ten years

Ten years ago yesterday, I performed the Verdi Requiem for the first time, as an undergraduate.¹

It was a relatively small school, so they put every singer they could find on stage and still had to keep asking the brass to play more quietly... and then we put our Dean of Music (who was a percussionist) on the bass drum, and he hit that damned thing so hard during the Dies irae that I swore he was going to break the drum head. We were delighted. It was a good concert.

Ten years ago today, we lost one of our professors, when he was shot and killed on campus. He taught organ, music history, was one of the choral conductors, and probably did a few other things that are currently slipping my mind. It was, after all, a small school.

People who knew him better might be able to do him justice, but I probably cannot, so I won't really try. Suffice to say that he was highly respected and frighteningly competent in both academics and performance. He was one of the most knowledgeable people I knew (on both musical and non-musical matters), could play anything with a keyboard, and even today it is rare for me to hear anyone match his level of musicality.²

In fact, I accidentally received my first real lesson in musicality during his class on early music performance practice. We had each been asked to bring in a piece that was Baroque or earlier to perform for the class, with him sight-reading the accompaniment parts. I brought in some Marcello sonata or other. He had some good comments to make about appropriate phrasing and meter and such, but the real lesson came from listening to the way he played the accompaniment, noticing the style and character and articulation and how they were all different than mine. I wasn't doing anything wrong, strictly speaking, but his was more clearly right, and so I started trying to imitate him in my own part. The murmur of surprise from my classmates at that moment told me everything I needed to know.

Ten years ago today, the day before the last day of classes, he left class early so that we could fill out our teacher evaluation forms. Some of us lingered for a bit afterward, talking about how much we had appreciated that class, and about the extremely positive comments that we had all left on our evaluations. I went home to run some errands, came back to campus less than an hour later, and there was an ambulance and a fire truck parked there.

We played the Lux aeterna from the Requiem at the memorial service. Chosen, I presume, because it was an appropriate movement for the situation that also utilized as much of the orchestra as possible. For which I was grateful, because I for one have a much easier time facing the darkness with trombone in hand.

There are other memories from that time as well, but we won't dwell on them here. I'm aiming for thoughtful reflection, after all, not soul-crushing despair.

So today? Today, I am working on the Verdi Requiem again. In a few days, I will be performing it for the second time. Life works in funny ways sometimes.

This is not a date that I note with any regularity. Most years I forget unless someone else says something. But putting on the Verdi recording for the first time in years brought it to mind, along with the added surprise that it had, in fact, been an entire decade. I can still hardly believe it.

A lot has happened in that decade, much of it difficult, some of it near unbearable. But regardless, it is ten years later, and I am still here.

Tomorrow, it will be business as usual. One can only wallow in the past for so long, after all, and judging by my email inbox I have much bigger fish to fry.³

But today, at least for a moment, I will remember.

I owe that much.

1. Well, technically it was the second of two concerts, because we'd performed it the night before as well. Whatever. I'm having a moment here. Shut up.[↩]


2. The only thing he wasn't the best at? Instrumental conducting. Compared to his other feats it was almost endearing, if you weren't actually trying to follow him at the time.[↩]


3. There will probably be a post about this as well. Like, soon. Holy hell.[↩]

they may use the term "pro bono," but lawyers don't have to put up with this crap

So, a while back I put this up on Facebook: Should I Work For Free? And since then, I've been casually reexamining just how closely I follow that chart. And considering some of the implications.

Because, see, I've had to deal with quite a lot of incredulousness from various types when they find out that yes, actually, I am doing this for a living. And it seems to be getting worse lately. Before, I had merely chalked it up to the fact that "freelance musician" just seems like a poor career choice to people who actually value financial stability. Since those people are, in fact, correct about that, I had sort of shrugged it off.¹ But lately it seems like I've been getting that reaction from my own colleagues, and thus I must consider some things.

Namely? What sort of message I send when I agree to do something for no pay. Especially when it involves amateurs. Because golly, they just do this for fun, and why wouldn't you always agree to play for free? And I have this suspicion that hidden in there is also, "So if you really are a professional, why are you here doing this with us?" And to that, I have no real answer. "Networking" and "free publicity" were the reasons suggested to me in the past, but I'm starting to wonder if this sort of volunteer work is doing more harm than good.

I can keep telling people that I'm a professional, but if I continue to play in non-professional venues, will anyone believe me?

I was on stage last night.² And somewhere in between the sponsor recognition and various other announcements, they bring out this woman from public radio to come talk to the masses, and while she is extolling our virtues she mentions that "oh, you might not realize this, but most of the people on this stage have day jobs and lives, and are here volunteering their time for the sake of music..."³ And I was all, "Um. Excuse me." Only the second trombonist heard me, because I successfully stifled the urge to stand up and say, "Hey! Quit telling all these people that we don't need to be paid for what we do!" I know she didn't mean it that way, but that was basically what she was saying. "You hear all this music? It's being donated to you, because these people don't care about the money." You know, except for those of us who kind of need the money for things like rent and food. But never mind those people.

