ProneOboe

Small Triumphs

2012-02-29T22:58:00.001-05:00

It’s the little things. When we were first starting out in Chicago, I had a minimum wage job in a bagel shop. In the evenings I played with the Civic Orchestra of Chicago, working with renowned conductors and stretching my musical abilities to their limit, but every morning I was back in the shop, making bagel sandwiches and ringing them up on the register. My husband had a similar job down the street, and the disconnect between our goals and our reality absolutely grated on him, but I sort of enjoyed the work. I tried to make nice bagel sandwiches, and to cut them neatly all the way through so they didn’t rip apart in my customers’ hands. I wrapped them tightly and marked their contents tidily on the packages. And every now and then a customer would notice, and would thank me for my excellent work, and I would feel a tiny thrill of pride. I knew it was just bagels, but I was pleased with the job I was doing.

I am playing education concerts this week with the Kalamazoo Symphony, and having a terrific time. We close with the Overture to West Side Story, and at the beginning of the piece it has this weird time signature - 4/4 plus 2/4. In other words, every other measure is a different meter, and the copyist didn’t want to write it out for my convenience. So the second bar, for instance, which looks normal, actually only has 2 beats in it, and the bars after I play start with a 2 and go to a 4 then a 2, etc. Now, I was never in danger of missing an entrance here, because this particular music is IN MY BLOOD, but I admit that the first few run-throughs I kept catching myself counting nonexistent beats or noticing that the baton was not doing the same thing my brain was in those 11 bars of rest. Since I started to pay better attention, I have found it tremendously fun to count through those measures, and I must admit that every time I hit the 3/8 bars exactly with the rest of the orchestra I feel a tiny thrill of pride.

It’s the little things.

Practice Time is Like Money

2012-02-26T15:41:00.000-05:00

In our late thirties, we have finally come to a place where we are financially okay. Not well off, obviously - musicians - but no longer living from hand to mouth. We have enough income that we can buy interesting cheeses and good coffees without having to count pennies. But I do remember a time when all of our choices were dictated by cost and when we watched the due dates on our credit card statements very carefully - if we use this card to pay that one, then by the time this one comes due that Elgin check will have come in, and we’ll save the interest charge here…

We are comfortable now at our normal level of frugality. But the tradeoff is time, which is emerging as another premium. I’ve been having to triage my practice in an alarmingly similar way.

Zoe’s asleep! I have 45 minutes now before my student comes - should I tackle my audition rep? No, better play through the recital material one more time - that’s coming up first. I can squeeze the audition stuff in next week, after this orchestra cycle ends. Isn’t that reed soaked yet?
Ooh, a whole hour? I can really dig into my Concerto now, surely - oops, no. Haven’t touched this week’s program yet.
Maybe if I listen to the Walton in the car on the way to teaching I can cut a little time from that practice session to use for Silvestrini.
If I can just get through this week of [crazy quintet gigs, heavy driving, full-time single momming, etc] then I can absolutely look at the NISO music on Monday before the first rehearsal and IF IT ISN’T TOO ROUGH there will be time later that week for some real work. I hope.

Occasionally I’ve even been reduced to scheduling my practice weeks ahead - looking at my calendar and knowing that the only time I could learn the rep for THIS gig was during THIS one, and that longer-term projects like auditions and recitals had to just wait until I could make some extra time for them somewhere. Maybe when Zoe goes to school, next year.

And this isn’t how I want it to be. In my imagination of my life I can approach the oboe calmly two to three times a day. I have time for a warmup that really warms me up, and a session on immediate material, and another on my longer term plans. I might pull out a piece that is not on this year’s recital, just to see how it might fit into next year’s. I might do run-throughs to really practice the feeling of performing a long program, just like I tell my students to do. Or record myself wayyy more than I do now, and listen deeply to the results.

But of course this is part of being a grownup. I can’t have all the time I want, and I have to make choices, and I prepare music on the fly, between students, after Zoe goes to bed, and in my head while driving. I cut corners when I can, doing arpeggios one day and scales the next. I borrow from one thing - exercising, usually, or cooking interesting food - to pay another - practicing and reeds. There is just never enough time in the day to be as good as I want.

The money thing solved itself eventually, as we adapted our lifestyles to what we actually earned and as our income gradually increased. As we began to be more and better established and picked up better and better gigs. As my reed business grew and solidified, and as my teaching studio became the (enjoyable, awesome) monster that it is. Because our network is spread out across three or four states, any one reduction in income is made up somewhere else, and for the most part we have our spending under control, and some savings. This all feels great.

But how can I get to the same point with my time? The fact that so many of my waking minutes are monetized now is what makes our finances work out so nicely. It’s not clear that I can cut back on anything that I am doing, or that I want to do so. There’s nothing I’d give up, but I need more hours.

