roboflutist

Perlman Steps Up

2008-10-25T00:20:00.000-07:00

I have a great idea! Why don't all of you who support California's Proposition 8 let me vote on your marriages.

Sixty or so years ago, my brother's marriage would have been illegal in California. How sad that bigotry continues to rear its ugly head in the Golden State, funded in large part by out-of-staters who wish to see their religious beliefs enshrined in the state constitution.

You know what? Your LDS, or, for that matter, Catholic or Evangelical Christian churches are under no legal obligation to marry anyone they don't want to--and you know this. Don't believe in gay marriage? Well, don't have one. Or perform one. But Unitarian, UCC, and many Episcopal churches, as well as Reform temples, can and do perform gay marriages because their religious beliefs support equal marriage rights. Why should your religious beliefs be the ones that dictate whether or not two consenting adults can affirm their love for and commitment to each other and enjoy the same rights that you have?

So, my deepest gratitude to Maestro Perlman for his powerful and heartfelt ad against Proposition 8. I hope this makes it to TV.

And I hope that others in our business, gay and straight, make their voices heard--and reach into their pocketbooks. If you have some cash to spare, please consider donating here.

Politics Makes Strange Bedfellows

2008-09-30T22:04:00.000-07:00

This is hilarious.

Unfortunately, I must refrain from sending it to the new woman in my life.

Why?

Because she's a....

Republican

My ability to sleep with the enemy (okay, she's smart, sweet, cute, and good in bed, so she's definitely not my enemy, but you get the point) is yet another example of the musician's ability to compartmentalize. When you have the kind of job where you have to walk on stage when you're sick, injured, grieving, heartbroken, stressed, or in pain, and not only play all those notes right but actually say something with them, being able to shut the door on stuff you can't afford to think about is crucial.

So she and I just don't talk politics. One of us will be upset on election day, and the other will have to at least attempt to be comforting---even when she'd rather be uncorking the champagne. And we'll just have to muddle through the weirdness together.

It'll be all right. After all, my ex and I voted the same way in every election, and look where it got us.

In Memoriam

2008-09-11T00:10:00.000-07:00

Stan Hall

Ruben Ornedo

September 11, 2001

Mi Vida Aburrida

2008-09-08T23:59:00.000-07:00

Or maybe it's only outwardly boring. I like to tell myself that the gift of ADD gives me a rich inner life.

I'm still going back and forth between flutes and headjoints---instrumentalists are always searching for the perfect set-up or the perfect instrument. I'm not sure one exists, unfortunately. Partaking of this flute buffet makes my practicing interesting, if nothing else: "Let's do the Mozart again, but this time let's put a light wall headjoint on the heavy wall body, or let's put a headjoint with this metal on a body of a different metal, and see what happens."

I literally played a major recital earlier this year where I didn't decide which flute to play until the morning of the concert.

Good thing I have the serenity of Buddha, right?

It's not that. Once an instrumentalist achieves a basic level of professional competence, she will have established a general sound, no matter which instrument goes to work with her that day. It's just that some days one flute feels more comfortable to play, or is in better adjustment, or the repertoire demands its unique qualities. Or, in my case, I had a freak lip injury that day and flute number one was the only one I could get a decent sound out of.

And even after all that chowing down at the flute smorgasbord, I'm still only eighty-five percent happy with my instruments. That means I will end up forking over more money for another headjoint for flute number two, which is still on the crude side but has lots of potential. Flute number one still gets to go out in public, if I'm doing repertoire that doesn't require a lot of low-register projection. Or have a lot of C sharps.

What else have I been up to?

Well, I've decided that it's time to have a personal life again. The "internets" (is it just me, or was Dubya especially drunk when he came up with that one?) are a fun place to cruise. And at times, it can feel a bit like "Survivor." You know--outwit, outplay, outlast. And I think right now I might be on the island with the female cyber-dating equivalent of Richard Hatch.

Let me 'splain.

Recently, I exchanged some emails with a woman who seemed intelligent, fun, and cute--although she's a little on the butch side for me. But I thought, "It might be fun to meet her to see if we have any chemistry; if not, maybe she'd become a friend." Like me, she has a high-stress, schedule-from-Hell profession, so it took us a while to work out a meeting time. But the scheduled meet-up never happened, because on the appointed day, she suddenly experienced a perfect storm of technological failure. Emails that mysteriously didn't get sent, dead I-phone batteries, and so on.

Riiiiiiiiiight.

So I'm thinking, "Either she's the token flake in a very unflaky profession, or she's, uh, truth-challenged. And I'm not sure which." So I gave her my phone number and waited to see if I'd hear from her or not.

[crickets chirping]

After a week and a half, she emailed again to say that she still wants to meet, but has lost my number. And it was all I could do to not reply, "So you struck out with all the other women you emailed, and you figured you'd come back to see if I'd still be interested."

And to tell the truth, I'm still kind of interested--but not enough to risk appearing too eager, too needy, or, God forbid, desperate. Because I'm not. I'd like to date, but I'm in no hurry to settle down--especially with someone who might be toxic. (Been there, done that.) Plus, the little pitchfork-wielding Iberian sitting on my shoulder keeps saying, "Mija, she has disrespected you by not calling you back immediately and groveling. Not only is she dead to you, but her children's children's children are dead to you, too." (Not that she has any kids, but you get the point.)

So I'm torn between doing the polite thing and contacting her to set up a time to meet, or letting her twist in the wind for a couple of days. Or even blocking her permanently. I don't even know this person, yet I almost feel as though she and I are sitting at the poker table, holding our cards very close to our vests while we take the measure of each other.

Outwit, outplay, outlast......

Put Another Candle on Her Birthday Cake...

2008-08-11T20:57:00.001-07:00

Oh, wait. She's dead.

Sigh.

Happy 89th to my crush from beyond the grave, the late, great violinist Ginette Neveu. I hope she's up in Heaven playing Walton, Barber, Rozsa, and Shostakovich--all those great concertos she didn't live to perform.

Like I've said, I usually don't look twice at women this, um, sturdy. Plus, having heard a recording of one of her radio interviews, I can attest to the fact that when Ginette opened her mouth to speak, a tool belt fell out. Let's face it--Mademoiselle Neveu was butch enough to make The Nadj look like Tinkerbelle in comparison.

No matter. Someday when I get to Heaven, I'm going to take her out for dinner.

And I'm going to hope real hard that she'll put out afterward.

Sanitized for My Protection

2008-07-13T23:44:00.000-07:00

"Long time, no see, Miz Parker"

"I'm handlin' it."

For those non-lesbians among you, that little exchange is from Desert Hearts. What a sweet, romantic movie. It has great music from the likes of Patsy Cline, Elvis, Jim Reeves, Kitty Wells, and Ella Fitzgerald, first-rate production design, and amazing performances from Patricia Charbonneau, Helen Shaver, and the late Audra Lindley---especially Audra, who flat-out walked away with every scene she was in. And, best of all, it boasts one of the hottest lesbian love scenes on film--sexy, intimate, tender, and intense.

And guess who accidentally left the DVD box for that sweet, romantic movie on her coffee table, and didn't notice it was there until after her teenaged student had gone home.

How unlike me. I'm usually so good at sanitizing my work space. I keep any items that might reveal my sexual orientation--or the fact that I even have one--out of my students' view. I hate having to closet myself when I'm wearing my teaching hat, but I have to protect my livelihood. But what's worse is that I suspect that the student I was teaching that day is gay, and just starting to come to terms with it. I don't know whether the kid noticed Desert Hearts on my coffee table or not, but, either way, it would probably mean a lot to her to know that that nice flute teacher who makes her laugh is a lesbian---a lesbian who is not dead, evil, drunk, dysfunctional, suicidal, or even merely touchy and humorless. With all the stereotypes (and, unfortunately, real-life bad examples) out there, it would be nice for the kid to see that she can grow up to lead a happy, productive life--even if she turns out to like girls instead of boys.

I sure as Hell could have used a role model or two when I was growing up. The world would be a much better place if gay and lesbian teachers could be open about who they are.

Let's Make A Deal!

2008-06-19T23:10:00.000-07:00

Or maybe not.

I was having a rare moment of self-assessment today. Rare because I'm a flutist, and our tendencies toward sociopathy are common knowledge. We don't self-assess. We simply tear through life--and all those who stand in the way of our landing that principal chair in the (per-service, 20-week season) Chamber Orchestra of the Frozen Tundra--like perky blond buzz saws. Except that buzz saws are usually a lot keener than most flutists.

So I decided to take a moment to assess my chances of success on the lesbian dating market. After much reflection, I realized that the devil will be handing out popsicles before I ever get laid again.

I'm a walking, talking, real-life lesbian deal-breaker. And not for the reasons one might think.

Is it because I'm not attractive, or not a nice person? No, I'm decent looking, I guess, in a quirky, slightly ethnic girl-next-door way. And my personality is relatively non-toxic.

Do I have any bad habits?

Not really. I don't smoke, and I'm not a big drinker. Other drugs? Nothing stronger than caffeine.

Am I a moocher?

No. I do just fine financially, thanks.

Any stalker exes?

Not that I know of.

So what's the problem?

I think the problem is that I don't fit in with the humorless, politically correct, please-respect-my-boundaries chip on the shoulder attitude often found in the greater lesbian culture. I've said it here before, and it's true.

I need wit and humor in my life, even if it's sometimes sarcastic, snarky, or even inappropriate. What I don't need is an angry glare, followed by, "What do you mean by that? You know, I've been meaning to tell you that your posts in the 'Nan Michiganwomyn' threads on DataLounge wound. Do you know that what you think is funny actually denigrates our community and plays into the hands of our oppressors?"

Please. Lighten. Up.

I need someone who understands that life is too short--and too much fun--to be pissed off all the time. That it's all right to laugh at ourselves on occasion.

Needle in a haystack, anyone?

Me So Teachy, Part 2

2008-06-07T00:27:00.000-07:00

So am I a nice music teacher, or a bitch on wheels?

I guess you could say I'm nice but demanding. The flute is a lot easier to play than the oboe, bassoon, french horn, or any stringed instrument, so it's right to expect us to have the technical stuff well under control. I'm insistent that my students build a solid, dependable command over the instrument so that technical issues don't inhibit expression and musicality. The notes have to be there, but always in service of the artistry. And I will liberally share with students everything I've learned--and am still learning--about playing the flute. My goal is for every one of them to be at least as good as I am---preferably better.

How to accomplish that?

Correct, focused, relaxed, repetitive practicing--often done in slow motion. Very Zen, and very effective. The ultimate goal is a relaxed, confident, joyful, powerful, and completely dependable mastery over the instrument, in support of a warm, intelligent, expressive, communicative musicality.

I ask this of every student, from the ten year-olds to the college students.

Do I get it?

Not as often as I'd like. So I frequently ask my students to record their practicing, so that I can make suggestions as to how they can work more effectively. Most of the time, a student's biggest issue is an aversion to truly practicing slowly enough to perfect a passage. And it's not just the little kids who balk at working this way. I have a college student who needs a lot of remedial help, and would benefit greatly by just slowing down and getting everything--air support, fingers, embouchure, articulation--coordinated. But the student doesn't see the value in slo-mo practicing, and seems insulted that I am insisting on it. Pissed off, even. So this person makes the same technical mistakes over and over. For hours at a time. The problem is, you can be as naturally musical as all get out, but if your fingers fail you, if your tone sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard, if you play out of tune, and if you can't count to save your life, Satan will be driving a Zamboni before you get anywhere as a flutist. There are just too many good ones out there who have put in the work that you seem unwilling to do.

And if you think you can lower your standards because you're not going to be a performer, but you're "just" going to teach instead? Don't look to me to help you build a studio. Sorry, but a musician has no right to teach an instrument that he can't play well. That's why I refuse to teach the piano, even to beginners. Teaching is a huge responsibility, not just a financial safety net. And if you don't do it right, the next teacher--or, worse, the chiropractor or the physical therapist-- has to spend way too much time cleaning up after you.

Sigh. You'd think that someone who's serious about their art would want a teacher who demands something of them, instead of allowing them to do the musical equivalent of throwing paint at the walls.

Viva la Voce

2008-05-31T00:41:00.000-07:00

Not.

Like a lot of performers, I'll find something to say to the audience during the program. I want to break down that invisible wall that sometimes lurks between a classical musician and his or her audience. Once concert-goers realize that I'm a normal person--albeit one with a weird job--they relax with me, and a good time is had by all.

So, I recently heard the recording of a concert I gave a few months ago. As always, I had found something profound to say to the audience. (Yes, I'm being sarcastic. Depth is not the issue here, rapport is. I'll make a comment about anything from baseball to what I had for lunch, if I think it will help the audience to loosen up and enjoy the program.) But I was alarmed to hear how noticeable that occasional--and supposedly slight--drawl I'd inherited from my dad has become. I guess I don't listen to myself talk enough, so the sheer down-home twanginess emanating from the same lips that were about to play a Bach sonata was a little jarring. Or even bizarre.

I worried that the incongruity of an elegantly-dressed woman speaking like a cross between Lady Bird Johnson and Ellie Mae Clampett might confuse the audience. Maybe they'd wonder if they were really going to get the Franck sonata, or if I was going to break into "Variations on a Theme by Willie Nelson" instead. So I thought to myself, "You know, I need to learn to speak in those well-modulated, plummy-vowelled tones favored by classical music deejays everywhere, instead of sounding like I took a wrong turn on the way to a tractor pull."

But then I came to my senses, and decided that instead of trying to lose that countrified drawl, I should surrender to it. Or even embrace it.

After all, how classy can a gal really be when she's dripping spit all over the floor?

Cinemania

2008-05-20T22:55:00.000-07:00

I'm a sucker for good film music. (If that makes me shallow, well, remember that I'm a flutist. We're not known for our profundity.) And from Korngold to Rozsa to Walton to Barber to Rouse to Liebermann to Assad, there's a whole body of twentieth and twenty-first century instrumental concerti that's so cinematic that you can practically smell the popcorn.

(Note to self: make sure that my next girlfriend doesn't have a jones for that frightening goo that passes as movie popcorn butter. I gained 20 pounds during my first year with Ms. Wrong from all of those slime-slathered kernels I shared with her at the movies. Note to future girlfriend: don't worry. I got wise to all of the calories I was ingesting and I lost the extra weight. And kept it off. Hope you'll like sharing the carrot sticks I'll be smuggling into the theater.)

Anyway, I was listening to the Walton viola concerto--the Primrose recording, natch--and loving its wickedly film noir idiom. There's a passage about five minutes into the first movement where you can just see Lizabeth Scott at the wheel of the getaway car, gunning the motor and ducking flying bullets as a wounded Van Heflin hops in--bleeding all over the cash he's just robbed from the bank.

On the flip side, I'll often pop in a DVD of a movie that has a great score--perhaps something by Steiner, Waxman, Rozsa, Rota, Goldsmith, or Yared--and just listen to the music. Forget the plot and the scenery--it's all about the score.

Great music is great music, wherever you find it.

(Edit: I can't believe I forgot Bernard Herrmann. Me of all people--the very woman who would kill for that classy gray suit Kim Novak wore in the film. My bad.)

M is for Machiavelli

2008-05-17T22:53:00.000-07:00

A university professor I knew aptly described the academic world as "A bunch of bright people together in one place trying to destroy each other."

Now, if your academic assignment is in the music department, you know that the part about "a bunch of bright people together in one place" doesn't necessarily apply. But, as anyone who's taught music in college can attest, the "trying to destroy each other" part of the quote is a perfect description of what goes on in our hallowed halls.

Machiavelli would be proud.

In my experience at least, college music faculties tend to be made up of performers, and the people who hate performers. The professors from the more academic disciplines--music history and music theory--rightly resent all those performance majors who can never manage to get their butts to class. Who wants to go through the Hell-maze of earning a doctorate, only to end up being dissed by some blond, eighteen year-old flutist who would rather spend six hours in a practice room playing etudes than one hour listening to your lecture about verismo?

So, when they get the occasional opportunity to screw with a grown-up colleague who has a solid resume as a performer, they're loaded for bear. Recently, a pianist friend of mine got shafted out of a full-time appointment, in favor of someone who would have great difficulty getting through a public recital of any length. And, of course, the hiring choice was made by a committee of faculty members who would each have---you guessed it---great difficulty getting through a public recital of any length.

Quelle surprise.

There's an upside to this, though. Often, a performer who's been turned down for a teaching position turns that disappointment into an opportunity to re-balance his or her life. We realize that as much as we love to teach our art, (and as much as we like steady money and paid health insurance), the balance can tip to the point where we're not spending enough time practicing our art.

Realizing that you now have time to actually play the instrument you've been teaching is hugely liberating---even if it means that, at least temporarily, you become a connoisseur of the dollar menu at Mickey D's.

Mi Vida Loca

2008-04-27T00:03:00.000-07:00

Not the Ricky Martin song---I'm talking about the Pam Tillis song:

If you're comin' with me you need nerves of steel,
'Cause I take corners on two wheels.
It's a never-ending circus ride,
Faint of heart need not apply.

Okay, so I don't take corners on two wheels anymore--my driving style has evolved over the years from borderline reckless to practically sedate. But the rest of the lyrics apply all too well to my work life. And probably to the work lives of most other freelance musicians. It's a hectic way to live, and, occasionally, that "never-ending circus ride" takes its toll on the quality of our work. Musicians who are tired and stressed from all of the running around from gig to gig seem to find all kinds of strange things to do onstage.

Like a colleague of mine who had a key-signature brain freeze in a soli passage--fortunately we were doubling the part, so her little mishap was less jarring than it would have been if she had done it in a solo.

Or another colleague who got lost in a section of a chamber work.

Or yours truly forgetting which way to walk offstage after taking a bow.

What's the common denominator?

Sheer exhaustion---to the point that, occasionally, something misfires in our brains at the worst possible moments.

Most of the time, we cover our little mishaps well enough so that the average concert-goer doesn't catch them. So, here's a little tip: the next time you attend a concert, watch the musicians closely for discreet eyerolls and barely-stifled grins. They're usually a dead give-away that someone has been naughty.

Felinicity

2008-04-05T23:02:00.000-07:00

My lesbian card just got punched.

No, I didn't have a hot date. (Still working on that--with the help of several straight women friends on a mission to find me a new girlfriend.)

So what did I do to up my lesbo-quotient?

I got a second cat.

Yep. The slippery slope from flying under-the-gaydar to pinging to high heaven starts with multiple cats. If not arrested, the descent will gather speed as it takes an inexorable downhill slide through massive weight gain, humorlessness, touchiness, separatism, mullets, cheap beer, and a complete loss of fashion sense until it drops me into some sorry-assed dive full of drunken middle-aged women jousting at each other with their pool cues.

I did not just say that.

Anyway, I'm gone a lot, and I've been thinking that Big Guy needed some companionship. Not to mention exercise. I was looking at his girth and envisioning his own slippery slope, beginning with obesity and leading first to diabetes, then to renal failure, and ending up with the two of us bonding over a bag of sub-cutaneous fluids. (Been there, done that, with a previous cat. Thank God for the local hospital pharmacy--they saved me big bucks on the fluids and the Epogen.)

