a month (I really have no reference, but its the only thing my imagination could come up with.) I thought for a second that it was coming from the horn. I looked down the bell to see if there was something growing in the bow. I also sniffed along the keys to see if it was maybe coming from the pads.

Then I realized it was coming from the kid.

.... yeah.....

Llama of the Week