This, by the way, was hot on the heels of a survey that had been passed out to all of the rostered players in the orchestra at an earlier rehearsal. The theme of said survey was basically, "How much do you care about what we pay you?" and some of the options were, frankly, a little insulting.

"How do you feel about your compensation for playing in this group?" And among the choices were "Too much... I'm not worthy!"⁴ "How much do you think you should be paid for a recording?" and one of the options is $0. And one question where they wanted to know if I considered myself a professional or an amateur.

I usually don't do surveys, but I did fill this one out and turn it in. Because frankly? I'm worried that some of these questions are even being asked. Yes, my compensation does play a huge role in deciding whether or not to keep playing with you people. Yes, I do think I should be paid for doing a recording, although I'll admit I don't know how much yet because I lack experience in that area. And yes, I am a God damned professional.

Now, I know this group is going through a bit of an identity crisis, and is currently experiencing the usual growing pains associated with the transition from a community group to a professional/semi-pro orchestra. The cynical side of me says that the majority of said growing pains come from wanting to be paid like a professional but not wanting to have to practice like one, but that might not be entirely fair. And I know that it gets even more complicated then that, because of some highly politicized regional aspects that other groups don't necessarily have. If nothing else, I have gotten quite the education on orchestra politics since I started playing with this group.

Also, it doesn't help that I wasn't entirely happy with how I played at this particular concert. It was okay, it wasn't horrible, but it also wasn't great,⁵ and all of the "are you sure you're a professional musician" vibes just left me feeling even more insecure about the whole thing. Like now I suddenly have to defend my position.

No, this isn't why I don't get called for more gigs. But it might be why anyone would think it was okay to offer me a Christmas gig for $30 a service⁶ and instead of apologizing for the low pay include the phrase, "You need to be able to read well." No, I didn't take the gig. And on the one hand, this was clearly the right thing to do, because I don't want people believing that this kind of pay is okay, and on the other, I only had one Christmas gig this year, and nothing at all on Christmas Eve. And nothing for the month of January as well, I might add, but that's beside the point. I don't know what the point is. Principle? Ethics? Outrage? All of the above?

And on the other end of the spectrum, I play in a klezmer band for fun. It's my hobby group, because while there are legends of paid gigs, none have yet surfaced. And I keep doing it, both because it is fun and because no one there takes me for granted. I made it clear that paid gigs would always have to take priority, and they're fine with that. And they put up with the occasional smartass comment when someone says, "We're totally being treated like professionals!" and I respond with, "Except for the getting paid part."

It's hard to get past the crippling lack of self-esteem and extreme critical opinion of my own playing and say, "I deserve to be paid well for what I do." It's hard, and being bombarded on all sides about it doesn't help. I keep making myself do it, though... not just for my sake (although I do enjoy paying rent) but for the sake of my colleagues. Because even when I am having doubts about my own worth⁷ I cannot sell out my fellow musicians.

I just kind of wish they'd stop trying to do it to me.

1. No, I love living off of beans and rice and defaulting on student loans. It's totally awesome.[↩]


2. Symphonie Fantastique again. My oldest friend, but it's a very abusive relationship. Stupid 4th movement excerpt...[↩]


3. I can't remember what it was verbatim, but that was the gist of it.[↩]


4. That right there? That is verbatim. My hand to God.[↩]


5. I wasn't ecstatic, but neither was I putting a gun in my mouth. It'll do, I guess.[↩]


6. Less, actually, because he was offering 4 services' pay for what was clearly 5 or 6 services.[↩]


7. Okay, yes. This is all the time. Shut up.[↩]

"did you know that we live in a beautiful place?"

We were almost in the clouds. The sky had hurled itself against the mountains like a sea attacking a stony headland, and spent its cold energy in half an hour. The clouds were dissolving, yet the sky did not get any brighter, because the sun was going down. But Orolo with his cosmographer's eye had noted on the flank of a mountain a stretched patch that was brighter than the rest. When I first saw what he was pointing at, I guessed that hail had silvered the boughs of trees in some high vale. But as we watched, the color of it warmed. It broadened, brightened, and crept up the mountainside, setting fire to individual trees that had changed color early. It was a ray coming through a gap in the weather far to the west, levering up as the sun sank.

"That is the kind of beauty I was trying to get you to see," Orolo told me. "Nothing is more important than that you see and love the beauty that is right in front of you, or else you will have no defense against the ugliness that will hem you in and come at you in so many ways."