So, I acquired an older kitten. He's settling in nicely, and keeping Mr. Huge on his toes. I think that they will become good friends. And I'm enjoying him, too--he's a nice kitty. Pet-wise, there's nothing better than having a couple of friendly, sturdy alley cats in the house.

Except that I think the new guy is passing.

I thought that I was getting this nice little domestic short hair. Then, he started talking. "Okay," I thought, "his voice is a little raspy." And I began to notice his long, slender face and body. And his little oval paws, which he uses a lot to reach for stuff. And his muscular hind legs, all the better for jumping around at 2 AM. And the texture of his fur.

And it started to dawn on me that someone in his family tree was most likely Siamese.

Uh-oh. I've had a couple of them in the past, and they're certifiable. Total spazzes who find all kinds of creative ways to turn your home upside down. Definitely not my breed of choice.

But what the Hell. He's here to stay, so Mr. Big and I will both have to learn to sleep with one eye open.

And to be fair, I'll bet that the new kitty's been looking at my family pictures and saying to himself, "Oh my God. I thought I was getting adopted by some nice white lady. But, she's really a chola!"

The Personal is...

2008-03-28T23:06:00.000-07:00

...the professional.

At least it is in the music world. You give gigs to your friends as much as you can, and they reciprocate. Often, it can be more about who you know than how you blow.

Or how you bow, in the case of my dilemma du jour.

I know a string player who is working on getting her performing career back on track after an injury derailed it. She's starting to put herself out there for chamber and orchestral work, and I want to help her out by giving her name to all of the contractors I work with.

But I hesitate to do so, because, on a personal level, she can be an incredible flake. Little things like giving me the wrong street address for a party she's invited me to, or calling to cancel a get-together at the exact time she was supposed to be dropping by--and apologetically admitting that she should have called a couple days earlier, as soon as she realized that her schedule had changed.

Now, I realize that none of that is a big deal in the grand scheme of things. I'm a pretty laid back person in general, and I don't tend to sweat the small stuff. On a personal level, I can--and do--deal with a little flakiness from friends. It's just not a big deal to me.

But what if her off-duty flakiness also shows up in the workplace?

What if I give this musician's name to a contractor, she gets hired for a gig, and she gets the address wrong? Or gets the day and time mixed up? Or double-books herself?

What if she doesn't show up?

Then it's a very big deal to me, because I'll be in a world of shit.

What to do, what to do...

Monday Miscellany

2008-03-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

What's In A Name?

Apparently, some people--Ellen DeGeneres included--think it's cute to name a cat "Chairman Mao," or some variation of it like "Chairman Mau" or "Chairman Meow."

As snarky and irreverent as I can be, I draw the line at giving my pets dictators' names. It could offend people, y'know?

After all, how would I feel if someone named their doggie "Franco"?

The L Word

Okay. I'll admit that I watch this trainwreck of a show. Far-fetched plot twists that are often left unresolved, inconsistent character development, and stunt casting that falls flat(coughAriannaHuffingtonSusanLoveSharonIsbincough) make this a mere quarter tone above the worst of daytime dramas. So why do I watch?

Four words:

Holland Taylor

Jane Lynch

Total pros, and hilariously funny in their supporting roles. And despite our twenty-year age difference, Holland can steal my scene anytime.

And speaking of Sharon Isbin, did they give her the guest shot only after a well-known--and much more comfortable in front of the camera--lesbian classical musician turned down the gig?

Just curious.

Tenure, My Ass

So you beat out a couple hundred musicians for an orchestral chair. After a year or two, you get tenure. That means the job's yours for life, right?

Not exactly.

Let's say you've had the job for years. Decades, even. And a new music director comes in and decides that he doesn't like your playing. Or you piss off one of the powers that be, and all-of-a-sudden you're told that the quality of your playing has slipped.

They want to go in a new direction, as the cliche' goes.

So you keep drawing your salary and your name stays in the program, but the audience starts to notice that you're never, ever there. There's always a substitute sitting in your chair.

What's going on behind the scenes?

You and the orchestra are negotiating the buyout of your contract.

Buh-bye.

Yet another reason why I find the idea of an orchestral career so appealing.

snort

Getting to Know You....

2008-03-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

Getting to know all about you.....

Like the fact that if I move my lower lip too far forward, you're going to crack that middle F sharp on the Bach Air. Or the extra spring tension you have that's going to end up turning my hands into those muscular pianist paws all my friends have. And the fact that you'll cut out in pianissimo passages if my airspeed slows for a nano-second.

Yes, New Flute. You think you can mess with me.

Fat chance.

You will not admit this yet, but you are already learning to bend to my will. When I want flawless intonation, you obey. When I want to blast out low Bs, you're right there with me. When I want warmth and color in the upper register, you're stepping up to the plate.

You thought you were just a cannon--the crude Mustang GT of flutes, trying to take me on a white trash, pedal-to-the-metal, straight ahead drag race of a ride. Now, you will learn to be nimble and refined, like a BMW zipping through the twisties. You will start giving me tone colors that you didn't think you had in you. You will learn to be softer than you ever thought possible.

You will learn to obey my every artistic impulse.

And we will become as one.

Reformatory

2008-03-22T18:16:00.000-07:00

As in the opposite of "conservatory."

I've realized that the college where I teach is the musical equivalent of reform school. It's sort of the last-chance opportunity for musical screw-ups to get their acts together before the possibility of a musical career passes them by forever.

Did you just come to this country armed with a degree in flute from a foreign university and a lot of bad playing habits?

Welcome to my studio.

Did you screw up so badly in high school that you don't have the grades to get into a decent university music school?

You're mine.

Did you completely whack out during your first year at a high-powered music school because you couldn't handle the pressure?

I'll be putting your psyche back together, Humpty Dumpty style.

Are you a talented musician with little formal training?

I'll be your tour guide into the wonderful world of classical music. Better go buy that metronome now.

I don't usually sit in on the auditions, so when I get my student roster at the beginning of each semester, I never know what strengths, weaknesses, or pathologies await me. And just when I think I've seen or heard everything, a student will come in with a history that's even more bizarre.

Makes me wish I had minored in psychology.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

2008-03-07T00:19:00.000-08:00

So a colleague of mine wants to fix me up with her musician friend. I feel very touched and honored that she thought enough of me to do that. There's just one problem:

Her friend is a guy.

Obviously, the gossip about my private life hasn't been as widely disseminated as I'd thought among this particular circle of colleagues. So I'll have to spell out to her exactly why I'm not interested. And, of course, ask her if her friend has a sister.

Sometimes, I think that those of us who don't look like k.d. lang (I think she's actually quite good-looking, BTW) are at a disadvantage. No one is going to take one look at us and immediately try to fix us up with their gym teacher sister.

And, if anything, I've been femme-ing it up even more lately. I no longer go even to the supermarket without putting on lipstick.

Worse, I'm looking for someone who, like me, tends to fly under the gaydar.

I wonder how we'll ever find each other.

No Rest for the Wicked

2008-02-26T01:07:00.000-08:00

Seriously.

It's been a seven day per week work schedule for a while, punctuated by attempts to practice in whatever fifteen to sixty minute intervals of downtime I can find. But that's all right. I chose this. I'd rather live the constant adrenaline rush of playing and teaching music than spend 9 to 5 Monday through Friday cozying up to the Internal Revenue Code. And trying to ferret out the truth lying beneath all of the "Just put down the same number as last year" or "I don't have to report my cash income, do I?" scenarios accountants are treated to. Now that the IRS has decided to impose major penalties on those CPAs, EAs, and attorneys who don't exercise "due diligence" in preparing taxes---due diligence = I practically have to audit you myself before I can prepare your return---the accounting life is even less appealing than before.

But, damn, I need a day off. Just to practice. Or clean my kitchen. Or go out for breakfast.

But, in the meantime, I found a fun site to click on when I'm taking an online break from all those frantic email exchanges I've been having with students and contractors.

Because, even though I'm technically not 100% white, that site describes me way more than I'd like to admit.

Good thing I can laugh at myself.

Big Love...

2008-02-03T22:10:00.000-08:00

...The Musical

Yup. If we're talking about collaborative pianists, I've become more and more polygamous.

Or maybe I've become a serial adulterer.

Whatever.

A musican can never have too many respected colleagues, for those times when you have to just go down your list to see who's available for a gig. I needed a pianist for a recital, and my list of regular accomplices was looking a little thin all of a sudden.

Spit Take?

Injured. Probably thanks in part to the killer piano parts I asked her to learn.

The Ballerina?

Concerto appearance the week before my concert.

The Dominatrix?

Concerto appearance the week after.

Jethro?

On vacation during rehearsal time.

Dapper Dan?

Didn't have time to learn the finger-busting sonata I wanted to play.

So I had to have a shotgun marriage and take another musical spouse:

A very handsome, very married pianist whom I'll call "Mr. Cutie."

It doesn't matter one way or the other, but it's been ages since I've worked with a straight male collaborative pianist--I seem to always end up with straight women or gay men. I don't know how much sexual orientation changes the dynamic of a musical collaboration, if at all. I suppose it would only come into play for me if I were working with an attractive, single lesbian. But that hasn't happened in years.

Anyway, Mr. Cutie stepped in after Spit Take blew out her hand, and kicked butt on some very difficult literature. And was a complete and total sweetheart to work with. I look forward to many more concerts with him.

Sometimes, things work out even better than you could have imagined.

Once I Had A Secret Love......

2008-01-28T12:29:00.000-08:00

I haven't decided yet how I'm going to vote in the Democratic primary. (Sorry, Republicans, but there will be an ice storm in Hell before I vote for any of you. You all drew a big, fat target on the back of every gay person in this country. You are dead to me.)

But, in doing all that deep thinking about which candidate's views are most in line with my own, I've come to an embarrassing realization:

I think Hillary is kind of hot.

Bill's a fool for tricking on her.

Slo Pitch

2008-01-26T22:18:00.000-08:00

There's an interesting study going on at one of the University of California campuses, about the genetics of absolute pitch. So, just for jollies, I sat down and took the test. Oddly, I scored a couple of points higher on the pure tone test than I did on the (kind-of-distorted) acoustic piano test. That's strange because, even though I'm a flutist, my pitch recognition is most accurate when I'm listening to an acoustic piano. It's at its worst when I'm listening to a wall of sound, like a symphony orchestra. And, let me tell you, having perfect pitch doesn't always translate into my being a good improvisor, or even playing well by ear. I think I've figured out why: as a classical musician, I am so trained to play exactly what's on the page that I ramp up the visual and dial down the aural, except where it relates to playing in tune.

And that's a bad thing.

It's really ignoring a crucial aspect of music making. So, I've been forcing myself lately to put away the music and to play all my stuff by ear, and to improvise a cadenza whenever I'm practicing or teaching a concerto. I seriously need to forget that I know how to read music.

I don't know if anyone else in my family has perfect pitch, but the researchers would like to find out. So much so that, according to the fine print that I read only after I had taken the test, they might contact participants to ask them for a sample of their DNA.

Uh-oh.

Because while they're looking for whatever genetic marker points to the ability to distinguish an A from an F#, who knows what else they'll find:

"Gee, Ms. [Arestegui/Jauregui/Seralegui/Isturrioz/Aren't Basque Names Fun], did you know that you have a genetic predisposition toward insanity? Are there any hard-core drunks in your family? Serial killers?....And, ah, um, are you gay?"

Along for the Ride

2008-01-26T00:20:00.000-08:00

So far, I've resisted the temptation to put together a mix tape of my favorite music. It's a matter of not having enough time to sit down and make one, and, with the record industry on the warpath about copyrights, not enough desire to share a cell with a large, surly woman who lies awake at night plotting how she's going to steal my cache of Snickers bars.

But when I have to take a road trip of any length, I do spend a few moments pondering my CD collection in order to decide who's going to ride shotgun with me.

Will it be Ella today? Or Rosemary? Frank Sinatra? Astrud Gilberto?

Or maybe Patsy Cline, or Shelby Lynne?

Pink?

Or will I go classical?

This time, I decided to go classical and take the Jimmys along for the ride.

That's Galway and Ehnes.

So I started with Galway's recording of the Liebermann concerti--one for piccolo, one for flute, and one for flute & harp.

Ummmmm---Liebermann.

I love his flute sonata, but as soon as you give him an orchestra to write for instead of just a piano, it's like Sergei Prokofiev and John Williams spent a wild night together and the condom broke. I swear to God--one minute I'm enjoying Galway singing through a lovely melodic line, and the next I'm scanning the sky for E.T.

So I hit "eject"--on the CD player, not the passenger seat--and popped in James Ehnes (with Bramwell Tovey and the VSO) doing the Walton violin concerto.

I love Walton's music. Who knew that Brits could be so sexy?

Seriously, though, if I could recommend one recent classical instrumental CD, Ehnes' recording of the Walton, along with the Barber and the Korngold, would be it. His performance is warm, expressive, lush--even sensual.

Fabulous playing.

Carol Makes a Fool of Herself

2008-01-24T22:05:00.000-08:00

With the concert season in full swing, we musicians are working hard. When we're not performing and rehearsing, and--if we're lucky--also teaching, we're dealing with all of the related administrative duties: confirming bookings, signing off on publicity, and schlepping concert clothes to the dry cleaners. With life moving at warp speed, I realized that I needed to step back for a moment and take time for a good laugh. So I went looking for one on You Tube, and look what I found.

And had I been alive back in 1957, I swear I would have found a way to marry her.

Enjoy.

Tales From My Dark Side

2008-01-06T22:48:00.000-08:00

No, I'm not talking about my partially-Iberian heritage, with all those tall, dark, and handsome forbears whom I don't resemble in the least. I'm talking about what's inside. Because as much as I like to believe that I'm one of the few flutists whose reflection actually shows up in a mirror, underneath the affable exterior is the tiniest bit of edge.

I say "tiniest bit of edge," because I still have enough of a conscience to feel guilty about a decision I just made.

But only a little.

You see, I have a relative who has a life-long reputation for being a scammer. Her modus operandi has always been to swoop in and make extra-nice with an elderly relative, then get access to that relative's assets. All of them, from checking accounts to CDs to real estate. With her, it's not just an M.O., it's a lifestyle. Yet this relative fancies herself to be a devout Christian, one with the moral street cred to pass judgment on everyone who's on Pat Robertson's hit list. Starting with gays and lesbians---like her late niece, for example: "Well, I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt about being gay, but when I saw [her ex-lover] at the funeral with her new girlfriend....."

Fuck her and the broom she flew in on. Really.

So Cousin Grifter has announced that when she dies, she would like everyone to make donations in her honor to The 700 Club.

Well, as much as I'd like to honor a decedent's last wishes, even hers, I've decided that that's not going to happen. Instead, when she goes to be with Jesus--whom she'll probably find having brunch with St. John, wearing the latest seamless robe and listening to Liberace tickling the ivories--I'll be making a sizable donation in her name.

To the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force.

Santa, Come Back.....

2008-01-05T23:58:00.000-08:00

....because you forgot to bring me one of those special turntables that plugs into my computer and allows me to turn my LPs into CDs. Thanks for nothing, Fat Guy--looks like I'll be buying it myself.

And the ever more avaricious recording industry--which is now asserting that you can't even make personal-use copies of recordings that you have already purchased-- will just have to get over it. My LP to CD transitions will consist of stuff that's not only out of print, but that never even made it to CD form as far as I know---like Dylana Jenson's aforementioned recording of the first and third Brahms violin sonatas. (Which, BTW, I acquired for $2.99 plus tax at a used record store that was going out of business. Who says there isn't a God?) Or flutist Anne Diener Giles' gorgeous recording of the Dutillieux sonatine, coupled with neat and nifty readings of two Quantz sonatas.

I'd have no problem buying these fantastic recordings if they were ever re-released on CD. But we all know that the devil will be landing double axels in Hell before that happens.

So just in case I'll be going to the slammer for this, did Martha Stewart ever publish her prison cookbook?

I'll Take Musical Tragedies for 500, Alex.....

2008-01-03T01:06:00.000-08:00

Okay, it's not a tragedy on the scale of Neveu and Kapell.

But, if nothing else, it proves yet again that life isn't fair---especially in the world of music.

Have you ever heard this woman play the violin? A lot of people haven't, because early on this artist's career got whacked by the Murphy's Law stick.

Or maybe by some good, old-fashioned sexism.

Let me 'splain.

Jenson was a phenomenal young violinist who took the silver in the Tchaikovsky competition at the tender age of seventeen. An absolutely ass-kicking artist. She embarked on what promised to be a huge career: bookings with the majors, a recording of the Sibelius with Ormandy, and an LP of two of the Brahms sonatas with Samuel Sanders. She had a recording contract in place, with the Brahms concerto in the works.

Yep. She had fun, fun, fun-----'til her sponsor took the fiddle away.

And why'd he take back the violin?

Because she made the mistake of having a personal life. She met the man she would marry, they got engaged, and she sent the violin's owner an invitation to the wedding.

And how'd he RSVP?

By giving her two weeks to give him the Guarneri del Gesu back. Because, in his opinion, any female concert artist who wanted to get married was obviously not serious about her career and his precious violin would be better used by someone who put the career first. (As in either a man, or a nun.)

So if a woman realizes that she needs something more than a violin to keep her warm at night, she's not serious about her career.

Really?

Tell that to Kyung Wha Chung, whose attitude was always, "You say I can't have a career and a family? Watch me." Or tell that to Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg, who made it clear from day one that having "someone to come home to" was a necessity for her. Then back away very, very quickly----unless you happen to be sporting your Nomex wardrobe.

So Dylana wanted a little balance in her life, and that ended up costing her the use of an incredible instrument. How do you replace a violin of that caliber on short notice--especially if your career is still young and you haven't started making the big bucks yet?

You don't.

Legend has it that she was forced into having to borrow violins for her gigs. And some of them were such total crap that she couldn't project her sound over the orchestra, or bring out all of the nuances and colors that the music demanded. So, over time, the bookings dried up, and the recordings never happened.

And she ended up raising her kids, performing occasionally, and teaching.

Child-rearing is a noble pursuit. So is passing along your art to the next generation through teaching. But artistry like hers deserves an audience. Jenson still sounds awesome--better than most of the violinists currently on the concert circuit. (And, at 46, she's still good-looking, too. Don't think that's not a factor in who gets booked and who doesn't.) I don't know if it's possible for a former can't-miss prodigy to resurrect her career a quarter century after it got derailed.

But if life were fair......

Happy New Year

2008-01-01T02:39:00.000-08:00

The great thing about 2008 is that it brings us that much closer to January 2009. I'm so counting the days.

But enough about He Who Smirks.

I'm still up ringing in the new year, thanks to an unfortunate imbalance of caffeine and alcohol. For some reason, one evening diet Coke or glass of iced tea (I'm just Southern enough to crave the latter even in the dead of winter) keeps me awake, but I can chug several glasses of champagne without getting the slightest buzz. That's especially strange because I'm usually such a lightweight when it comes to alcohol. So right now I'm feeling all of the caffeine, and none of the booze.

Too bad I'm still up, because this is the first time since 1997 that I'll wake up alone on New Year's Day. Well, alone except for the cat. But he's a guy (or at least he used to be), so he doesn't count. I swear to God, my next girlfriend has to be a musician, or at least have had enough music lessons growing up to be able to appreciate music and musicians. Relationships are a lot easier when your spouse actually values your job, instead of resenting it.