School will be my savior, I’m pretty sure. Until Zoe is a big enough girl to leave home for a certain amount of time every day I think we’ll always be scrambling.

For the moment, I’m trying to pay myself first, just like we did when we had more debts than income. I make the time to exercise, because that makes me feel better and calmer and gives me more energy. When I am practicing I try hard to keep my mind on what I am doing, without getting scattered and playing idly. This saves time. When I am playing with Zoe I try to just play with her, and not send emails from my phone and read Facebook at the same time. That doesn’t get anything more done, but it sure is more fun than splitting my attention and doing both things badly.

And we just keep on keeping on.

New Articulation

2012-02-20T09:16:00.004-05:00

I’ve been asked for details, since I’ve mentioned this about a million times. I reworked my articulation last summer, and I love the result.

Ever since I started playing, I have blown a little air through the reed to “warm it up” before lightly whacking the reed with my tongue to start the sound. I was accustomed to anticipating the beat just a little, to give myself time to make things go, and there was always a subtle but distinct huh-Ta sound at the beginning of the line. It worked all right. I knew it wasn’t a great habit, but it felt like a low priority problem. Occasionally I experimented with eliminating it, but I didn’t know how else to ensure that the note spoke when I wanted it to. And when I tried to change I ended up with spotty attacks and occasional misses and I couldn’t have that. In a busy season there is no time to remake your playing, because while the audience probably can’t hear a little huh-Ta, they sure can tell if you miss the entrance. I needed time to make my mistakes in private.

The desire and ability to change came together suddenly, in a sort of a perfect storm. I heard some truly outstanding playing at one of my gigs, with a variety of effortlessly silent attacks, so I knew it was possible. And I picked up the book OboeMotions by Stephen Caplan, which I had imagined would help me to diagnose some of my students’ physical problems (and it did) but which also had an excellent and simple explanation of the mechanics of attacking notes. (I referred also to Arthur Weisberg’s The Art of Wind Playing for inspiration, but the specifics clearly came from the Caplan book.) And it was summer, so I had time.

The key thing I discovered was that I could not reliably produce a note on my then current setup without the warm-up air and whack of the tongue. My reeds and my articulation had evolved together, so the attack came only with the extra push I gave and not with the preliminary air. When I had occasionally played on other peoples’ reeds I had been disconcerted by the ease of the response. It was scary, and came too fast when I tried to play my way. But the gentler tone production I wanted required an easier response, and when I began to build that kind of immediacy into my own reeds I was able to do what I wanted.

I could start with my tongue ON the reed, instead of back in my mouth, and release the note by removing it. The speed of my tongue and of the air gave me ample control over the amount of attack I wanted. I began to be comfortable with the feeling of pulling, or drawing the sound into my mouth instead of shoving it out through the oboe. Luck became less of a factor. The next step was to cement the habit.

I used my favorite warmup book, Marcel Moyse’s De la Sonorité. I adapted the section on Suppleness in the Low Register, and patiently tongued quarter notes in infinitely many combinations.   I played scales and arpeggios, slowly, focusing on the gentle attack of each note. I used the Ferling 144 Preludes and Etudes - mostly the short preludes - and videotaped myself playing them, so that I could see and hear what I was doing. Even as I worked on real music I stopped myself intentionally every few minutes to confirm that I was still doing what I was supposed to, instead of falling back into my old habits.

It really only took a month or so to make the new technique feel natural. I’m not going to claim that I never missed an attack in public during that time, but I think I kept the damage pretty well under control.   And I am so pleased with my new articulation technique and the subtlety with which I can bring my sound in.

Is it weird that I’m reinventing a major aspect of my playing at this stage of the game? I hope that it means that I am continually striving to improve myself, and learn new tricks, and make myself a better player and teacher. I am not finished.

Ending the Slump

2012-02-14T08:00:00.002-05:00

This must happen to everyone. It can’t just be me.

Throughout January I was getting worse and worse. And I blamed the reeds, the snow, the busyness, the baby. But it was just that I was struggling with the oboe. I practiced every day, but I always felt like I was trying to get back to where I started rather than trying to improve. Not coincidentally, my reeds got worse and worse. I had nothing new, and my old ones were aging rapidly. I gave a recital I wasn’t that proud of, and then bombed an audition that I had really been excited about.

We started rehearsals last Monday for the Tchaik 4 concert in Northwest Indiana, and I felt lousy. Killed off two reeds in the first rehearsal, two in the second. I had only one reed in my whole case that would play all the way through the solo - and it’s not that hard a solo by any stretch. By the third night, when we played the Schumann Concerto for the first time, I was getting really worried. Maybe not worried, exactly - angry would describe it better.

Every day I was making extra time for the oboe, and for reeds, at the expense of family time and me time. I was practicing instead of exercising, and scraping at my desk instead of playing with my awesome daughter and my husband whom I love. I have been a professional oboist for more than 15 years. This kind of slump should have stopped happening by now!