From Fraa Orolo, of all people, this was an astonishingly poetic and sentimental remark. I was so startled that it didn't occur to me to wonder what Orolo was referring to when he spoke of the ugliness.

At least my eyes were open, though, to what he wanted me to see. The light on the mountain became rich in hues of crimson, gold, peach, and salmon. Over the course of a few seconds it washed the walls and towers of the Millenarian math with a glow that if I were a Deolater I'd have called holy and pointed to as proof that there must be a god.

"Beauty pierces through like that ray through the clouds," Orolo continued. "Your eye is drawn to where it touches something that is capable of reflecting it. But your mind knows that the light does not originate from the mountains and the towers. Your mind knows that something is shining in from another world. Don't listen to those who say it's in the eye of the beholder."


from Anathem by Neil Stephenson

I don't really have anything to say right now... at least, nothing that ought to be said in public. So, I'm just going to leave this here.

go ahead, laugh at my folly

So I'm getting ready to take a lesson for the first time in forever. Allegedly I am, anyway. I've been saying it for a while, so it remains to be seen whether or not I actually manage to follow through. It's partly for help (that I desperately need), and partly a "please listen to me play and then call me for gigs" sort of setup. So, I kind of need to sound good. Kind of a lot.

So I'm prepping a list of excerpts to bring with me. It's not dissimilar to an audition, except that I get to choose the repertoire and the time. So what am I working on?

Tuba Mirum, Hungarian March, Bolero, Ride (all three excerpts), Rhenish, Ein Heldenleben, Mahler 3 (all three solos) and Organ Symphony (both excerpts). You know, the standards. And then I started thinking that maybe there should be a solo in there as well...

I don't know for sure, but I am starting to develop the slightest suspicion that I might be overreaching a bit. And by "overreaching" I actually mean "setting myself up for horrific miserable failure."

On the other hand, they're all standard repertoire, I've been practicing them for years (and years and years), and I should be able to play them all by now. And if I can't, then I don't have any business taking auditions until I can. Or doing much of anything else until I can. I certainly don't have any business seeking out gigs with professionals.

You know, maybe the lesson can wait a bit. Just until I figure out how to play the trombone, anyway.

this is going to get me in trouble, isn't it?

So, I've been struggling lately. Part of it was a sort of mental exhaustion after that most recent audition, and part of it stems from a sort of general discontent with the music world in general. I hadn't quite put my finger on it until a fairly recent concert.

This particular concert... yes, the technical aspects were lacking here and there,¹ but it was the first time in a long time that I actually felt like I was making music, with other people that cared. It moved, and was moving, and it brought me back, at least for a little while. I needed it, badly. I needed to know that I'm not a freak for feeling the way I do about what I do. It's hard for me to even talk about, because it makes me feel like there's something wrong with me for caring so much.²

It won't last, of course. I know better. I'll coast on it for a while, but eventually I'll be back where I started. It did, however, inspire me to dig up and finish the following sentiment.

...

So. Guys. Listen.

We can tell when you don't care.

True, not everyone in the audience can tell. I've seen many a lacklustre performance greeted with a gratuitous standing ovation.³ You can make the average audience pretty happy without really trying.

The rest of us, though? Your critics, your colleagues, your students? The people that actually know enough about music to tell good from bad? We can tell. Oh, boy, can we tell.

Every time I sit in the audience for that sort of performance, it makes it harder and harder for me to go to another concert. There are few things more depressing than listening to a group of musicians who have clearly given up; who have decided that they are fine and comfortable where they are and that they don't really need to keep reaching anymore.

It's not about the technical aspects, although those can be frustrating to listen to as well. There are less technically-accurate musicians that I would rather hear and that I would rather play with, just because I can clearly tell that they still enjoy what they are doing. Yes, the other flaws still kind of burn like fire, but at least I don't leave their concerts feeling depressed about my chosen career.⁴

Is this what's in store for me? Will I someday be doomed to this tepid musician's purgatory, only to make music with people who are willing to settle for "good enough"? How does that even happen, anyway? I thought we went into this field because it was what we loved, because it certainly wasn't for the money. When did being a part of the arts become so... complacent?

I mean, not caring isn't a crime. I'm not suggesting that everyone needs to care as much as I do, because I am well aware that it is not entirely healthy. You can't force yourself to be passionate about something. I understand, I really do. I know about bitterness and disillusionment as well.⁵ I just think you should be aware that there are a hundred or so musicians queueing up behind your chair, waiting for their chance, and some of them do care. Quite a bit.

And you're right, the audience can't tell past a certain point, which is why after that point we aren't really playing for the audience anymore. We're playing for each other. Not because the people who bought the tickets can tell the difference,⁶ but because we can, and because the music deserves it, and because it brings us joy. I mean, why are you doing this, if you don't enjoy it? Why would anyone do this to themselves if they didn't enjoy it? It's fucking hard, after all, and very rarely lucrative.