Speaking of my job, since I'm still awake I'd love to be practicing right now. Unfortunately, that's a no-go: my neighbors are probably asleep and I don't want to disturb them. They're in their sixties, and their hard partying days are a distant memory. Too bad their nudism isn't. I have no moral objection to it, just an aesthetic one--all those years of sun-worshipping do things to the skin that most people would not want to expose to anyone they're not sleeping with. And my neighbors sometimes forget to shut their blinds. No, this is not a Rear Window situation where someone with way too much time on his or her hands becomes an uber-voyeur. But a lot of folks in the 'hood have gotten an accidental glimpse of my neighbors' lack of tan lines. And it's not pretty.

Anyway, I didn't feel like going out tonight, even to celebrate the end of what turned out to be a difficult year. After dealing with the deaths of a parent, a relationship, and a friendship all in one year, I felt like spending a little time alone, rather than putting on a party hat and reaching for the noisemakers. But everyone goes through crap like this from time to time, and they survive. I will, too.

I ended up welcoming the new year by watching the NY Phil's concert with Joshua Bell. And it was all I could do to not leap through the TV screen and give him a make-over on the spot. Because forty year-old men should not wear bangs. Ever.

So much for tonight. Tomorrow, it will be all about the three Fs: family, food, and football. And that's a pretty nice way to start off 2008.

So best wishes for a Happy New Year. May we all have a year full of peace, health, happiness, and abundance.

Dentally Challenged

2007-12-17T23:40:00.000-08:00

I feel as though I've dodged a bullet.

Okay. That's too over the top.

But I did dodge the dental drill once again.

I hadn't been to the dentist in several years. Not out of any particular aversion to dentists, but out of a combination of busyness and laziness. I kept forgetting to make that appointment, and six months soon turned into twelve into eighteen into twenty-four.....

You get the picture.

Even after a wind-player colleague showed me the latest fillings she'd had to have done due to gum rescission--an occupational hazard--I still didn't pick up the phone to make an appointment.

Until I got the mother of all toothaches.

One of my molars is extra-sensitive due to the proximity of a filling to a nerve. One evening, it went beyond sensitive into the world of excruciating, screaming, wall-punching pain every time I ate or drank something hot or cold.

And I'm thinking that I will shortly be visiting Club Root Canal.

So I got myself to the dentist ASAP.

After arriving at the appointed time, I ended up sitting in the chair for half an hour while they tried to find the last set of X-rays they'd taken of my mouth. They claimed that they had another patient with the exact same name as mine, and that her X-rays kept coming up instead of mine.

Exact same name?

I laughed and told them that unless we'd all been suddenly teleported to Navarra, Spain, that was highly unlikely.

So, as they continued to argue about which Ms.[Guzman/Biscailuz/Aguirre/Irrizarry/Echevarria/Gurza/Izturis/Gascon--pick one and say it three times really fast] was stretched out in the dental chair, I amused myself by trying to remember just how many quarters I'd stuffed into the parking meter. And calculating how much money it was going to cost me in parking fines if they didn't get their asses in gear real quickly.

Finally, they figured out that they'd transposed a couple of numbers on my birth date, and that was what was causing all the confusion. But I still needed a new set of X-rays. So, I put on the lead body armor and spent the next five minutes getting my face zapped from every possible angle---all the while hoping that all that radiation would somehow obliterate the little smile line forming by the right corner of my mouth.

Nope. I guess the smile line will have to stay put for now---that is, until I decide that re-entering the dating world as a cougar might require having a little work done.

But hearing them say "Nunca" while they pored over my X-rays was almost as good as getting a free nip and tuck. Because no cavities equals no date with the drill, right? And the dentist informed me that I'd somehow bruised my molar by biting down on something hard, and that the pain should go away within a few weeks without any further treatment. But then I found out that tooth decay isn't the only downside to blowing off visiting the dentist for a couple of years. Due to my dental negligence, enough tartar had built up that the dentist recommended a deep cleaning--a procedure that involves so much scraping under the gum line that they shoot you up with Novocain first.

"Is that nice, big needle for me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, shit."

After the dentist spent a few minutes playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey all over the right side of my mouth, the spike-haired, facially-tattooed hygienist got started. I realize that it's not nice to stereotype people based on appearance, but it did cross my mind that perhaps the scrubs she'd worn at dental hygiene school had had a number stenciled on the back.

So how horrible was it?

Not at all. I don't know if that's the norm, or just unique to me--I think having Attention Deficit Disorder actually works to my advantage in uncomfortable situations. My mind can easily jump around from the reality of getting poked in the gums by sharp objects to various scenarios that are a lot more pleasant. Missy Cellblock D only thought that I was lying peacefully in that dental chair. In my mind, I wasn't even at the dentist's office. I was lying in a hammock at the beach---in the arms of Emma Thompson.

That scenario put me in such a good mood that I didn't even mind the fact that I would have to come back the following week to repeat the procedure on the other side of my mouth.

I figured I'd spend the next appointment lying on a big leather couch.

With Lorraine Bracco.

Ding Dong.......

2007-12-05T23:54:00.000-08:00

"Let's skip the lottery this year. I already have someone in mind..."

Shirley Jackson

And do I ever.

Right now, I feel like pouring myself a drink and finding some good break-up music. And not that weepy "How can I live without you?" crap. Nope, I want some serious "What goes around, comes around" tunes right now.

If you know of any, please let me know.

(And in the meantime, a hat tip to that anonymous Datalounge poster for the Shirley Jackson joke. The laugh I got was worth every drop of Diet Coke I had to wipe off my keyboard.)

Actually, I'm not heartbroken over my newly-single status--far from it. Now, I have the opportunity to find someone who doesn't have a mean streak bubbling just below the surface. Someone a lot more friendly. And responsible. And sane. And without a police record. (Don't ask. It'll remain our little secret---unless I find out that she's been trashing me to our friends.)

But I'm kicking myself for staying too long in a relationship that was probably doomed from the get-go.

You know that snarky riddle:

Question: "What does a lesbian bring on the third date?"

Answer: "A U-Haul."

It's not just a cliche'. The conventional wisdom is that we tend to commit too soon, then take fourteen years to break up. Well, in my case, it wasn't even close to fourteen years, but I still stayed in the relationship several years past its sell-by date.

Until my girlfriend broke up with me, that is.

By e-mail.

Believe it or not, I feel more relieved than hurt. It was the right thing for both of us, and I truly wish my ex well. And I'll enjoy seeing if I can find someone who's more my type--coughfunctionalcough. If, God forbid, I never find someone else to settle down with, there will still be a lot to enjoy in my life.

But, even so, I still have the occasional fantasy of seeing my ex's legs sticking out from under Dorothy's house.

What Do You Get When You Fall in Love?

2007-11-21T22:52:00.000-08:00

You only get lies and pain and sorrow.
So for at least until tomorrow,
I'll never fall in love again.
I'll never fall in love again.

After hearing the latest about Blair Tindall and Bill Nye the User--oops, excuse me, the Science ---Guy, I'm starting to wonder if perhaps Miss Dionne Warwick had a point.

Now, I'll admit that I'm not a big fan of "Mozart in the Jungle." Tindall's depiction of freelance life in the big city is right on, but I was put off by her kissing-and-telling about the romances she'd had with several married men in the business. And when she wasn't actually naming names in the book, she dropped enough clues to make Mr. Wrong easily identifiable. Yes, I know I'm being just a tad judgmental. But, while I'm probably the last person anyone would call a prude, my sluttiness ends where the wedding ring begins. If I learn that someone I'm attracted to is married, that's a "Don't go there" sign in flashing neon lights. And I don't go there. Ever. But Blair did. And sleeping with someone--especially someone else's husband--because you think it might help your career is a shitty thing to do, and it never ends well.

So, when I heard about Blair's recent troubles, I was tempted to shrug my shoulders and laugh, "Karma's a bitch, and it's biting the Hell out of Ms. Tindall's ass right about now." But then I started thinking like a human being instead of like a flutist, and ended up feeling very bad for her. Realizing that the person you loved and trusted has not only betrayed you but screwed you financially as well, has got to be agonizing. Her ex (or, actually, her never-was-in-the-first-place) husband comes off as a real slime, and I can't say that I blame her for acting out.

But, straight girls, help me out here: is it just me, or does she have incredibly lousy taste in men?

Waistlines

2007-11-20T00:52:00.000-08:00

With the Thanksgiving kickoff to the eat-until-you're-comatose holiday season, it's a good thing that I'm back on my workout regimen. Because I'll be damned if I re-enter the dating pool looking like a manatee. But, on the other hand, I'm perfectly comfortable carrying five or so extra pounds, because I love food and am unwilling to give up some of the more fattening, carb-laden things that I eat. Looking slightly less petite is not a bad trade-off for a plate full of barbecue.

So I'm definitely not in the market for a stick figure who subsists on celery and iceberg lettuce. I'd rather Ms. Right be ten pounds overweight and willing to share a pizza or a pint of Ben and Jerry's with me while we watch "Rosemary's Baby".

Life is to be enjoyed, right?

Senora Hatfield and McCoy Tai Tai

2007-11-16T23:06:00.000-08:00

Cue the fiddles, 'cause it's time for

Family Feud

Or, since we're scoring my family's feud, cue the guitar and the erhu.

The holidays have their challenges--and not just because my crazy work schedule goes tilt for the next month or so. This is the time of year when my family's fracture is most obvious--and painful. One of my siblings doesn't attend the family's Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners because his wife maintains a deep and abiding grudge against one of my other siblings. The origin of this one-sided feud?

Long story.

But she's punishing this family member for a years-ago sin against my parents that's long since been atoned for.

I'm Latin. I understand grudges. I have actually uttered the phrase, "She has disrespected my parents. She is dead to me."

But I got over it. Sometimes, people who love each other disappoint each other. Or even hurt one another. You deal with it, you get past it, and, often, the relationship ends up better and deeper than it was before.

I understand that some things happen in families, such as spousal abuse and child abuse, that are too heinous to get past. But my sibling's offense didn't even sniff the dust of heinous. And if my parents could forgive and move on, so can the in-law. But, unfortunately, she has a hair-trigger temper and manages to keep her anger crackling like a well-tended fire. She's like my ex writ large.

Life's too short--and too precious--for that shit. Period.

The Rainbow Effect?

2007-11-12T21:31:00.000-08:00

Marin Alsop gets some NY Times ink.

(You'll have to log in to read the whole thing.)

Tommasini in Sunday's New York Times

It was a good article overall, but the author kind of lost me here:

Then there is the matter of Ms. Alsop’s personal background. In recent years she has spoken publicly about her family: her companion, Kristin Jurkscheit, a horn player with the Colorado Symphony Orchestra (which Ms. Alsop directed for 12 years), and their young son. Like many Hollywood actors, many classical musicians and singers are reluctant, understandably, to reveal that they are gay. Is it possible that in Ms. Alsop’s case her sexual orientation has made her less intimidating as an authority figure?

There can be a seductive element to conducting. Think of the kinetic young Leonard Bernstein, the suave Herbert von Karajan, the exotic and scruffy Valery Gergiev. Ms. Alsop is a dynamo on the podium, an incisive technician who moves and grooves much like Bernstein, her mentor. Might male orchestral players (and even some female ones) be more comfortable with an electrifying woman on the podium if she is known to be a lesbian?

While I'm still trying to wrap my mind around seeing "seductive" and "conducting" in the same sentence, let's go over this slowly. Very slowly, since I'm a flutist.

Like many Hollywood actors, many classical musicians and singers are reluctant, understandably, to reveal that they are gay. Is it possible that in Ms. Alsop’s case her sexual orientation has made her less intimidating as an authority figure?

It's fair to say that the classical music world continues to be somewhat conservative, at least on the business side of the house. Among the musicians themselves, being gay or lesbian is pretty much a non-issue. In terms of audiences, it can go either way: many of our oldest listeners are socially conservative, while many others in our audiences are entirely gay-friendly. But if we accept the premise that it's not easy to be gay in classical music and that, as a result, many musicians believe that they must stay closeted in order to keep working, we also need to acknowledge that those who do come out in this business have a lot of guts. So how would Marin being a tough enough person to come out tend to make her less intimidating? Is being an out lesbian supposed to make her less professionally secure, or more personally vulnerable? Or by virtue of being out, is she expected to possess some special empathy toward the musicians she leads?

[snort]

Critic, please. She's a conductor. Being "intimidating" when necessary is part of the job description, and Marin's no more or less so just because she happens to be a lesbian.

Might male orchestral players (and even some female ones) be more comfortable with an electrifying woman on the podium if she is known to be a lesbian?

So the fact that the conductor is a lesbian automatically turns down the electricity and raises the comfort level?

Considering that straight men are the biggest consumers of girl-on-girl porn, maybe the men in the orchestra would find a lesbian conductor to be even more electrifying than they would a straight woman conductor. On the other hand, for me there's no electricity to turn down in the first place. Marin's certainly a cutie, but as long as she's waving that stick at the orchestra she's not a sex object, she's The Enemy.

Okay. Maybe "enemy" is too strong a word. Pay no attention while my reflexive aversion to baton jockeys kicks in.

But in all seriousness, I could not be happier that Marin Alsop is now serving as music director of one of the majors. She's an exciting musician with an accessible, down-to-Earth personality. She also has a strong commitment to programming new music, and is working to expand and diversify classical music's audience. Her appointment to this high-profile gig puts a whole new face on classical music, and our business is much the better for it.

You go, Maestra.

Holiday--Not

2007-11-12T13:59:00.000-08:00

I really should be taking today off.

Not just because I've been working like crazy and need some down time, but because it's the Veteran's Day holiday (well, actually, the day after--thanks, Nixon.) Almost all of the men in my family have served in the military--very few in combat, thank God--and I've always been very supportive of our troops. Even in peacetime, it's a tough, sometimes dangerous life. So, it would be nice to participate in some activity or program that honors the sacrifices our men and women in uniform make. But, this being a work day, the most I've been able to do so far to honor the holiday is to call my dad to thank him for his service in the Army.

You know, my dad and his brother fought like crazy to get into the military after they'd been rejected repeatedly for poor eyesight. The Army finally took them in on limited duty status. My cousin endured four years at a service academy, and continues to serve in the Reserves. My mom's WWII-pilot cousin had to go to sleep every night with the knowledge that he'd had to kill people--some of whom were probably related to him. My mom's brother got an all-expense paid trip to "the desert" a couple of years ago--thank God he spent his tour there sitting at a desk, instead of dodging IEDs. All of them willingly put their educations, their family lives, and, in some cases, their personal safety on hold to do the jobs we asked them to do.

I wonder how those who had the opportunity to serve during the Vietnam era, but had "other priorities," or couldn't quite find it in themselves to finish their time with the Air National Guard, feel today.

Probably just fine, unfortunately.

Idle Hands

2007-11-02T23:33:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here practicing avoidance behavior.

I need to neaten up my office, clean the bathroom, and get started on grades for about 150 music students. But, instead, I'm reading DataLounge, hanging with the pets (one of mine, plus my ex's two--I have visitation rights), and listening to Grumiaux's excellent Brahms concerto with Van Beinum and the Concertgebouw. (Good luck finding that recording, by the way--I'm pretty sure it's out of print.)

But listening to that particular recording got me to thinking: so what if Grumiaux's fingers slipped in a couple of places--for me, that doesn't take anything away from his warm, romantic performance. Of course it's nice to come across a musician who's the total package--imaginative, communicative, and expressive along with a consistently flawless and spectacular technique, but, unfortunately, it's not all that common. And I think that most people, if they have to choose, will opt for compelling music-making and an occasional dropped note over a technically flawless but emotionally empty performance.

Unless they're sitting on an orchestral audition committee.

Kidding.

But wouldn't it be fun if a 21st century Dr. Frankenstein could create an uber instrumentalist who combined the superior technical skills of Hahn with the imagination of Salerno-Sonnenberg, the warmth of Shaham, and the fire of Batiashvili.

That's someone whom I'd gladly pay to hear.

The Dating Game

2007-10-17T23:55:00.000-07:00

So I'm cleaning my now ex-girlfriend's stuff out of my home, starting with the lingerie.

Or lack thereof, in my ex's case. I've seen sexier undies on Alzheimer's patients.

When I start dating again, I'll have to find a discreet way of finding out if the woman sitting across the table from me is wearing the best of Victoria's Secret, or the worst of K-Mart. Because, in my experience at least, there's a correlation between the type of lingerie a woman wears on a date and how comfortable she is with her sexuality.

Your mileage may vary, of course.

But this kind of brings up a larger dilemma.

How is a lesbian who:

1. knows from lipstick

2. does not use body hair, extra pounds, or a buzz cut to make a political statement

3. eats meat

4. doesn't sweat the small stuff, and resists the compulsion to "process" everything

5. owns guns and knows how to use them

6. takes occasional rides in airplanes whose sole function was to blow people to bits

7. would rather dine at a nice restaurant than attend a tofu-themed potluck

8. hasn't replaced her given name with some New Age Earth-mother nickname

9. genuinely likes men

10.goes to church regularly

and

11.voices the occasional politically incorrect thought

ever going to get laid again?

Balance Mechanism

2007-10-15T21:33:00.000-07:00

Freelancing is frequently a balancing act. There's nothing more frustrating than having to turn down work because you're already booked. But it often happens that you have two calls come in at the same time, and you have only a few seconds to choose between Door Number One and Door Number Two. Sometimes, it feels a little like dancing on the edge of a snake pit while juggling chainsaws. As in, if I turn down this gig, is the contractor going to be pissed off enough to never call me again? Or, will the money I make offset the travel time and the hassle of getting a substitute for the gig I have to give up to do this one? What's the repertoire? Who's conducting? Am I playing principal? And which of Rosemary's babies will be joining me in the flute section?

Musicians learn to do a quick weighing of the costs and benefits of Gig X versus Gig Y--as in instantly deciding which one to take (or keep) without letting the contractor on the other end of the phone line know that his gig isn't the most important, desirable, musically-satisfying, career-making job in town.

And, frankly, the older I get the less likely it is that I'm going to contort my schedule into a pretzel to do some per-service orchestral gig way the heck out there.

Of course I'll rearrange my life for solo work or chamber music, even if it involves a schlep to some outlying area. But to play second chair on a pops concert, and to have to allow about ninety minutes of travel time each way just to be safe, to have to find and pay a substitute for two mornings of teaching that's located only twenty minutes from my home, and to end up making the same money (or, probably, even less) from the orchestral job than I would from the teaching, well.....

Sorry, Mr. Contractor. The downside outweighs the upside, so I'll pass. But I'll do it apologetically and respectfully. I'll tell you the truth--that I'm already booked during those times.

Of course, what I won't tell you is that I'd rather teach a bunch of nine year-olds how to play "Hot Cross Buns" than to take a pay cut for driving to Hell and back for the honor of sitting in your orchestra and playing "Music from Harry Potter."

To My Wayward Client

2007-10-09T23:49:00.000-07:00

....the one who still needs to give me all of his Schedule C data so that we can file his taxes by Monday.

Cue k.d.lang:

The coffee's all gone,
And my eyes burn like fire...
It's way past the hour,
When most folks retire.

You told me you'd call me,
But you haven't yet.
And I'm down to my last cigarette.

I don't smoke, but this song really resonates with me right now--especially the part about the coffee and my eyes.

I try to be patient with the procrastinators. Really. Hell, I was in a relationship with one for nearly ten years.

But I have a life---musical and otherwise---to balance with my small yet oh-so-intense tax practice. Balance? To Hell with balance--the rest of my life should far outweigh it. But that's hard to accomplish when someone else's inability to get his shit together in April becomes my own personal emergency in October.

Perhaps this procrastinating client will have to go the way of my procrastinating ex.

Buh-bye.

Aleatory

2007-10-06T22:03:00.000-07:00

Or maybe just some random pondering, while I commune with the tax code and wait for one of my clients to face the fact that his coach is about to turn into a pumpkin. (The deadline's the 15th. Procrastinate much?)

Speaking of turning into a pumpkin, five years ago my Myers-Briggs type was ISFJ. Consistently. And it seemed to fit--I always came off as the quiet administrator type.

But for the past year or so, it's come up consistently as INFJ--the counselor type who's also real hard to get to know. At this point in my life, I'm probably more intuitive than I used to be (maybe that comes with getting older), so the S to N change makes some sense. And, either way, I guess I've always been a bit of a tough nut to crack: friendly and kind but sometimes a little distant and self-protective.

Whatever.

I just hope that this isn't something akin to Anne Heche morphing from Mrs. DeGeneres into Celestia.

I'd like to think I'm too sane for that, whichever personality traits I'm manifesting today.

But you never know. Musicians are not known for their mental stability, after all.

Double Life

2007-09-23T19:22:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, not like Miklos Rozsa's double life of writing Serious Classical Music along with all the film scores. Mine is, of course, worse than that. One life is that of a full-time flutist, but the other life is that of a micro-practice tax accountant. I have three returns on extension, and tonight's the night to be Roboaccountant, not Roboflutist.

I would really rather be practicing all that repertoire I need to keep in my fingers. Or hacking my way through some jazz.

But, no. Tonight, I'll be having a three-way with the Tax Code and Lacerte.

And I don't anticipate it being a very satisfying experience.

Amazonia

2007-09-22T17:58:00.000-07:00

Do you think Amazon could put someone who's actually familiar with classical music in charge of the samples?

I appreciate any website that offers samples of the recordings it sells. Amazon will usually give the listener thirty seconds to a minute of music in order to help the listener decide whether or not to buy the CD. It's the musical equivalent to getting a tiny sample of anti-wrinkle cream from the Avon lady---you give the consumer just enough of a sample to rope her in.

The problem is, Amazon arbitrarily starts each sample at the beginning of the track.

So let's say I want to buy a new recording of the Mozart D Major flute concerto. I click on the first movement sample, and I know from having performed the piece that the orchestra opens with thirty-one measures of tutti while the soloist stands there taking really deep breaths---the better to nail that long, oboistic opening phrase. (You did know that we stole this concerto from the oboe community, right? Or, more accurately, Mozart stole it for us.) So I'm thinking to myself, "How long does the orchestral introduction really take? It feels like five minutes when you're up there waiting to play, but it doesn't really take that long, does it?"

No, it doesn't. But it does take one minute--which is just long enough for Amazon to shut off the sample right before the soloist comes in.

And let's talk about the first movement of the Brahms Violin Concerto. One minute of that beautiful orchestral introduction is certainly nice to hear. Unfortunately, it tells me nothing about whether or not I should buy the recording, because the soloist still has another minute forty-five or so to wait before he or she comes in. And I'm one of those people who will toss a Brahms VC recording back if the soloist doesn't nail the opening solo passage. I want a strong, fiery entrance with lots of momentum, like the way Ginette Neveu played it in her I Have PMS And A Violin May 1948 live recording. If an artist can't deliver the goods in this passage, nothing else they do later on will redeem their performance for me. So, if I can't hear it, I probably won't buy the recording.

You would think that Amazon has gotten enough complaints about this problem to think about addressing it. I wish they would. Even though I tend to be one of those "never pay full price if you don't have to" types, if Amazon starts putting up longer samples of their products, I might show some site loyalty and buy more new recordings from them--even if it costs me a little more.

Essentials

2007-09-21T00:05:00.000-07:00

I happened upon a 2 CD set entitled "The Essential James Galway." Of course I had to check it out---and then fight the impulse to turn it into a Frisbee on the spot.

Pachelbel's Canon is essential?

"I Will Always Love You" is essential?

Flutist, please. Those tracks are only essential if you're helping the Bride From Hell choose music for her wedding.

Like I've said, there's crossover, and then there's crap. Thomas Quasthoff singing jazz is crossover--crossover of the best kind, actually. Crossover is Jascha Heifetz playing Gershwin. Or Yo-Yo Ma teaming up with Bobby McFerrin. Or even Jean-Pierre Rampal playing traditional Japanese melodies arranged for flute and koto.

But "Memory" from "Cats"?

"My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic?

"Annie's Song"?

Essential, my ass.

I don't mean to be disrespectful toward Galway. Who knows how much of this was his idea, anyway? Once you've recorded a work, it belongs to the company, not to you. They can use it in whatever way they choose--including in a compilation like this one. And record companies make all kinds of demands upon those artists who have somehow managed to stay on their rosters: "You want to record the Nielsen and the Corigliano? Give us a CD or two of cute little encores and pop tunes, and we'll maybe consider it. Someday. In the meantime, you've got a photo shoot next week. Remember to show some cleavage, 'kay?"

Galway's certainly a great flutist and a good guy. But he could have sauntered into the studio and sight read most of this repertoire without breaking a sweat. What a waste of breath. And disc space.

Here's what I think anyone's "essential" album of flute music should carry instead:

Nielsen--Concerto

Mozart G Major and D Major concerti and the Andante in C, plus the flute quartet in D Major

All the Bach sonatas, as well as Brandenburgs 4 and 5

Quantz--Concerto in G Major

Dutilleux--Sonatine

Liebermann--Sonata

Prokofiev--Sonata

Berio--Sequenza

Bozza--Image

Enesco--Cantabile et Presto

Poulenc--Sonata, and also the sextet for woodwind quintet and piano

Hindemith--Sonata

Debussy--Syrinx

Messaien--Le Merle Noir

Kennan--Night Soliloquy

Schubert--Introduction and Variations

Roussel--Deux Poemes de Ronsard (in collaboration with a great mezzo)

Muczynski--Sonata

You could even toss in some Karg-Elert if you wanted to slum a little.

That's just off the top of my head---there's a lot more, but it's late. And I've already filled way more than two CDs.

The big record companies would probably dismiss some of this repertoire as unmarketable. So, if a well-known flute soloist consistently wanted to record only these "essentials" (beyond Mozart and Bach, anyway), he or she would have to fight tooth and nail---and might eventually have to consider starting his or her own label to have any opportunity to record new or lesser-known works. Naturally, the trade-off for all that control is that the independent artist is going to end up creating and marketing his or her product without even a fraction of the resources the major labels have to back their artists.

So in an effort to support the Davids among Goliaths, I have a sidebar link to CD Baby, a great source for independently-produced CDs, as well as links to several indie labels.

Throw a little support their way when you can.

Scam du Jour

2007-09-15T17:06:00.000-07:00

Ah, those ever-inventive cybercrooks. What evil little plan will they cook up next?

Here's the latest. I'll leave the typos in.

Hello,
I'm Mary Alice Gentle writing to you because i came across your service as a Music teacher on the internet through a Friend.

My Children age 11 and 13yrs are moving to [my state] to spend some time with my Sister and i want them to continue their music lesson.
Their previous teacher lost his wife so he didnt finish the lesson with them.I would need a Music teacher for them for them

1.I would like to know your charge per hour.
2.I would also like to know where you are located?
3.If you would able to accomodate them

Regards
Mary

I just received this in my email box, despite it having been addressed to another flutist. This is, of course, the latest internet scam, courtesy of the usual feral cretins who attempt to make money by preying on others. Unfortunately, I know of several music teachers who have been victimized by this scam. They return the email and begin discussing lesson schedules and fees with "Mary Alice." (BTW, I love the shout out to the deceased "Desperate Housewives" narrator. Maybe I'm dealing with a nice gay criminal here---except gays usually have better writing skills than "Mary Alice" does.) "Mary Alice" says that she will send a cashier's check for the lessons. The check doesn't arrive, and the teacher asks her where it is. "Mary Alice" goes through some song and dance about her secretary having mistakenly made out the check so that your money and the kids' driver's money is together in one lump sum. Now, everything is all mixed up, and the kids are already on their way to your state and want to start their lessons right away. So "Mary Alice" says that, to expedite the transaction, she will directly deposit enough money for your fees plus the driver's fees into your bank account; you are to keep your fee, and immediately refund to her the driver's fee so that she can pay him right away. (Wouldn't want the kiddies to have to walk everywhere, y'know.) The unsuspecting teacher gives his bank account info, the deposit is made, the teacher refunds "Mary Alice" the money for the "driver," and the deposit subsequently bounces. The teacher is out a nice chunk of change, and can rest assured in the knowledge that "Mary Alice" is now in possession of his bank account number.

Now all the typos are the first give away. Internet scammers, perhaps with the exception of some of the Nigerians, are notorious for misspelled words and incorrect capitalization. (Maybe if they'd worked harder in English class, they might have been able to make money the old-fashioned way--by earning it rather than by stealing it.)

The second give away is the first sentence: "I came across your service as a Music [sic] teacher on the internet through a Friend [sic]."

I'm sure I'm listed as a flute instructor several places on the 'net--probably on my college's website, and certainly in a directory or two of professional music teachers. But that's it. I don't advertise my "service," because, thank God, I've never had to. I prefer it that way, actually--if someone calls me for lessons, he or she has been referred to me by a student or colleague. If I have any questions about the prospective student, I can check with the referrer to make sure the person in question isn't an ax murderer. That makes me feel fairly comfortable about inviting him or her into my studio for a lesson. So the scammer, "Mary Alice," would have had to do a fair amount of searching to find the real me on the internet--there's certainly no ad or homepage for a "Friend" to have referred her to. And had she actually found me, not just an email addy she came across somewhere or another, she would have addressed me by name, and used the term "flute lessons," not "music lessons."

Sigh.

Why do those of us who try to live our lives with a minimum of damage to others have to share the planet with assholes like this?

In Memoriam

2007-09-11T01:23:00.000-07:00

Stan Hall

Ruben Ornedo

September 11, 2001

Goin' to the Chapel...

2007-09-08T00:11:00.000-07:00

Or the hotel, or the country club, or the park, or the beach.

Yep. I have to play for a wedding tomorrow. It's lucrative, boring work. But I always chuckle at the irony of someone who's supposedly a heinous threat to marriage being such an integral part of so many wedding ceremonies. Because, being a flutist, I'm the soloist on most of the special music, like Panis Angelicus, Ave Verum Corpus, or whichever Ave Maria you happen to choose.

Now, isn't it common knowledge that about 50% of heterosexual marriages end in divorce? So, you'd think that if the fundies really wanted to defend marriage, they'd leave the gays alone and work harder to ban divorce. And perhaps make adultery a crime---punishable by stoning, of course.

But that might cause a bit of a P.R. problem for McCain, Thompson, and Giuliani.

Oops.

Anyway, since musicians spend a lot of time helping other people get married, we do spend some of our downtime during the ceremony thinking about what we'd like for our own nuptials--even if, like me, we haven't even met The One yet. So, like my straight colleagues, I've been thinking lately about my own dream wedding. All I have to do is to find a special someone who shares my slightly skewed tastes, and we'll be good to go.

And no, I'm not usually this controlling. But we're talking about my special day, so humor me, okay?

As lesbians go, I tend to be a bit on the conservative, corporate femme side. (Some would say that this makes me a sell-out tool of the capitalist patriarchy--but I digress.) So, style-wise, the wedding would tend to be "Town and Country," rather than Michigan Womyn's Music Festival.

I'd want a formal, high church Episcopal ceremony. The officiant must be a gay man, and he'd better be wearing some seriously expensive vestments--perfectly tailored, of course.

And I'd be keeping the gay organist busy with the following music:

For the prelude, lots of Franck, Peeters, Widor, and Bach. For the processional, Walton's Crown Imperial.

For music during the service, the Schubert Ave Maria, sung by the best lyric soprano I could find. For communion, Franck's Panis Angelicus, sung by a fabulous tenor.

For the recessional, the Mendelssohn, with the stipulation that the organist has to play the whole thing, rather than just repeating the first theme over and over. Postlude? Vierne's Carillon de Westminster.

Okay. On to the dress code.

Formal white gowns for both brides, sleek and strapless. Black tuxes, with white tie and tails, for the men. Burgundy bridesmaid's gowns--also sleek and strapless.

The rings?

Plain gold wedding bands. Like a lot of flutists, I prefer not to wear jewelry on my fingers or wrists when I play, so I'd probably have to take the ring off while working. I'd definitely wear it off-duty--on the left hand, since I'm right-handed. But if my spouse were a violinist or violist, she'd be wearing her ring on her right (bowing) hand. If she were to ask me to wear my ring on my right hand, too, in spousal solidarity--like [Mrs. and Mrs. Fun-Loving, Genre-Straddling, May-December Couple] do--I would.

The reception?

Indoors, at an elegant venue. For the music, I would normally prefer to hire live musicians. But I'm picky. If I couldn't find a band able to channel Cugie and Desi, I'd have to use recordings---because pissing off two of my musical gods would not get my marriage off to an auspicious start.

For food, we'd have tapas for hors d'heurves, surf and turf for dinner, and a dense dark chocolate cake with thick white frosting for dessert---decorated with two little bride figurines on the top, naturally. Champagne all around, and espresso served with the cake.

And the wedding night?

Sorry, you're not invited. But let's just say that Mrs. Roboflutist would be encouraged to chow down at the reception, so that she'd be able to keep her strength up later that evening.

Summertime.............

2007-09-02T00:15:00.000-07:00

Has its downside if you're a musician. When the weather is scorching, that concert black dress code goes from being a mere pain in the ass into an object of dread.

Starting with the panty hose.

Or not, if you're the string players I worked with today. I noticed that they'd all blown off the hose in favor of comfort. I should have done the same, but, clothing wise, I tend to err on the side of formality.

For a Latin, I can be such a WASP.

But seasonally inappropriate clothing was the least part of it. My flute was leaking badly enough for me to decide to bring a back-up instrument to the gig. I felt that I was losing a lot of resonance in fast passages. You have to keep a light, relaxed touch on the keys in order to be able to move your fingers quickly and neatly, and that light touch becomes a problem if the pads aren't seating properly. It goes without saying that it's no fun to play when you can't rely on your instrument. I keep reminding myself, though, that it could always be worse: I could be an oboist. Those small but deadly double reeds they play are an accident waiting to happen. Like pit bulls, they can turn on you without warning--so that your gorgeous tone of five minutes ago morphs into the mating call of a choking duck. And that's on top of any mechanical problems their instrument might be having.

So I'll stick to what's left of my flute, thanks.

Anyway, as I was listening to one of my colleagues play the "Meditation" from Thais, I was reminded of something Lynn Harrell once said. Harrell, by all accounts a really good person along with being a superb musician, told a story about a concerto performance he did years ago with the Israel Phil. He mentioned that several cellists would purposely practice the concerto he was going to play within earshot--as in right by his dressing room. It was as if they were calling him out: "Mr. Famous Cellist, I can play this better than you can." Harrell said something to the effect that some of them probably could play it as well or better than he could, but because life isn't fair, they don't get the opportunity.

So I'm listening to my colleague's stellar music-making on the Massenet, and thinking, "Yep. Lynn Harrell was right." Because if life were fair, she'd be making a shitload of money as a concert soloist, and some of the younger, technically flawless but musically boring big names out there would, um, not be.

But then I remind myself that there are a lot of folks lying in beds at Walter Reed and Bethesda--not to mention whatever Hell-hole hospitals are still half-way functional in Iraq---who would probably have a lot to say about whether or not life is fair.

Perspective can be a good thing.

Skew Tube

2007-08-19T19:23:00.000-07:00

I have a sudden craving for white bread and Jell-O.

You don't think it's because I just finished watching "Big Love," do you?

I love this show, especially the supporting actors. Any time you've got Grace Zabriskie, Harry Dean Stanton, Mary Kay Place, and Bruce Dern in one cast, sparks are gonna fly. Especially Grace Zabriskie--one perfectly-timed raise of the eyebrow, and she's got me rolling on the floor laughing my ass off. And Ellen Burstyn was kicking major ass tonight--she probably earned herself an Emmy nomination.

But beyond the great acting, this show manages to be both sinister and hilarious at the same time--just the kind of skewed worldview that seems to resonate with me.

Must be a flutist thing.

Out in the Open

2007-08-16T16:55:00.000-07:00

Apparently, someone had already given me one of those tongue-in-cheek birthday gifts I'd requested, but it must have gotten lost in the mail--as in I don't live in Baltimore, and wasn't aware of this article when it first, uh, came out. My bad for not catching it back in June, but I'm sure enjoying it now. Just click on the link and scroll down toward the end:

This is how it's done.

Clear, matter-of-fact, and without apology. Even though she didn't specifically use The L Word, she left no doubt.

Nice work, Maestra.

Another Birthday Girl

2007-08-11T11:24:00.001-07:00

Celebrating her 88th birthday in Heaven today is my favorite violinist, Ginette Neveu.

Legend has it that when the eleven year-old Neveu won a competition at the Paris Conservatoire, her mother asked her what she'd like for a reward. And what gift did little Ginette request?

A toy pistol.

Sounds like the original Tomboy Violinist must have been a total kick in the ass.

You know, I've always preferred feminine women, as opposed to someone who looked like she could go toe-to-toe with Marcel Cerdan.

But someday when I get to Heaven, I am so doing her.

Mmmmmmm.......Defalcation

2007-08-10T13:03:00.000-07:00

There's a special place in Hell for people who embezzle from non-profits.

This beyond pisses me off---and since I'm split-brained, it pisses off both sides of my brain at once. As a musician, I want every last dime possible to go toward promoting and supporting the arts in this country, and that includes keeping regional and community orchestras solvent. And as an (occasional) accountant, I think embezzlers are gutless little weasels who rip off those who can least afford the loss. I fucking live to catch them.

According to the article, this guy was stealing from the Arkansas Symphony from 2001 to 2005, and they caught him because someone finally noticed financial irregularities and brought in an auditor.

So apparently, for four years, no one was paying attention.

Whatever happened to yearly audits? And to close scrutiny throughout the fiscal year by an organization's board of directors?

Even the most trusted employees can turn out to be sticking their vacuums into your bank account. That's one of the reasons embezzlers don't get caught right away: usually his or her place in the organization is like that of a trusted family member--kind of like your sweet little sister who happens to be secretly stealing Grandma's meds and selling them at school. (By the way, sweet, trustworthy, filled-with-the-spirit church secretaries and treasurers are notorious for using the funds they oversee as their own personal bank accounts.) And embezzlers frequently don't set out to commit a crime---but it quickly snowballs into one anyway. Often, the thief has run into some personal financial trauma, and secretly "borrows" money from the entity. He or she reasons, "I'll pay it back next month when I have money again, and no one will ever know."