And if you are one of the few who have a job that most of us are still desperately hoping to achieve? And if you're bored with it? Fuck you. Go do something else then, and stop poisoning the only thing that I love.

...

Okay, fine. You know what? Fuck it. I am taking my trombone and I am moving to Madagascar.⁷ I will spend the rest of my days living in the trees, playing Bach cello suites for the lemurs, and they will bring me food.

Because lemurs are awesome, that's why.⁸

1. and I had more than my fair share of those[↩]


2. Honestly? There probably is. We work with what we have, though.[↩]


3. The standing ovation means nothing these days. Nothing. I've kind of stopped doing them because of it.[↩]


4. Just... annoyed and slightly contemptuous? Look, I didn't say it was fantastic, just preferable. Which should tell you a lot.[↩]


5. It's what my reputation is based off of, after all.[↩]


6. Although. Is it that they can't tell, or only that they don't realize that they can? Because even when they don't know the difference, they do react differently.[↩]


7. And maybe my laptop as well, except I don't know how I'll find electricity. Or the Internet.[↩]


8. Okay, maybe I can't actually train them to bring me food. Maybe I don't care.[↩]

no clever footnotes today, sorry

I have a genuine rant in the works. I started it while I was still irritated, and then life happened, and now I'm too frayed to finish it. I will, though, if I can work up the steam again.

I am awfully tired right now. There are many reasons for this. One of the bigger ones is that I just got back from the most recent trombone audition. The unofficial count? 125 people. For a 40K job. No one that I talked to could really believe it. We had expected about half that many. Had a few conversations with a few people who are, like me, getting tired of the audition circuit. Many have been doing it longer; some have already burned out once only to come back later. Some have been more successful at it than I have (in other words, they actually advance) and still feel worn down. At any rate, it reminded me of something.

I have now talked to a large number of musicians who, for one reason or another, quit pursuing music for a while only to start up again later. Maybe they gave up and quit playing entirely, or almost quit, or injured themselves somehow... or got themselves committed, perhaps? Whatever wall they hit, the basic story seems to be the same.

For a while there was a running joke between some of us that the reason I hadn't won a job yet was because I hadn't gone through the necessary steps of putting the trombone down and then picking it back up. Like it's a rite of passage, I suppose. Not everyone does it, obviously, but I was surprised at how prevalent it is. And for the most part, I have more in common with those who have than with those who haven't.

Then, of course, there are those who don't go back.

No, I'm not planning to quit playing the trombone. That particular path simply isn't an option to me, and in any case that's not how this game will play out.

I'm trying not to think about the other options, though. No matter how close some of them might currently appear.

...did I mention how tired I am right now?

i would be even more bitter, but i'm too distant and preoccupied right now

The other blog is... well. Apparently we got spammed? We'll deal with it later. Not high priority these days.

So. Had a concert tonight. We did Symphonie fantastique... well, the last two movements.¹ I am a little bitter about the excerpt in the fourth movement, but I'll get over it.² I suspect it gave the fifth movement a slightly angrier edge.

It's a shame, because I really like Symphonie fantastique. I've been listening to it since high school, when my French teacher introduced me to it. She loved Berlioz and hated Wagner, which always amused me. Since then I have attempted to play it with orchestra twice,³ written a few papers on and around it, and have had to work up the major excerpts for a few auditions. I don't even bother counting the rests in rehearsal. I don't need to.

This particular performance was... interesting. All through the rehearsals I thought for sure I was playing ungodly loud... and yet, every time the brass would attempt to back off on the volume, the conductor would start taunting us. It was not the orchestral experience that I am accustomed to. I'm not complaining, exactly, just perplexed.⁴ And, of course, there were some interesting moments, as there always are. Some of them were surely mine.

All in all, it was okay. I got another stab at one of my favorite pieces, made some money, and advanced my education in orchestra politics a bit.⁵ The best part, however, was afterward. I was down in the dressing room, putting away my trombone, and I turned around to find that a large plastic bucket full of beer and ice had magically appeared behind me.

Needless to say, I lingered a bit. After all, I had to soften the sting from the fourth movement somehow.

1. You know. The good movements.[↩]


2. Why I can play the excerpt by myself, but sound like hell when you put me with an orchestra, I do not know.[↩]


3. The first time was with a youth symphony. I wasn't actually capable of playing the part. I don't know that it counts.[↩]


4. I backed off once we were in the hall, because brass tends to be harsher there, and received no comment either way. People assured me that I was not sticking out like a sore thumb, but I still have a hard time believing it.[↩]


5. No, I will not elucidate on this.[↩]