Wrong.

This person gets to "next month," and they're still behind the financial eight ball. So, they don't pay the money back. And a month or so later, they need to "borrow" some more. And on and on. Or, less typically, the embezzler is someone who has plenty of money, but steals just because he can--it's like a high-stakes game of "How much can I get away with?" to him. In his mind, you're a sucker--the theft is your own damned fault for not paying close enough attention to your finances.

In general, intelligent, responsible boards of directors have a person or persons delegated to scrutinize their organization's monthly financial reports and statements--including statements for the corporate plastic. (Corporate credit card and expense account abuse is all too common.) That way, anything out of the ordinary can be investigated right away. It goes without saying that smart boards require a clear paper trail for each material transaction. They also require board approval for any expenditure over a certain amount, and they separate financial duties so that no one person has total control over the funds from start to finish. And, if the board is really smart, they're on the lookout to see if anyone from the financial side of the house has recently traded in her ten year-old Honda Civic for a brand new Mercedes.

I don't care how many artists and musicians, rather than MBAs, populate an organization's board of directors. Non-profits have to be run in a professional, businesslike manner, and that naturally includes consistent financial oversight. It does not take an accounting degree to provide this oversight--just a modicum of common sense.

Otherwise, that nice flutist who handles the money for your music teachers' group might drive up to the next meeting in a shiny new Porsche.....

What Did You Get Me?

2007-08-02T15:06:00.000-07:00

I'm having a birthday this week, and I've decided to do like Bridezilla and create a gift registry. Only this registry will include musical gifts only. So the good news is, you don't have to search for my china pattern, then worry that the only piece left in the registry is the $200 serving platter. The bad news is, in order to give me some of the gifts in the registry, you'd pretty much have to be God. So you'd better get started right away.

Here's what I'd like:

A few more years with--and recordings from--Josef Hassid, Ginette Neveu, Michael Rabin, Kathleen Ferrier, William Kapell, Fritz Wunderlich, Joseph Schmidt, Jan DeGaetani, and Lorraine Hunt Lieberson.

Ditto for pianist Jean Neveu, who so ably matched his sister's intensity when they played together.

More recordings from the very much among-the-living flutist Anne Diener. The Mozart concerti would be a good place to start.

For Jerry Hadley to have found another way to solve his personal and professional problems.

For Beverly Sills to be resurrected.

For Marilyn Horne, Dawn Upshaw, Ruth Ann Swenson, and Luciano Pavarotti to make complete recoveries.

For Kathleen Battle to have a personality transplant. The fact that she tends to live up to her last name hasn't been so good for her career.

For the sometimes wayward but always interesting Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg to get her career back on track. And to add the Walton to her repertoire.

For Kyung Wha Chung to concertize. I know she's pushing sixty and is settling into more teaching, but that shouldn't stop her from occasionally hopping a plane and throwing a little Brahms, Sibelius, or Bruch our way. A recital program wouldn't hurt, either.

For James Galway to stop recording little bon-bons such as "Annie's Song," and "My Heart Will Go On." There's crossover, and then there's crap.

For Schwarzkopf, Gieseking, and Karajan to have had a different party affiliation during World War II.

For Condoleeza Rice to have realized her childhood dream of becoming a concert pianist.

For famous musicians to stop the diva behavior with orchestra members and staff. And if they don't, for some disgruntled stage hand to find an appropriate and very public way to get even. I figure that if an artist is making $60,000 or so for a concerto appearance, he or she should be the very soul of courtesy and magnanimity. (God, I'm so naive sometimes.)

For music stores to actually play test and adjust the instruments they rent or sell to young beginners. Call me crazy, but I think it's kind of hard to learn to play an instrument that doesn't work in the first place.

For the manufacturer of my flute to come up with pads that won't start leaking every time you look at them cross-eyed.

For my students to practice. All of them, not just the music majors.

For arts education to be given a higher priority in this country.

For all of those closeted gay and lesbian classical musicians--whose private lives are an open secret within the business anyway--to simply utter the words, "I'm gay" the next time they're interviewed. They don't have to divulge whom they're dating, what they like to do in bed, or what their drag name is. Just acknowledge the obvious and move on. I guarantee that the public's immediate reaction will be a collective yawn. That, and probably a standing ovation the next time the artist walks onstage.

For the slogan, "Use an accordion, go to jail" to be enacted into law.

Au Revoir, Louis

2007-07-31T22:41:00.000-07:00

We lost flutist/pianist Louis Moyse.

Like his father, Marcel, Louis Moyse did a lot for flute pedagogy. In addition to teaching, Louis compiled a slew of books containing recital music for young flutists--books I use frequently with my beginning and intermediate students.

Merci, Louis. You did a lot for the flute community, and we appreciate it.

Belle Reve

2007-07-29T23:33:00.000-07:00

Ever have a musician's nightmare?

It's like those nightmares college students have, in which they all of a sudden realize that it's the end of the semester and they've never attended one of the classes they're registered for. Or it's final exam time, and they've studied the wrong material.

Musicians' nightmares have similar traumas, only those traumas usually take place in front of an audience.

Much scarier that way.

I don't tend to have the standard musician's nightmare, where I'm onstage for a concert and realize that I've never seen the music before. Mine are more about frustration than lack of preparation--usually in my dreams, the stressor is that I can't even get to the venue. Or I've forgotten my concert black outfit and am rushing to find it, get dressed, and make it to the hall in time for the performance.

And it's always an orchestral performance that I'm trying to get to, never a solo recital. That fits my skewed psyche--I've always found playing in orchestras to be much more stressful than performing as a soloist. Go know.

But, until last night, I'd never known a musician to have a nightmare about teaching music.

I dreamed that one of my students was playing in a competition, and got smacked down for allegedly playing a wrong note in a sonata. In my dream, I got right in the judges' faces, insisting that the copy of the music that they were looking at had a misprint, and that my student had played the correct note after all.

Where'd that come from?

Probably from the fact that I had a student playing in a competition this past weekend.

As if I needed another reason to dislike music competitions.

It turns out that my dream wasn't prophetic--the kid played well and took second place. But I think that I was worried that I'd allowed this student to get in over his head, and I took that worry to bed with me. Sometimes it's hard to strike a balance between encouraging a student to challenge himself and giving him a realistic idea of how he stacks up against the competition. If the kid still wants to try, and is willing to prepare thoroughly, a competition can be a good experience even if he or she doesn't make it out of the prelims. Sometimes, performing a tough piece well under pressure is its own reward. But only the first few times--after that, it becomes, "Geez. Why am I not winning?" and the kid's confidence tanks.

And I still have a lot of trouble with the whole concept of dueling performances. I know this is way too idealistic, but I'd rather see judges give the young performers constructive comments without having to actually declare a winner.

Plus, some kids, abetted by ambitious teachers, tackle repertoire they aren't ready for in an effort to impress the judges. Speaking as an occasional adjudicator, I can do without hearing another fleet-fingered twelve year-old trying--and failing--to pull off a compelling performance of the Prokofiev sonata.

But competitions do tend to give my students extra incentives to work hard, opportunities to perform, and feedback from flutists other than me. Plus, competitions can help students to toughen up mentally--the business of making beautiful music is not for the faint of heart, unfortunately. So as much as I dislike them, competitions tend to be a necessary evil for kids who are preparing for musical careers. Trial by fire, you know?

But, Jesus. It's bad enough that competitions are a part of my professional life. Do they have to show up in my dreams, too?

Come Fly With Me, Part Two

2007-07-25T22:29:00.000-07:00

Or please don't, if you happen to be the two folks sitting next to me on a certain flight last night.

Mr. Window Seat was hygienically challenged, so I'm inclined to cut the somewhat annoying woman in the middle seat a little slack over her constant refrain of "This is the worst flight ever." Flying's unpleasant enough nowadays without adding serious body odor to the mix.

So Ms. Middle Seat kept asking me if I'd ever had a more turbulent flight. I truthfully told her that I had. Fly around the Southeast during all those summer thunderstorms, or over mountains anytime, and that's what you get. That big ol' plane can take it, but if you can't, just pop a Dramamine and wash it down with your favorite vodka about an hour before the flight. You won't feel a thing.

Kidding.

If I ever tried that cocktail, I'd wind up so drunk that I wouldn't be able to crawl to the gate, let alone be allowed to board the aircraft.

But if my recent flights are the start of a new trend, I'm definitely going to do some serious stretching and pop a handful of Ibuprofen before I get on another plane, because my back is killing me--enough to get me to reconsider my aversion to using frequent flier miles to upgrade to First Class.

Why can't airliners have fewer seats and more legroom? Or little exercise areas where passengers can stretch out and do something more aerobically challenging than ambling down the aisle to the restroom?

Oh, right. The airlines won't do that because they need to cram as many paying passengers into those aluminum torture chambers as they can.

So, because the most special kind of Hell would be specifically tailored to fit the individual crime, I'd like to sentence the heinous Nazi who designed those ever smaller, ever closer together airline seats to spend all eternity riding in the main cabin of a 737.

In the middle seat, of course.

More Bad News From The World of Opera

2007-07-11T22:50:00.000-07:00

Jerry Hadley shot himself in the head with an air rifle.

Doesn't look good.

Apparently, he'd been having a slew of personal problems to go with the vocal problems he'd been dealing with.

Years ago, I knew of an instrumentalist who killed herself over career disappointments. She carefully planned her exit in order to ensure that she got it right the first time. She picked the location, had her car serviced to make sure that it wouldn't break down on the way, took maps with her to make sure she didn't get lost, and cleaned and oiled her gun to make sure that it would work as intended.

What a sad waste of a life.

I know that it's easy, even glib, to say that suicide is a permanent solution to what may be a temporary problem, but I wish anyone contemplating it would take a step back and consider that no matter how painful things are at the moment, something better might be just around the corner. Just get through today, then see what tomorrow brings. Maybe that instrumentalist was just six months away from winning an audition. Or maybe a week away from meeting the person she'd marry. Or just a day away from winning the state lottery.

You'll never know about all the good things coming your way unless you stick around.

I understand that if someone's clinically depressed, it's got to be difficult, maybe impossible, to entertain the thought that life can get better. Probably even more so if someone's in the public eye, and his or her professional or personal problems are the topic du jour. But maybe those of us who aren't dealing with major shit in our lives need to do a better job of watching out for those who are, and helping them to get the support and treatment that they need.

Come Fly With Me

2007-07-10T22:24:00.000-07:00

If you don't mind sitting in the middle seat, that is.

I used to always book the window seat, until I developed adult-onset claustrophobia. So now, I park my rather short legs in the aisle seat. And, yes, if you're a six-footer stuck in the window or middle seat with your legs scrunched all the way up to your chin, I will consider trading seats with you.

If you ask nicely, of course.

I hate being packed into that filthy aluminum sardine can for hours on end. I have enough frequent flier miles to upgrade, but I'd rather use them for a free flight to a fun destination instead of for a comfy seat next to some D-list celebrity. Screw first class--I can make my own TV dinner and water down my own drinks, thank you.

I hate to fly, and it shows.

That is, unless I'm taking a joyride in one of my favorite vintage airplanes. In that case, I put on a baseball cap, a bomber jacket, and a very big grin.

I have fond memories of a flight I took in a B-24 Liberator. As World War II bombers go, it's not beautiful on the outside like the B-17, but it tends to be a roomier ride. As a matter of fact, I couldn't even stand upright in the waist of the B-17. And I'm not tall.

Anyway, we were taking a leisurely hop in the Liberator, with the B-17 flying ahead of us. I was standing by one of the windows in the waist, enjoying the view and the fresh air, when all of a sudden I became airborne myself.

Free to move about the cabin indeed.

We had hit the B-17's prop wash, and this caused the B-24 to make a sudden, unscheduled altitude change--leaving me floating several feet off the deck. I managed to grab one of the machine guns and hang on before I ended up a human projectile.

Yeah, it was a little startling, but also way too much fun. Too bad I can't take a weightless spin on NASA's Vomit Comet.

Unfortunately, for my upcoming trip a 737, an MD-88, and a 757 will have to do.

And in preparation for my flights, I've taken Patsy Cline, Buddy Holly, Lynard Skynard, Jim Croce, William Kapell, Grace Moore, Jacques Thibaud, and Ginette Neveu off the playlist.

Just to be safe, y'know?

It's That Time of Year Again

2007-07-07T12:58:00.000-07:00

What My People Do For Fun

Of course I always root for the bulls.

The Highchair Lessons

2007-07-06T22:51:00.000-07:00

So I'm watching a promo for next week's 20/20 show on Hell, and thinking, 1)can you believe how low TV news shows have sunk, and 2)I don't need to watch a show to learn about Hell anyway--I teach flute to beginners.

Don't get me wrong.

I haven't been blowing smoke all those times I've stated that I truly love to teach music, even when I'm teaching my beginners instead of my college students.

Most of the time, anyway.

Unfortunately, I have a couple of students--of course they'd have to be on Fridays--that I have to spoon feed on a weekly basis. And they're not little kids. One of them's a teenager, as a matter of fact.

How hard is it to remember where to put your fingers? Or how to read music?

I swear to God, this one kid has to be reminded each week of how to finger this note or that note, and she often misreads the music. These are the two lapses that nudge the normally patient Roboflutist into The Land of Pissy.

"I'm not going to tell you how to finger high F sharp. I've been showing you every lesson for the past month. Now, you're going to look it up yourself on the fingering chart."

The kid looks it up and says, "Oh, yeah. Now I remember."

And proceeds to forget it again the next week.

Of course she's not practicing--that's obvious, and we have the "You have to practice" talk each week. But I'm not going to fire this student, because the tuition for her lessons just about covers my monthly car payment. On balance, I'd rather take the money and put up with this as opposed to sitting home and watching Oprah. But, on the other hand, I have to do something to make spoon feeding a fifteen year-old a little easier to take.

So I'm going to institute a new policy:

There will be a surcharge for each lesson in which I end up slapping my forehead out of sheer frustration.

Goodnight, Bubbles

2007-07-02T18:49:00.000-07:00

Beverly Sills

My deepest sympathies to her family and friends.

Beverly Sills

2007-06-28T23:00:00.000-07:00

Sad news about
My Favorite Violetta

An amazing artist, and an incredible ambassador for opera--and for classical music in general.

Keep her in your prayers.

The Mirror Crack'd

2007-06-20T18:34:00.000-07:00

Okay, it wasn't the mirror--it was the camera lens.

I recently had some new publicity photos done, and I sent off several of them to one of my performance venues so that they could choose one to put in their brochure for the upcoming season. I figured I'd give them pictures that showed me across the demeanor spectrum--from a semi-serious look to a big, happy grin. I tried really hard to look normal. But the serious shot came out as "Mrs. J. Carrington Trammell IV (Muffy), having ingested copious amounts of Xanax, will be performing for you," and the happy shot turned into, "Looks like she's off her meds again."

I tried, okay?

I was even dressed in formal concert attire--at least from the waist up, anyway. (The photog wasn't doing a full body shot, so the ticket-buying public will have no clue that I had jeans and boots on from the waist down.) But despite being all dressed to impress, what still came through in those photos is the fact that I'm one of those classical musicians who has, uh, decorum issues.

I can't help it.

I love music and I'm deeply moved by it, but I also have an irreverent streak at least a mile wide. So, in addition to sometimes being a little too loosey-goosey on stage, I'm pretty much incapable of screwing my face up into one of those Serious Musician poses when it's time to do photos. I always end up looking like a seven year-old who just scored Minnie Mouse's autograph. Or maybe more like a sixteen year-old armed with a six pack and the keys to Daddy's Porsche.

But I hope my pictures at least make me look friendly and approachable--like the musician least likely to hose you with a look that would melt lead if you dare to applaud between movements.

As far as marketing goes, from photos to CD jackets, I'm at the point where I can deal with almost anything an artist wants to do to drum up business--not only for their own work, but for classical music in general. We're musicians, but, as tacky as this sounds, we're also products. Now more than ever, a performer has to package himself and carve out a niche in the market in order to get people to come to concerts and buy recordings. So, if Lara St. John wants to pose for the cover of her CD wearing nothing but her violin, fine with me. If The Nadj wants to drill a hole right through the camera with her edgy, Bad Girl glare, more power to her. If Josh Bell wants to be photographed with that fresh-faced, old-ladies-want-to pinch-his-cheeks look, no problem.

And if Lang Lang wants to be photographed as, well, Lang Lang, whatever.

I just want people to come to classical concerts, buy classical recordings, and encourage their kids to take up an instrument.

That's all.

Truth be told, I'm actually a lot more put off by artist photos that ooze stern formality than by those that push the decorum envelope--and were I the average concert-goer, I might have some trepidation about attending that stone-faced musician's concert.

I mean, how is someone who looks like he hasn't had sex since the Carter administration gonna play?

Boo Tube

2007-06-15T11:33:00.000-07:00

Ever have a moment when you'd like to hear one particular song, and nothing else will do?

Well, I'm having one now.

My musical tastes are kind of eclectic. And, at times, very, very frightening.

I know this is probably evidence of a serious personality disorder, but I'm in the mood to listen to one of my favorite '60s TV show theme songs--as kind of a musical pep talk before I go mail off (i.e. pay through the nose) my quarterly income tax estimates.

Sometimes you need to be cheered up, y'know? Especially when you're about to send big bucks to a government headed by a sociopathic frat boy.

But the You Tube link (in one of last year's posts) no longer works. And I don't have time to locate another link right now.

But all is not lost.

If you want pop culture as well as haute culture, the gay community is your touchstone. Gay men who weren't even born when "The Patty Duke Show" first aired can sing its theme song--and in perfect, swinging, Kennedy-era harmony. So, since I'm basically a strapping gay man trapped in the body of a 120 pound woman, I think I can remember most of the words.

So here goes:

Meet Cathy who's lived most everywhere,

From Zanzibar to Barkley Square--

But Patty's only seen the sights a girl can see from Brooklyn Heights,

What a crazy pair!

But they're cousins...

Identical cousins all the way,

One pair of matching bookends, different as night and day.

Where Cathy adores a minuet, the Ballet Russe, and Crepes Suzette,

Our Patty loves to rock and roll,

A hot dog makes her lose control,

What a wild duet!

Still they're cousins,

Identical cousins,

And you'll find..

They laugh alike, they walk alike, sometimes they even talk alike,

You can lose your mind..

When cousins,

Are two of a kind!

I feel better already. Off to render unto Caesar........

Adventures in Good Music

2007-06-13T00:17:00.000-07:00

Not.

More like I'm So Ashamed of My People.

But I guess if the Spanish could survive all those years of Franco, they can certainly overcome the embarrassment of having presented a concert featuring one of music's most frightening ensembles.

For Your Listening--and Viewing--Pleasure

2007-06-10T12:21:00.000-07:00

Two of my favorite singers in a kick-ass duet:

Chaka and k.d.

So what if she's been dead for nearly sixty years, and is way too butch for me anyway. I'm still having her baby:

Neveu Plays Ravel

And A Little Chausson

Lucia Popp, another great artist we lost prematurely. Get out the Kleenex:

Fruhling

Perfection:

La Fleming Sings Mozart

note: You Tube may taketh away, but occasionally it giveth back. I checked again and saw that the short clip of Neveu playing the Chausson was back up. I've edited this post to add the link. And, yes, I'm still having her baby.

Finally, Some Good News...

2007-06-09T19:51:00.000-07:00

on the orchestral front.

When orchestras attempt to dig themselves out of the financial abyss, guess who's usually asked to make salary concessions?

The music director?

Nope.

Jet-setting, millions-for-a-few-weeks'-work guest conductors?

In your dreams.

Top management?

Uh-uh.

Famous soloists, like Frau Strapless, Mr. Pennywhistle, Babyface, Mr. Duncan, or The-One-You-Think-Is-A-Mensch-But-Is-Really-A-Diva?

Oh, please.

It's the rank and file musicians who are frequently expected to forego raises, give up benefits, play fewer services, or even take pay cuts in order to balance the budget.

So, this recent example of
the way things ought to be warmed my heart. And not just because a dear friend of a dear friend plays in this orchestra and will get a much-needed financial boost from this--these people are good musicians who merit a salary that's at least within shouting distance of what they're worth.

Congratulations, kids. You more than deserve it.

More on Piece Romantique

2007-06-06T12:24:00.000-07:00

Looks like The Thieving Magpies have struck again.

I did some research--as in actually looking at the music before shooting from the lip--and saw that the flute and 'cello transcriptions were done by L. La Fleurance and Leon Roques, respectively. So, Chaminade didn't do the transcriptions herself. Apparently, flutists (and 'cellists) helped themselves yet again to music originally written for another instrument.

Our bad.

Anyway, this piece sounds particularly beautiful on the flute, and I'd love to hear it on the 'cello sometime.

Forget the Ring

2007-06-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

Write me a sonata instead.

There's one piece in the flute literature that I will not play in public.

Ever.

Never have, never will.

It's the Concertino by Cecile Chaminade, which may as well be an etude with orchestral accompaniment. It's trite, cliched, and stale--a total waste of space on a concert. And I don't like to teach it, either. As much as I will often negotiate repertoire choices with my older, more serious students, I find myself doing everything possible to steer them away from this musical dreck.

But, fortunately, Concertino isn't all there is to Cecile Chaminade. Among her many other compostions is a short work, Piece Romantique, that's lovely in its simplicity---it's the kind of warm, lyrical composition that I'll toss into the program mix whenever I can. It works especially well as an encore--no pyrotechnics, just a gentle, soulful thank you to the audience. It may have originally been written for violin and piano, but it's long been available for flute or 'cello as well--maybe the composer herself transcribed it for different instruments, as Ravel did for his Habanera.

It's ironic that Chaminade apparently wrote Concertino while passionately in love--with a man who ended up marrying someone else, allegedly right after Cecile presented him with the Concertino. When I hear the Concertino, none of that passion, or anything remotely romantic, comes through to me. But the Piece Romantique, written more than twenty years earlier, actually sounds like Cecile was very much in love when she wrote it.

Too bad she's not around to ask.

But this got me to thinking: probably one of the greatest experiences a musician could have would be for someone they love to compose a great work for them.

Kind of the ultimate gift, don't you think?

Mood Ring

2007-06-03T23:27:00.000-07:00

I just re-read my last entry and thought, "Sounds like someone got whacked with the cranky stick."

I'll blame it on the sleep deficit, brought on by a combination of a busy teaching schedule and massive amounts of caffeine. Had I had any concerts this week, I would have cut back on the coffee and iced tea--I can't have my hands shaking, after all. But teaching's another story. It's not just the jolt that I want--there's something about sipping a mug of coffee that enables me to endure all the nasty sounds my practice-challenged kids toss my way. It sort of relaxes me, despite all the caffeine.

But, still, maybe I should switch to decaf.

Random Acts of Consciousness

2007-06-01T23:55:00.000-07:00

The email addresses I use for business have been practically inaccessible today and this evening. I have no patience with technical difficulties. Isn't modern technology supposed to make my life easier, not make me livid?

I can't swear to it, but I think one of the nuns at St. Nameless actually cruised me this week. Come to think of it, they're all pretty friendly toward me. I wonder if they sit around the convent on weekends watching LPGA and WNBA events on TV.

I hate sweet tea. I guess my Southern ancestors couldn't afford to set up a still, so they had to settle for a sugar rush instead of getting blind drunk. But Southerners make up for their iced tea outrage by coming up with killer desserts: pecan pie, red velvet cake, and Coca-Cola cake. And I have recipes for all of those delicacies--someday I'll post them.

One of my relatives is an excellent veterinarian. Screw her cranky bedside manner: if Fido or Fluffy is sick, she's the one you're going to want on the case. So I was disappointed in her for offering to declaw my cat when I adopted him. The fact that he might scratch the furniture someday doesn't entitle me to amputate his fingertips.

Neutering, however, is another story. Sorry, Bud.

I heard a Kuhlau flute sonata on the radio. The flutist and the pianist played well, but I couldn't help thinking, "Why bother?" The piece was that mediocre. I'd rather spend my practice time--which I have way too little of--revisiting a Bach sonata for the hundredth time instead. (Or, even better, stealing a sonata from our violinist friends.) Hell, I'd rather spend my day practicing orchestral excerpts than working on a solo piece that has no emotional payoff.

Two more episodes of "The Sopranos" left. You just know the series is going to end like an opera--a main character is going to die. It'll probably be caused by an Uzi instead of consumption, but the result will be equally tragic. I can't wait.

A Woman's Prerogative

2007-05-30T13:44:00.000-07:00

Yeah, we all know that old cliche'.

But I'm probably going to have to make it a reality.

One of my recital venues wants to know right away--as in now--what I'm going to play on my program for them---a performance which won't take place until next year. And they want to know the name of my pianist.

But I haven't decided yet on the pianist. I don't think Spit Take quite has the fingers to handle the big warhorses, so I'll probably ask The Ballerina or The Dominatrix to play with me.

No, I did not do the Dubya thing again and give my friends nicknames that are probably amusing only to myself.

Actually, a colleague of mine came up with them.

As the story goes, we were all at a fundraiser at my colleague's massive home. (She married very, very well.) A man asked about the two attractive women sitting with their gentlemen at one of the tables.

"Who are those two ladies?"

"They're both wonderful pianists."

"How would you compare their playing?"

"Well, the one on the left, she's very graceful when she plays--kind of like a ballerina. And the one across the table from her, well, she's more like a dominatrix."

Perfect description of their playing and their personae.

I think I'll be needing The Dominatrix for this program.

But I haven't completely decided yet on what to play. I realize that artists who live by the concerto concert decide several years in advance what they'll play, but they only have one piece to worry about--and they have input from the orchestra to guide their decision-making: "Our audience wouldn't like the Nielsen. So which Mozart will you be playing?" But a recital program includes multiple works, so I have several times the deciding to do. At this point, I have a good idea of what I'd like to play, but it's not set in stone yet. So, I'll just have to give the venue my best guess as to the repertoire. They can print what I give them in their brochure for the upcoming season, and I can later on assert my womanly prerogative to totally change my mind--and the program. I don't think anyone will stalk out of the hall in a snit if I decide to play Muczynski instead of Mozart.

Or will they?

I remember a flute recital I attended, given by the principal flutist of a major orchestra. As always, she played beautifully.

But I was sitting behind a guy who was flat-out irate that she wasn't playing the Claude Bolling suite that had been originally listed in the venue's brochure for that season. I wanted to shake him and say, "Dude, shut up. Enjoy what she's playing now, and just buy a recording of the Bolling on your way home." But he was a heck of a lot bigger than I was, and, on top of the size advantage, he was majorly pissed off--out of all proportion to the flutist's crime. In fact, his chain was so yanked by her change in plans that he spent the whole recital dissing her; if he'd been speaking a little more loudly, it would have risen to the level of heckling. And he was dissing her personally, not musically. He sat there making snide comments to his wife about the flutist's stage presence, outfit, and hairstyle--all of those appearance issues that assholes bring up when they want to get back at women who piss them off.

And I gotta tell you, by sitting there being an asshole, he missed a great concert. But it was his choice to be irrationally angry that she had the sheer gall to play Bloch instead of Bolling---and to stoke that anger for the entire recital.

Performers certainly don't want to disappoint anyone. I think that most musicians feel the way I do: we're very grateful that you've taken the time, and often paid the money, to come to hear us. We want to share music that we love with you, and hope that you will be touched, even moved, by what you hear. We appreciate your presence, and the effort you've made to get there--you probably had to rush home from work, hire a baby sitter, grab a quick bite to eat on the way, fight traffic, and pay to park.

So, thank you. Your presence means a lot to us.

I hope that you'll leave my recital happier than you were when you arrived. And please feel free to come up after the concert to talk with me, so that I can thank you in person for coming to hear me play.

Now speaking as an audience member, rather than as a performer, I would not be upset over a change in the program. Yes, I'd rather hear Brahms than Beethoven. But sometimes, program changes are serendipitous--you hear something totally new to you and end up loving it, or that Beethoven you normally can take or leave gets an incredible performance that makes you realize what a great piece it is.

But, to use another cliche', your mileage may vary.

So if you ever attend one of my recitals, and are seriously angry with me over whatever musical bait-and-switch I might have pulled, let me make your life a little easier by responding in advance to some of your questions or comments:

Yes, it's my real hair color--don't let the surname fool you. My mom is Franco-Teutonic, not Hispanic. I look like her, not like my dad. And no, I didn't get my last name from a husband--your first impression was correct when you loudly announced to your companion that I walk like a dyke.

Yes, you're right: when I'm playing, I do stand as if I'm waiting for Venus Williams to send a hundred mile per hour serve my way. I have a better sense of balance if I stand that way, and that stance helps me to support my air better.

Why do I keep messing around with my hair? To keep it out of my face. I realize that I should probably put it into a pony tail, but I prefer to leave the workout coiffure at the gym. And yes, I used hair spray--which I hope doesn't catch fire under these hot lights.

Who dressed me? I did. If you don't like my outfit, feel free to look at my pianist's instead--she's way hotter than I am anyway.

No, I'm not a bitch. Really. But The Dominatrix is. And if you don't shut up, she's probably going to come down off the stage, stride over to your seat, and rip your throat out with her bare hands.

So please be nice, and try to enjoy the concert in spite of any changes I've made in the repertoire.

And in the future, I'll try to finalize what I'm going to play before the brochure is printed.

Deal?

Orange is the New Black

2007-05-22T09:56:00.000-07:00

Or do British prisons stick with the classic black and white striped look?

I wonder how many of our famous colleagues went looking for their bank statements today.

But I Was Going to Pay it Back

Career Change?

2007-05-21T14:57:00.000-07:00

Hmm.

Has anyone seen our favorite musician- turned-journalist lately?

Sin of Omission

2007-05-17T17:39:00.000-07:00

Uh-oh.

I was teaching my flute class at St. Nameless today, and it was time to start teaching my little cherubs about articulation--attacks, ties, slurs, the whole nine yards. So I wrote out some pointers on the chalkboard.

Problem is, I think I forgot to erase the board before I left.

I hope Sister Immaculata doesn't freak when she walks into her classroom tomorrow and sees the word "Tonguing" printed across her chalkboard.

Me So Teachy

2007-05-16T10:46:00.000-07:00

I love to teach music.

But I worry sometimes that I'm too hard-assed in the classroom--sort of a soft-spoken version of a drill-sergeant. The elementary school kids I teach are hardly budding juvenile delinquents, and I worry that the strict tone I set with them might stifle them a little. I insist on silence while I'm talking, or while I'm listening to individual students play. I think school music teachers have to keep tight control over the noise level in their classrooms--for one thing, they'll eventually lose their hearing if they don't keep the cacophony at bay. But for a little kid holding a musical instrument, just sitting there quietly while someone else plays has to be a special kind of Hell. You have this cool toy that makes all kinds of sounds, and of course you're itching to play around with it. Who wouldn't be? And I feel especially guilty about this when I'm teaching a woodwind class, rather than just working with flutes. Imagine holding on to this big, honking saxophone, and not being able to blast away on it at will. It's as if Daddy's given you the keys to his Mustang, but you can't get it to start.

And let's talk about classroom behavior. I've found that there's a big difference between a classroom full of fourth-graders, and one populated by fifth-graders. The younger kids tend to be sweet and obedient, while some of the older kids are starting to assert themselves. Ten year-olds are more about testing limits than nine year-olds, so they're beginning to chafe a little under the teacher's authority. I understand that this is a normal part of growing up, and I certainly did way too much of it when I was that age--I'm sure my own teachers expected to one day see me featured prominently on America's Most Wanted. (Don't worry, Mrs. Hernandez, there's still time.) But I have only fifty minutes to teach each class, and any rudeness or disrespect on the students' part gets in the way of my agenda. So if any kid cops an attitude with me, I get right up into his or her face, giving meaningful eye-contact and threatening a trip to the principal. And, while I hate to play the heavy, I do kind of enjoy it when they back down. Picking one's battles intelligently is part of life, and it's probably better to learn that lesson at ten than at thirty.

But I tend to be much more laid-back with my private students--probably because they're more laid-back with me. Since we're working one-on-one, they don't feel the need to establish classroom cred with their peers. And when a private student gives me attitude, most of the time I just laugh at them. That seems to diffuse the situation.

Lately, one of my private students has been kicking at the traces a little. For whatever reason, she's going through a second rebellious phase. The first one happened at twelve, and now it's deja vu at sixteen. I wonder what's going on in her life. Her first boyfriend, maybe? Or maybe even her first girlfriend? (She does play on the softball team, after all.)

So I cut her a lot of slack. And she's really a good kid underneath the attitude.

At this week's lesson, I noticed that her hands were all scraped up, as if she'd been in a schoolyard brawl. Turns out she'd had a skateboarding accident. After we'd thoroughly discussed the blood and gore angle of this experience, I asked her, "But did you have fun?" "Yeah," she grinned.

Definitely a kid after my own heart.

Come to think of it, among my students I have a lot of kids after my own heart--smart, articulate, and kind. And, on occasion, very, very funny.

I'm so lucky. I not only get to teach them music, but I get to watch them grow up, too.

I Have No Words

2007-05-14T11:23:00.000-07:00

Sigh.

Can we please hop into a time machine, and fast forward to January 2009?

Link

Arts and Crafts

2007-05-12T19:16:00.000-07:00

Am I the only lesbian who isn't drawn to hardware stores like James Levine is drawn to.....

Never mind. Not gonna go there.

Anyway, I'm just not a do-it-yourselfer around the house, so I don't spend a lot of time in hardware or home improvement stores. Auto parts stores used to be a different story, though, because I used to like to work on my car. My favorite thing was to stop by the local Kragen or AutoZone on the way home from afternoon gigs--then watch the guys behind the counter try to process having a woman wearing make-up, formal black, and heels handing them a set of brake rotors to be turned. Too bad I can't do a lot of work on the car anymore--no place to do it, and not enough free time. I miss it.

But this week, I did drop by The Lesbian Bridal Registry--oops, I mean the local hardware store-- to pick up some beeswax.

What's the beeswax for?

My flute.

It's a quick, painless, and easily adjustable way to tweak the fit of the headjoint to the body of the flute. I've noticed recently that my flute's headjoint has been fitting a little too loosely, to the point that sometimes it's moving around while I play. I don't want to have it re-fitted to this flute right now, because I plan to buy a new flute this year and would like to be able to use this headjoint on it. If I have it expanded even a little to fit more tightly on my present flute, it will probably be too thick to fit the new one.

The trick is to use just the right amount of wax, so that the headjoint stays in place, but isn't so tight that the flute's sound or response goes to Hell. So, I've been doing a lot of experimenting with how much wax to rub on the tenon (the tenon's the part that actually fits into the body of the flute.) And how much to then rub off onto the cleaning rag. Or onto my jeans.

Too much information, yes?

But the little instrument maintenance tricks we all learn over the years are kind of cool, after all.

So file this one under "Flute Wonkery."

Heavenly Creatures

2007-05-11T11:05:00.000-07:00

Speaking of Thibaud and Neveu, I just had an irreverent thought.

Picture it:

Heaven--1953

Thibaud looks over at the pilot of his ill-fated airplane, sighs, "Merde happens," and lights a cigarette. They sit down together and share a bottle of wine.

Heaven--1949

Neveu looks over at Captain Can't-Find-the-Runway, slaps him across the face, and screams, "You [comment dit-on 'fuckhead'?]! I would have been bigger than Heifetz!"

Moonlighting

2007-05-11T01:11:00.000-07:00

I pulled a Midori tonight, and broke the E string on my new toy.

I know, I know. It's probably disrespectful to refer to a violin as a toy. Especially if your main instrument happens to be low-class enough to leave little drops of spit all over the floor.

But I mean it affectionately. The faux Strad is a blast to play on---even though it's probably way too much violin for a rank beginner like me.

Anyway, I wasn't even playing the sucker, just trying to tune it. Three of the strings are holding a tuning pretty well. But the stupid ass E string (the one Pirastro among the Dominants--Luthier Knows Best, right?) has been fighting me ever since I brought the violin home from the shop.

Tonight, it won.

There I was trying to tighten the string up to an E--and get it to stay there.

"Oops. It slid down to an A again."

So I mess with the pegs and the little tuner things.

"Okay, we're up to a C sharp. That's progress."

I pluck the string again.

"Oh, shit. Why did it move back down to a B natural?"

I pluck the string once more and twist the peg tighter, listening for that magic moment when the E string actually plays an E.

Sproing!!!

I'm sure that my grandmother, who's now teaching French in Heaven, laughed so hard that she spit her vichyssoise all over Jacques Thibaud and Ginette Neveu. 'Cause I just know that, being both an amateur violinist and a professional Francophile, Grandmother began stalking those two as soon as she walked through the pearly gates.

Je regret, Grand-Maman. I'll try to be more careful with your violin.

Therapy instrument, indeed.

In Recovery

2007-05-08T16:05:00.000-07:00

Not in an addictive sense---I don't have enough of a tolerance for booze to end up an alcoholic, thank God. But I can eat again, and I'm getting my energy back. And I look slightly less death-on-a-stick than I did yesterday.

So I played a gig today with another flutist, along with a pianist I've given dual nicknames: The Memory Hole, and The Adventure.

In rehearsal, she's The Memory Hole. She's about my mother's age, and we've known each other since I was a teenager. She remembers everything, from decades-old gossip about colleagues to quirky musical stuff---like the fact that I've always moved around a lot when I play. (A condition she very kindly states makes me easy to follow. I sure hope it does, because I can't help it, and I'm only marginally aware that I'm even doing it.)

I love working with this woman, personally and professionally. But sometimes during the performance, she morphs from The Memory Hole into The Adventure.

You know the old phrase, "Shit happens"?

To quote Claus von Bulow, "You have no idea."

Unfortunately, I don't think today's walk on the wild side was merely the result of a missed page turn. We've all had the occasional page turn disaster to recover from, but for The Adventure, I'm worried that this one was a brain freeze issue, not a logistical one. She spaced out so badly at the beginning of a section of our piece that we had to stop, and begin that section again. Fortunately, this was not a high-stakes gig. But still, when I walk out there I want to know that my colleagues are going to be at least solid during the performance. Inspired would be even better, but you've got to have the technique and the concentration nailed down in order to have a snowball's chance in Hell of putting your musical ideas across. So, you've gotta start with solid. And I'm afraid I no longer trust The Adventure to be solid in front of an audience.

All this got me to thinking about Beverly Sills and Frank Sinatra. Beverly knew when to quit, and Ol' Blue Eyes didn't. His late performances tarnished his legacy, like a star baseball player who hangs on too long and ends up batting .200 in his final season.

I'm worried that it's time for my much-loved colleague to hang up her spikes for good.

Don't Drink the Water

2007-05-07T13:32:00.000-07:00

Or eat party food that has been sitting out for more than 5 hours.

Ever play the flute while you have food poisoning?

Fortunately, I don't have a concert today. Tomorrow's another story, though. But I should be all right by then. It's a good thing that I practiced yesterday, before whatever gut bomb I ingested decided to work its magic. In the meantime, we'll see how many lessons I can teach today without having to excuse myself to go puke.

Married to It

2007-04-26T23:29:00.000-07:00

Or, "Just Slap A Warning Label On Me, Part 2."

Even better, how about attaching a "Hello, My Name is Clueless," sticker to my girlfriend.

Schedule-wise, Friday is one of my Hell days. I start teaching flute at 9 AM, and finish any time between 7 and 9 PM, depending on who needs a make-up lesson. And sometimes, I have rehearsals and performances to fit in on top of the teaching.

My girlfriend is aware of this.

But awareness doesn't always add up to empathy.

My girlfriend's neighbor was having a dinner party on a Friday night, with the festivities set to commence while the evening rush hour was still in full swing. And my girlfriend wanted me to reschedule my commitments, fight rush hour traffic getting out of the city, and drive fifty miles to her rural enclave in order to attend this get-together.

What's wrong with this picture?

Now the town GF lives in is a truly lovely place, and most of her neighbors are wonderful people. I like to visit, but living there is an entirely different proposition.

Have I mentioned that my girlfriend and I have the May-December thing going on? She's early Baby Boom to my Gen X, so her parents have already gone to the big country club in the sky--leaving her with an inheritance that she's going through a little too quickly. As soon as she got the money from the estate, GF decided that she could quit her job, retire, and spend all of her time in her beautiful little town. Her fantasy is that I will move into her ramshackle house and, until my decades-away retirement (if I even decide to retire, that is), continue to ply my trade by leaving in the morning, staying away all day while I work in the city, then driving the fifty miles back--starting out at, oh, about 9 PM or so, to live with her in a house that's a half step above condemnable. The problem with that is, I need to use my downtime between the students and the gigs to practice my flute and manage my career. My daily schedule includes a lot of back and forth between students and practice at home, and students and gigs away. Obviously, I can't manage a schedule like that unless I keep my home in the city. Then there's the natural disaster factor--it is quite possible for the roads to wash out again between her town and civilization, leaving me unable to get to work.

"Gee, I'm sorry I missed the concert, but I couldn't charter a helicopter in time to get there. But please call me when you're contracting the next gig. "

[snort]

It's not just the inconvenience factor. I like where I live. I can't sleep if it's too quiet--I need traffic noise and sirens to lull me to sleep. I need to be able to get take-out at midnight. I need to be near architecture that doesn't involve cutouts of crescent moons, music that doesn't require banjos, and art that doesn't include John Wayne on velvet.

I need to be around culture, and I don't think Kitty Carlisle and Mstislav Rostropovich are planning on haunting the girlfriend's town any time soon.

The thing is, my girlfriend knew that I was a professional musician when we got together. But she also knew about my safety net career. She was always hoping against hope that I'd join an accounting firm, so that our work hours would mesh until she retired. Then, I could do the 9 to 5 thing Monday through Friday and support her in her old age. But this is real life, not Burger King--- the girlfriend cannot always expect to have it her way. I'm a much happier person as a musician than I'd be as a number cruncher, and I see no need to make a drastic career change in order to please someone else.

It's the old trade off--do you want your spouse to be happy, while knowing that one of the things that makes your spouse happy is a career that tends to reduce your time together?

Dialogues With the Carmelites

2007-04-19T21:33:00.000-07:00

The accountant moment has passed--at least until I sit down and deal with those returns still on extension. So it's back to music full time. What a relief.

Today, I was teaching flute in a Catholic school, so of course I wore the most painted-on looking jeans that I own. But at least I was conservative with the make-up. Having a Latin surname probably gets me a free pass anyway, as long as I don't take my rebellious streak too far. The Powers That Be at St. Nameless probably just assume that I'm a member of the fold---a nice, chaste Catholic girl. But I'm not. I mean the Catholic part and the chaste part. I'm actually very nice---most of the time, anyway.

This school has a convent attached to it, and the penguins, so to speak, are out in full force. They seem like very nice ladies who genuinely like working with kids. So please understand that I mean no disrespect by what I'm about to say:

Why would any woman want to be a nun?

Have they just not had good sex? Are they afraid of men? Or are they afraid of their attraction to women? Are those full habits they wear a form of armor against any kind of sexuality or intimacy? Or are they merely an outward expression of their commitment to God?

Don't get me wrong--there's something to be said for consecrating yourself to a Supreme Being, or even just to something you value. Artists and musicians certainly do this. So do activists, across the political spectrum. But, to me, that profound spiritual dedication and commitment to something you cherish, be it your art, your cause, or your God, needn't preclude intimacy with someone you love.

I would love to get to know each of the sisters, and at least try to get a sense of why she chose the convent instead of the world.

But first I have to teach the kids how to play a B flat.

An Accountant Moment

2007-04-17T23:12:00.000-07:00

This is my brain during tax season. Note the steam radiating off my head.

Tax time has ended, at least for tonight. I had to put a couple of procrastinators on extension. I could have finished one of them by the filing deadline, but the way my tax software, Lacerte, has been behaving for the last few days, I'm not sure if the entire return would have gone through.

I think I've mentioned before that Lacerte is dead to me.

After this week, it's probably dead to a lot of accountants.

Lacerte has been having transmission glitches for the past several days. Tonight, I literally spent half an hour trying to get the last extension through cyberspace. This is the first time that Lacerte has had transmission issues since I've used it, and it added a layer of time wasting, as well as worry, to an already stressful day. Just to be sure that everything was all right, I even called tech support to verify that the extension Lacerte indicated it had received wasn't going to be sent to the IRS in duplicate--which would cause the IRS to reject it. I was waiting on hold for over 20 minutes, during which I was subjected to a Muzak mix of upbeat, big band-type music. I think the Customer Service honchos were trying to make sure that all the frothing-at-the-mouth attorneys, CPAs, and EAs who were beyond pissed that Lacerte was hanging up their e-files, were sufficently pacified by the time some poor techie got on the phone.

Yes, I was pissed, but I didn't need to be pacified. I'm not a screamer over the phone. Yelling at someone who is not at fault is not only rude--it accomplishes nothing. So, I was not planning on unloading my frustrations on whomever was unlucky enough to be doing technical support on Tax Day. But I did feel keyed up and stressed out, and the upbeat swing of the on-hold Muzak was unusually irritating under the circumstances. Maybe my brain works backwards, but I needed music that would reflect and validate my mood, not try to soothe and manipulate it. After twenty minutes on hold, I wanted red meat. I wanted to hear music that left blood on the walls, not something from a 1950s sock hop.

The Most Relaxing Waiting on Hold Music in the Universe?

Office Adagios?

To Hell with that. I'll give you relaxing:

How about something as soothing as Mahler's Ninth.

Something as mellow as duPre' playing the Dvorak cello concerto.

Or something as laid-back as Nilsson singing Salome.

All I know is, by the end of twenty minutes on hold I was ready for something as peaceful, calm, and balanced as Salerno-Sonnenberg performing the Shostakovich live --while in the throes of PMS.

Yep. Those Music for Holding choices would have reflected and validated my mood, that's for sure.

So remember my playlist, Lacerte. Because I'm sure your techies and I will be having many more late-night phone encounters.

Meet and Greet

2007-04-16T00:29:00.000-07:00

Well shut my mouth.

I had the strangest experience this week.

It happened at an orchestral job. As much as I dislike being someone's musical meat puppet, if you wave a union contract in front of my face, you bet I'll play in your orchestra. Especially if you've programmed Stravinsky.

Anyway, when I arrived at the rehearsal, as soon as I sat down in my chair the conductor came over and introduced herself to me. I hope I didn't show how truly stunned I was. Because that just does not happen in the freelance world---especially if one is not playing principal on the gig.

It was a very cool gesture on the conductor's part, and I truly appreciated it.

It's been a weird week in general, with all the shifting back and forth between being a flutist and being an accountant. So, today I got to thinking, "Y'know, I don't need the money I make preparing taxes. And I sure don't need the stress. Why don't I just stop doing it, and put my license on inactive status."

Then I took a look at that jagged little scar on my left index finger, courtesy of an unfortunate kitchen encounter with a serrated-edged bread knife.

Never mind.

Roboflutist, MD

2007-04-06T23:32:00.000-07:00

Or, maybe, Roboflutist, RN, would be more appropriate.

Anyone who has performed or taught music for any length of time has a bizarre story or two to tell. And after today's eleven o'clock student, I have a new one.

I love my eleven o'clock--she was one of my first adult students, and she's studied with me off and on for a lot of years. I always look forward to our lessons, even though she doesn't practice enough to sound good on the instrument. We have a good time playing duets, and she usually gives me some of whatever junk food she feels guilty about having bought.

But this morning, when I arrived at her home, she said, "Will you do me a huge favor?"

"Of course," I replied. Like I said, I like this student a lot personally. She's an excellent person, and now that she has retired, she volunteers at hospices and the like. I figured I could certainly do a favor for someone who does so much for others.

Then I found out what the favor would be, and I almost hurled.

My student never married or had kids, so she lives alone. Turns out that yesterday she had had a cyst removed from her back. Unfortunately for her (and for me) it was in an area she couldn't reach. And she needed to have the dressing changed.

Have I mentioned that I'm really squeamish?

So I took a deep breath and told her, truthfully, "I'm gonna try not to faint, okay?"

She undid the back of her blouse, and I steeled myself for what I was going to see.

The first sight was adhesive over a patch of gauze.

"Okay," I thought,"not too bad so far."

Then I carefully pulled off the adhesive and saw that the gauze was saturated in blood.

"Jesus Christ," I thought.

I half closed my eyes and carefully pulled the gauze off the wound.

Despite having a drain sticking out of it, the wound wasn't too gross--until it started bleeding, that is. It was just a little blood, but I had to stanch that while applying the new dressing. And make sure that it didn't drip all the way down my student's back onto her white slacks. (What the fuck was she thinking? And did I mention that I'm squeamish?)

By the time the wound was dressed and the blood was cleaned up, we'd used up fifteen minutes of her lesson. No, I did not give her extra time to make up for it.

And for the rest of the day, I had a hell of a time eating anything.

Weird Science

2007-04-03T00:34:00.000-07:00

I've decided to briefly join all those self-absorbed bloggers--is there any other kind, really--who post 100 or so things about themselves.

I'm not interesting enough to have 100 things to post. But here's what I have to share:

I have no sense of direction. None. This is a source of great amusement to my friends and family.

I'm allergic to cats. This does not stop me from having one--a very big one with long hair.

I used to have a ritual whenever I bought a new car. After the engine was properly broken in, I would celebrate by taking the car out for a spin--at about 11 PM, and at over 100 miles per hour. But I have since reformed.

I'm acrophobic.

Every time I've gone out to the Dinah Shore tournament (now the Kraft-Nabisco), I've actually gone to watch the golf, not to party.

I collect Desi Arnaz recordings.

Since registering to vote on my eighteenth birthday, I've never missed voting in an election.

I like fruitcake---especially when it's covered with whiskey.

You know how every child has a particular role within his or her family? My role is to be my parents' Consigliere. It's almost always the gay kid who gets that job, by the way.

I don't believe in astrology. No offense to anyone who does.

I could be straight for George Clooney.

Ditto for Gil Shaham.

I love baseball and football, but I don't much like basketball or hockey.

I will fight you to the death for the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. And do not try to offer assistance while I'm solving it. You may have the Sudoku instead.

I sometimes speak with a slight drawl, which I inherited from my father's family. Unfortunately, we're talking a countrified, neo-Texan accent, not Tidewater Virginian.

One of my relatives is buried near Bear Bryant.

If Thomas Kinkade paintings adorn your walls, we will not be sleeping together.

Happy Days are Here Again

2007-04-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

I had some long overdue work done on my flute--the one I play in public, not the one I loan to students so they can screw it up and not cop to it---and it's flat-out amazing. If the middle c-sharp and high c were better in tune, I could play this sucker for ever. It's like a sports car--lots of power, but great handling. You can finesse it as well as rock the house with it.

Truth be told, I feel sort of butch when I play it.

Okay. Kidding.

Or not.

All joking aside, it's an instrument I can pour my heart into. It has a great, colorful sound. If only it didn't have those several whacked-out pitches. As it stands now, I'm going to order a similar model from the same manufacturer, and slap the existing head joint onto it. That will give me basically the same tone quality and range of colors, but with a better spacing of the tone holes on the body--that means all the guts and finesse, but with a middle c sharp and high c that I don't have to pretty much swallow to place in tune. It'll cost me about 7K, and it will be worth every penny.

And for recreational use, my grandmother's violin is back from the luthier's. It's one of those early 20th century German Strad copies, so I jokingly call it "The [my grandmother's maiden name] Strad."

Seriously, playing this instrument is like stepping on the gas in a Mustang GT--it throws your head back. Even with a cheap bow, it has a lot of power and resonance. I'm going to love learning how to play this thing.

Now if I just had enough room for a Steinway in here.......

An Empty Seat at the Table

2007-03-31T22:15:00.000-07:00

There's a reason I use pencil, not ink, when I write in my planner. One of the contractors I deal with has some weird karma going on, in which gigs she thinks she's booked vanish into thin air. Or the personnel requirements change at the last minute, and she has to call musicians back and say, "Never mind."

Whatever. I've learned to go with the flow.

I think to be a musician, especially a freelancer, one needs the serenity of Buddha. (Thanks to Florence King---love her prose, hate her politics-- for that turn of phrase.) You learn to listen to that little voice that says, "Don't reschedule your Thursday night student yet"---you don't want to have to call him back when the Thursday night gig goes down the tubes because someone in the group happened to know an amateur who would play for free. (By the way, "You get what you pay for" is usually the operative term in such situations. But I digress.) The contractor of that vanishing Thursday gig felt bad, and made up for it by hiring me for a cushy, lucrative Easter gig minutes from my home. No doubt she would have liked to do it herself, but was already booked---she's not that nice. I'll miss Easter dinner with the family, but they and I long ago came to terms with the fact that musicians are often busiest around religious holidays.

My career is a balance of teaching and performing, so my schedule tends to be somewhat more regular than that of a lot of musicians. People who depend solely on performing to put food on the table are perpetually tethered to their cellphone and pager. Check out break time at a pick-up orchestra rehearsal--everyone is outside frantically returning pages and checking answering machines, to make sure that they don't lose the next gig just because they've been in a rehearsal for the current one. And sometimes the pager is with you in death as well as life. When a instrumentalist friend of mine was killed in a car accident on the way home from a gig, he happened to have left his home that morning without any identification. But when the paramedics were removing his body from the car, his pager went off. The authorities got the caller to come and identify him.

Freelancer to the end, God rest his soul.

There's no doubt that a musician's schedule can often get in the way of relationships and family life. But so can a doctor's schedule, or a lawyer's schedule, or a military person's schedule. A lot of professions come with warning labels. But for some people, a person who loves his or her work, someone who has a true calling and a sense of commitment and enthusiasm about it, is a pretty good catch--even if he or she misses the occasional family dinner.

So I've stopped feeling guilty about missing family events. No, I'm not out there saving lives while the turkey and stuffing gets cold. But I am doing my small part to give art and beauty to a world sadly in need of it.

It's my job--and I really enjoy it.

I hope you understand.

The Thieving Magpies

2007-03-27T22:05:00.000-07:00

I wonder sometimes how violinists feel about other instrumentalists appropriating their literature. But, honest to God, they've got the best tunes of any of the instruments---they should be willing to share.

Flutists have already stolen the Franck sonata, and, to paraphrase Barbara Bush's profoundly empathetic observation about displaced Katrina victims, "It's working out very well for them." Many of us have long had our collective eye on the Strauss sonata, but I don't personally know any flutist who has performed it. I just heard Emmanuel Pahud's recording of the Strauss, and it's fabulous---but mostly because he's such a wonderful flutist. For me, the jury is still out as to whether or not I would program it on one of my recitals. The first two movements are perfectly doable, but the third movement is most problematic for us---several passages start out on A below the staff, and that's out of our range. The trick is figuring out where in these passages to do the 8va so that you don't totally trash the melodic line. I'm enough of a violinist spawn to be familiar with--and respectful of--the violin literature, and I'm not yet sure if I'd be willing to twist around those great scale passages at the beginning of the movement just so that I could perform the sonata on flute. I'm so used to hearing it on violin--and performed by greats like Chung, Goto, and Neveu--that I'd feel a little guilty re-voicing portions of the last movement.

On the other hand, I'm doing another recital soon for a professional musicians organization, and this group includes a violinist who has no social graces at all--think Simon Cowell on a really bad day. A few times, I've been on the receiving end of her interpersonal skills and I didn't like it. Or her. I'm a nice lady, but I'm not immune to wanting a little payback. If a flutist were to program the Strauss, she would hate it. And if I were that flutist, you can bet your ass I'd be looking her right in the eye every time I played one of those rearranged passages.

So much for my dark side.

Gathering Steam

2007-03-26T01:00:00.000-07:00

I donated a recital recently to a musical non-profit. As much as I prefer to hear the ka-ching happen when I perform, I will always donate my time to an organization that promotes music.

But, people, don't keep my pianist and me waiting to play while you have a business meeting.

Plan ahead much?

Obviously not.

It was disrespectful on their part. And it pissed me off.

I was performing with a pianist I'll call "Spit Take." "Spit Take" and I have worked together off and on for years. She's not the best pianist, on a technical level, that I've worked with, but she's a versatile, expressive musician. The fact that she's also a vocal coach is a huge plus--she's sensitive to the fact that flutists have to breathe. (Frequently, in my case.) And I like her personally--too bad she's married with kids.

Why do I call her "Spit Take"?

Years ago, back when she was doing more choral conducting, she hired me to play at the church where she was Music Director. I have a strict policy about the repertoire I bring to church: if the church doesn't ordain women, I program music by at least one female composer. If the church doesn't accept gays and lesbians, I program music by as many gays and lesbians as I can. This, of course, is not hard. It's like, "Hmm. Do I want to play the Cantilena from the Poulenc Sonata?" "How 'bout some Barber?" "Oooh. Handel might be nice." Or, "Maybe I'll play the Saint-Saens Serenade for the offertory."

You get the picture.

Well, "Spit Take" 's church didn't ordain women, and it sure as Hell didn't welcome gay people.

So I needed a two-fer.

Enter the Nocturne by Lili Boulanger. Absolutely gorgeous piece. And you can't play it without feeling a profound sadness over the fact that Lili only made it to 25 years old.

"Spit Take" loved the piece, but didn't know anything about Boulanger. Naturally, I had to tell her that Lili liked girls. (I don't tend to out living people, but if a long-dead composer happened to be gay, I'll say so.)

"Spit Take" was a lot more conservative then than she is now. And "Spit Take" was sitting at the organ and chugging her morning coffee when I gave her the goods on Lili.

Starbucks, meet the upper manual.

So a nickname was born.

Okay. Flashback over. Returning to the present.

After being forced to cool our heels for way too long while the members of this group did the required non-profit navel-gazing, "Spit Take" and I finally came out to play.

How'd it go?

For starters, I should not be allowed to talk to the audience. Not only do I get up there and just make shit up, but my manner is probably way too informal. As much as I want to do my small part to make the classical music world less anal-retentive, I think I go too far sometimes with the banter. Contrast my informal stage presence with the fact that I'm all dressed up to make Serious Music, and I'm sure my audiences suffer a massive psychic disconnect.

How'd it go musically?

Way too much fun.

Performing a solo recital is just about the most fun you can have with your clothes on. I don't think a drug exists, legal or illegal, that can come close to the feeling you get when you're standing in front of an audience and digging into the music. But I think all that waiting around to play made me just irritated enough to turn what should have been a fairly light program into "I have PMS and a flute."

I think I went a little over the top with the intensity. Even more so than usual.

The audience looked kind of shell-shocked afterwards.

Oh, well.

WWGD

2007-03-24T21:03:00.000-07:00

I tend to prefer a warm, romantic Bach rather than the more mathematical "just play the notes" style. I know that approach is open to criticism, but that's the only way I can play Bach. Or teach it. Your mileage may vary, of course.

Recently, I was coaching a student on a rather intense movement of a Bach sonata, and I was trying to get her to play a particular phrase more expressively.

Finally, I stopped her and said, "Do you remember those 'What Would Jesus Do?' bracelets everyone used to wear?"

She looked at me kind of warily and said, "Yes."

I answered, "Okay. In this passage, it's not 'What Would Jesus Do?' It's 'What Would Ginette Do?' " I wanted her to play that passage with more strength and intensity, and getting her to imagine how Neveu would have played it seemed like a good idea.

The kid is a conservative Christian, so I think I might have offended her sensibilities.

But it worked.

Random Musings

2007-03-21T19:51:00.000-07:00

The Mark

After a long day of teaching and playing, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. I noticed a faint red mark between my lip and my chin, right about where the lip-plate of the flute rests against my face. I don't think I've been pressing the flute too hard into my face--I avoid doing that as much as possible. But it was warm where I was rehearsing, and I think I perspired just enough so that the flute moved around and rubbed against the skin.

I hope that's all it is. I don't want to end up with the same kind of mark on my face that violinists and violists get on their necks---I'd never get laid again.

Speaking of facial scrutiny, let's look at the sub-genre of Mouth Scrutiny:

When I meet someone, I always check out his or her mouth. Discreetly. Especially if it's a woman. I'm not just thinking, "Great lips for playing the oboe," or "That's the perfect mouth for playing the flute."

Oh, no. It's much worse than that. I'm checking that person out (especially if it's a datable female) for the slightest hint of a cold sore.

I've been cold sore-free my entire life, and, sadly, I would probably draw the line at ever dating someone who had a tendency to get them. Nor will I play anyone else's instrument unless it's gotten a thorough wipe-down. I know that's probably being overly cautious, but I can't risk it.
A flutist friend of mine who is prone to cold sores developed one during the last presidential election--she was a Kerry supporter, so it was of course stress-induced--- and it put her out of business for several weeks.

I Drive Mechanics Nuts

Literally--for miles.

I hear a strange noise the car is making, so I take the car to the dealer-- armed with a precise description of the noise. "It sounds like a rattling snare on a drum," or "The squeak is a D natural above the staff." They have a mechanic test drive it, and he can't hear the noise the car is making. We keep going around and around like this over a period of weeks until he finally hears it--once--puts the car up on the rack, and finds the problem. In the meantime, the service writers keep dropping hints about what a great stereo the car has, and how I should turn up the volume really loud.

I don't have the heart to tell them that I could have Mahler's 8th going in the CD changer, and I'd still hear that front end squeak. Any musician would.

Family Business

No, not the show about the family that makes porn. I'm talking about the music business--in my family, being a professional musician is equivalent in prestige to being a doctor.

I'm not making this up, so thank you for not laughing.

My family places a lot of value on the arts. (Which means they place a lot less value on how much money one makes.) There have been other professional musicians in my family---a pianist great-grandmother and a violinist great-great grandfather. But both sides of the family have had a slew of accomplished amateurs, mostly violinists and pianists. So, music was not only respected as a profession, but it was an important part of daily life as well. People came home from work and played their instruments out of a sheer love for music. This attitude gets me a "Get Out of Jail Free" card as far as the yuppie fast track is concerned. So while my family is very happy at tax time to have the resident non-practicing accountant come out of hibernation, they never give me the "Do you know how much more money you'd make as a full-time accountant," pep talk.

And I'm really grateful for that.

Brownie Whipped

2007-03-21T11:22:00.000-07:00

Or, "Why I Will Never Weigh 110 Pounds Again."

I just finished the last box of Thin Mints.

I was supposed to freeze them, so that I could have The Cookies year round. But I just couldn't do it. I had to have them now, not two months from now.

I wonder if all of those fresh-faced little cherubs know the hold their product has on people.

Of course they do.

Every February, I take an inventory of who among my students will be my connection(s) for The Cookies. Then, I plan which flavor I will order from whom. But that's just the beginning. After I've eaten all of the cookies I've ordered, it's time to forage. Unlike way back in my Wearin' of the Green days, the little devils are now allowed to camp out by store entrances. They don't even have to do anything but sit there and contemplate their merit badges while their little card tables--piled high with Tagalongs and Samoas---effortlessly draw their salivating victims into their web. It's the retail equivalent of a Dick Cheney hunting trip. (Minus the pitcher of martinis.) Set yourself up in a compound that's been pre-stocked with prey, pull out the big guns, and bag your first trophy within minutes.

They have us right where they want us.

And they know it.

The Lost Weekend

2007-03-18T21:45:00.000-07:00

Actually, it's the third one in a row so far. And the next four aren't going to be any better.

I am a workaholic. I freely admit it. Unless the person wanting to hire me is on my won't work with list (which consists of a whole two people), I do a reverse Nancy Reagan and "Just say 'Yes'. " For the most part, it's musical work that I'm agreeing to do. That's fine--the more teaching and playing, the better. But, this time of year, my secret life as an accountant gets dragged out of the closet, and too many people decide they want a piece of that side of my brain, too.

I'm in the middle of practicing for a solo recital next weekend, I've been teaching and playing seven days a week for a couple of months, and several of my performing artist buddies are all of a sudden remembering that the income tax coach is going to turn into a pumpkin on April 17th. I refer to myself as a "non-practicing accountant" as much as possible--which translates as "find someone else to do your taxes"--but it's hard to turn down friends and family. And I end up giving it away: returns that would cost the average client a shitload of money are going for chump change. And, sometimes, they're going for a big fat $0 if we're talking about a loved one with a complicated return who can't afford to pay someone else to prepare it.

Here we go again.

Pass the coffee.

Competitions

2007-03-09T23:00:00.000-08:00

I've played in them, I've entered my students in them, and I've adjudicated them.

I hate them.

Don't get me wrong: I understand that many renowned concert soloists owe their careers, or at least the launches of their careers, to having won competitions. How else are the most powerful of the Powers That Be going to know that this pianist or that violinist or this baritone even exists? And even the average musical lights--working-class freelancers like me--have benefited from the competition process. As a teenager, I got my first two concerto appearances by winning a couple of local competitions. (And, in at least one of them, I don't think I deserved to win. Maybe the judges liked my outfit or something---bullshit like that happens way more often than the music world would like to admit.)

But, still, I wish there were a better way.

It makes no sense at all to me to listen to a slew of performances and declare a winner. How can you do that with any degree of certainty? Or, more important, with any degree of fairness?Assuming that all the entrants are technically competent and musically communicative, it's extremely difficult to choose one performance over all the others---especially if everyone is playing different repertoire. How do I compare this flutist's Bach to this flutist's Ibert to this flutist's Mozart? It's like trying to decide whose acting performance merits the Oscar. (Speaking of that gilded eunuch, Cate Blanchett should have received it for "Elizabeth," Julianne Moore for "Far From Heaven," and Barbara Stanwyck for "Double Indemnity." Just so you know. ;-)

And the sheer political bullshit that sometimes enters into competitions is appalling. Not just among the judges, by the way. In fact, my snarkiness about choosing a winner based on couture aside, most adjudicators do try very hard to do right by the entrants--to be fair, constructive, and, when appropriate, encouraging. Some of the entrants' teachers, however, try every which way to influence the process: by attempting to get their students' competitors disqualified on technicalities, by attempting to influence the panel, by complaining about individual judges after the fact, and even by threatening those running the competition. One of the worst offenders I've encountered should know better. One of this person's siblings, a famous instrumentalist, got royally screwed years ago at a prestigious competition---through an egregious case of teacher influence. You'd think this teacher would back off, wouldn't you? But, Teacher From Hell is probably thinking, "[Iconic Musician] pressured the panel and [my sibling] got the shaft. I'm going to make damned sure that never happens to my students." So this teacher tries to make damned sure that it happens to his/her students' competitors instead.

I frequently remind my students of an obvious truth about competitions: they have no control over the outcome, so it's best to not even worry about it. Or to play in such a way as to try to please the panel. Instead, I want them to think of the competition process as an opportunity to learn to play their best under pressure. If they are able to play confidently, fluently, and expressively in a competitive situation, it's a clear victory for them, no matter who is ultimately chosen the winner.

I just wish musicians had a better way to get noticed.

Welcome to My World

2007-03-02T22:54:00.000-08:00

To paraphrase a much-loved DataLounge post opener, I'm laughing as I type this.

Maniacally, as a matter of fact.

I pulled yet another twelve hour day of teaching and rehearsing, on top of dealing with the various administrative tasks that performing artists have to handle.

Thank you, Cafe Bustelo, for getting me through it.

So after teaching the last lesson of the evening, I caught up with one of my students to help her rehearse with a pianist for an upcoming performance. The kid had improved a lot since our last run through, and I think that the listening assignment I had given her helped. One of the pieces she's working on needed to be played with more lightness and joy, and the other one needed more warmth and expression. So, in addition to talking about and demonstrating phrasing and interpretation within the lesson, I often toss CDs by fine performers at my students and tell them to just listen---repeatedly, if possible. It's a lot easier to play expressively if you've immersed yourself in expressive playing. The music that I recommend to students doesn't have to be flute music, or music of the same composer or style period, or even classical music at all. I might tell a student to listen to Ella just as often as I might suggest listening to Rampal. The bottom line is that the performance has to be something that I think will touch the student--and touch her in a way that will help her to grow musically.

So there we were, rehearsing in the sanctuary of her very socially-conservative church and discussing what she'd learned from the recordings I'd loaned her.

As we talked about these artists' performances, it dawned on me that all of these musicians would be unwelcome in my student's church--the very church in which we were discussing their work.

On one CD, the composer, the conductor, and the soloist were Jewish. Not a lot of accepting Jesus as one's personal savior going on there.

Another CD contained beautiful songs written for the great love of the composer's life---an opera singer who happened to be the woman the composer divorced his previous wife for. Uh-oh. And this heterosexual singer did a lovely thing during her all-too-brief life: she decided that a certain lesbian singer and a certain lesbian conductor really needed to get to know each other. As far as I know, the conductor and the singer are still together.

That's definitely a family to focus on.

But these infidels were merely the warm-up to the third CD on the playlist.

This particular disc is one of the gayest CDs in my collection. If my student knew just how gay, she'd probably try to perform an exorcism on her CD player. Not only are the conductor, soloist, and both composers sailing under the rainbow flag, but it gets even better. Both concerti were written with the composers' respective same-sex objects of affection in mind---and it shows. Each concerto seems to specifically reflect its composer's relationship with The Muse--one work is angsty and over-the-top, while the other is lyrical, romantic, and playful. Both concerti are performed with a nice balance of passion and tenderness--exactly the style of playing my student needed to study and internalize.

It's not as if I had planned to give this student the Heathen Hit Parade. It just happened that these were the recordings that seemed most appropriate for the occasion. But it's particularly inevitable that many of the artists I assign my kids to listen to will happen to be gay or lesbian--we've been an important presence in the music world since day one. (That includes church music, by the way. And you're kidding yourself if you think that the music director at the local fundie mega-church is any less likely to be gay than the one at St. John the [Simply] Divine.)

Dealing with us is unavoidable. If a student intends to pursue a career in music, or even just study it at a high level, she's going to play with, listen to, be taught by, be conducted by, and play music written by all of those people that her home-schooling parents have sought to keep her away from---the very people whom her pastor rails against every Sunday.

Okay, okay--so someday we'll all be concertizing in Hell.

In the meantime, please feel free to enjoy all of the beauty and artistry that we contribute to the world.

You're welcome.

Idolatry

2007-02-20T22:40:00.000-08:00

I did something I rarely do.

I watched American Idol.

Jesus.

After writhing around in the throes of both pain and horror for a few minutes, I had to turn it off. Then, I had to spend a few minutes at the keyboard-- just to get my sense of pitch back.

I'll bet my singer friends have the same reaction to this show that my pianist friends had to the movie Shine. Serious musicians from all styles and genres have put in years of work to hone their craft, and their reward is seeing someone who can't sing or play his way out of a paper bag getting the gigs, the recognition, and the dinero---seemingly overnight.

And it ultimately doesn't matter if the Idol of the Moment can really sing well or not. His or her producer will have all kinds of technology available to create a decent faux singing voice in the absence of the real thing. And don't think they can't use this technology in live concerts, as well as in the studio. They can, and they do.

I'm not being elitist: I love good singing, songwriting, and musicianship across all genres. Music is music--and it's either good, or it isn't. And I will freely admit that the careers of some well-known classical artists are more the result of savvy marketing and packaging than great talent. But even the worst of them--and I'm not naming names here--have a lot more command of their craft than do the Idols in Waiting I heard tonight.

Maybe the trade-off is that all of the outstanding classical musicians that the average American will never hear of can go about their lives without seeing the gory details splashed all over the supermarket tabloids.

Seriously. Can you even imagine standing in the check-out line and seeing the headline, "Ida Haendel---Her Elder-Abuse Nightmare"?

Enquiring minds want to know........

Assume the Position

2007-02-15T23:27:00.000-08:00

School music teachers, choir directors, and band directors have my undying respect. As someone who occasionally teaches short-term elementary school flute classes, I have a small taste of how difficult it is to work with young students who are given group instruction. For some beginning students, properly positioning the instrument, forming the correct embouchure, and mustering up enough air volume is a frustrating challenge. Many of these kids need a lot of individual help, and for group music teachers--whether they're ensemble directors or instrumental specialists--time to provide the necessary one-on-one instruction is a luxury they don't have. There are often a handful of students in each class who never get the hang of getting a sound out of the flute, and they end up faking their way through the music as best they can. If they're lucky, their parents decide to find a private teacher to help them get a better start. And the teacher's challenge is to help them to unlearn all of the incorrect positioning that their group teacher flat out didn't have the time to correct.

As a private instructor, I prefer to teach high school and college students who are serious musicians aiming toward degrees in flute. Who wouldn't---working on a challenging piece like a Bach sonata with someone who wants to really dig into the music is a joy. But I like teaching beginners also, because I tend to like the younger kids as people--it's as if their personalities are just starting to gel. So in addition to watching them progress as musicians, I get to watch them grow up. It's kind of like being an aunt--all of the fun and none of the responsibilities. (And, yes, kids do say the darnedest things sometimes. Just so you know....)

But eight and nine year-old flute prodigies of the caliber of Menuhin, Goto, or Chang don't tend to exist. There are no quarter-sized flutes available for a four or five year-old who wants to start learning the instrument. And putting together the different finger combinations required to produce each note is probably beyond the coordination of the average kindergartner. Plus there's the lung power issue: I don't care how lustily little Tiffany can cry when she doesn't get her way--she probably doesn't yet have the breath capacity or control to even blow across a Coke bottle, much less make a tone on the flute. So flutists tend to start at about eight at the earliest, and getting fingers, mouth, and air to work together can be a slow process at that age. That means that the youngest students I work with tend to be at the Twinkle Twinkle level, and they often come to me after acquiring some seriously bad habits.

Working with them takes a lot of patience.

And sometimes relentlessness.

I feel bad when I spend the first ten minutes of a beginning student's lesson rearranging his right hand and wrist, or teaching her how to properly align the instrument, or finding the best placement for the lip plate on his embouchure, or trying to keep her from scrunching up her shoulders when she breathes. (And, sometimes, we have to repeat this process for weeks on end until things start to sink in.) It must be incredibly boring and frustrating for a youngster. If you're a nine year-old, you want to be working on that simplified version of "Star Wars" from your band book, not just standing there while your teacher turns you into a millennial version of Twist-and-Turn Barbie.

But I have to do it. Because if I don't, little Justin is probably going to injure himself. And even if he somehow avoids injury, he will never have a secure command of the instrument.

And I have to tell you, my high school flute teacher let my bad habits slide--to the point where I got in a lot of trouble during my first semester at [my alma mater]. Believe me, it's a lot easier to learn to do things the right way as a youngster than it is as a seventeen year-old--especially as a seventeen year-old with an unsympathetic professor breathing down your neck.

So please be patient with me while I work with your child on correct posture and positioning. If we get him on the right track, he'll enjoy playing the flute a lot more. Obviously, it's a lot easier to play well when all of the physical issues are under control--so even if he doesn't become a professional, he'll be more likely to enjoy playing the flute throughout his life.

And, just maybe, he'll encourage his own kid to learn an instrument.

What's not to like about that?

Stating the Obvious

2007-02-14T01:15:00.000-08:00

Can I be laughing harder?

I came across a paper entitled, "Why Should Music Teachers Practice and Rehearse?"

Gee. Ya think?

It pains me that so many music teachers fall into their happy little ruts of teaching a few students and spending their spouse's money---without keeping up their musical skills. Even the rankest beginner deserves a teacher who can actually play the instrument--and play it at a high level.

We supposedly teach because we love music. Wouldn't it make sense, then, that we love to play music?

My ideal schedule would strike a fifty-fifty balance between performing and teaching. I love both disciplines, and they tend to feed off each other. Teaching others to play improves one's own playing-- observing and analyzing students' hand position on the flute, for example, has improved my own facility on the instrument. And as a frequent performer, I can give my students an idea of the ins and outs of performing a particular work: "Make sure the pianist feels the accelerando with you;" "Make eye contact with the conductor right here;" "You're gonna need the mother of all breaths before this phrase."

And beyond all of those practical considerations, a music teacher who also performs conveys a true love of music to his or her students---and that love of and enthusiasm for the art itself is contagious.

It's a no-brainer, really.