To clarify, this was not a reed slump, per se. It’s easy for an oboist to blame the reeds, because they are so obviously the x factor every day. Every time I pick up the oboe it feels different, because those little pieces of damp wood that form the interface between me and the instrument change constantly. But I’m used to coping with the normal variations the reeds can dish out. And used to having to replace them as they wear out, or as the seasons change. When I have my act together they are not a limitation. But it’s easy to say, “Oh, what a lousy reed” when I mean, “Boy, I really stink today.”

And then… it stopped happening. Between one quintet gig and the next one, 45 minutes later, my slump ended. I stopped fighting the oboe and started enjoying it. Music became easy and fun again.

Some of the reeds in my case woke up to their potential. I made a few more that worked effortlessly right off the knife. The Tchaik 4 concert went well. I’ve pushed the Easy button. I’m back.

Do I know what caused the slump? No. Do I know what pulled me out? Also no. Does this periodic struggle happen to everyone? I must admit that I hope so.

Zoe is Awesome, Storytime Edition

2012-02-10T15:23:00.001-05:00

I was at home a few days ago, and it became that dozy time of the afternoon, so I was resting my eyes in a chair in the living room.

Mommy?
Right here, Zoe.
Are you taking a nap?
Mmm-hmm.
I’ll bring you a cover.

Soon a tea-towel appeared on my knees. Then Tigger snuggled in beside me, and then a bunny rabbit. I guess I had looked cold and lonely.

Mommy?
Yes?
Are you asleep?
No, Zoe, just resting.
I’ll read you a story.

Shoe.

Sheep.

Snake.

Snow.

Spider.

Thank you, Zoe.
You’re welcome, Mommy.

Upcoming Concert, and On Conflicts

2012-02-08T15:00:00.003-05:00

This is THAT week of the season. I am playing a concert and looking forward to it - but I have had to turn down three other concerts which conflicted directly. I have three weeks off after this one - why could no one schedule their performance then?

There are a lot of factors that go into the calculus of which gig you play when this situation arises. Money, repertoire, obligation, and opportunity, to name a few. I thought it might be interesting to look at my thought process.

This weekend represented a conflict between two orchestras that I play with regularly. I’ve known about this conflict since summer, and the decision in this case was obvious. The Northwest Indiana Symphony was doing one of its four “Maestro” concerts of the year - a classic symphony concert with big repertoire. South Bend is doing Broadway Pops. I love a Broadway tune, but I entered the field of classical music to play symphonies, and Tchaikovsky 4 has a lot to offer an oboist. Also, the NISO concert is 5 services, and South Bend has only 3. Also, NISO is close enough to home that I can teach my normal student load and play the quintets associated with the South Bend week, so it’s economically a win-win.

In the last two weeks, though, I was called for two other gigs. One was Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet in Tulsa, OK. I love this piece - Prokofiev makes the hairs on my neck stand up in a very good way. And I always enjoy a paid trip out of town, and I’d never played with this group before, and it was very tempting. But this was not apt to be a new regular gig for me - they clearly were desperate and calling ANYONE they could find, and no matter how well I played at the gig it wouldn’t turn into regular sub work. Too far away, too expensive for the orchestra to bring me in.

I was also called to play in Milwaukee, which would have been amazing - the orchestra there is so good, and so inspiring, and I could have stayed in Chicago with my sister and had a great time. I love playing with the MSO. But as much as I wanted to take this one, I was pretty sure of my place on the sublist and knew that turning it down wouldn’t kill me professionally.

Honestly, it came down to obligation. It’s not cool to duck a concert at the last minute, especially on a busy week like this. There’s a lot of oboe on the concert in Northwest Indiana and I didn’t want to leave the orchestra in a bind. I need to play a certain number of services there to maintain my tenure, and although I might have made more money in Tulsa or Milwaukee this week those gigs are not regular work. I need to be responsible to my contracted work so that it continues to pay out for me.

If I had had more notice on these other gigs, or if the concert had been less oboistic, or if I didn’t have such a nice combination of orchestra, teaching, and quintet services this week my calculus might have been very different. We always make these calls on a case-by-case basis.

Meanwhile, in Northwest Indiana this Saturday we are playing the Schumann Piano Concerto and Tchaikovsky 4. We have plenty of rehearsal time and a nice performance venue at Bethel Church. I’m looking forward to it and recommend attendance. Details and tickets HERE.

Treadmill Excerpt Fartleks

2012-02-05T13:33:00.002-05:00

Here’s a workout I love - Treadmill Excerpt Fartleks.

I come armed with a complete playlist of all the excerpts for my next audition, and start with the treadmill at a comfortable jogging pace. I set my iPod to shuffle, and start with a nice slow piece for a warmup. As soon as the oboe solo is over I click ahead to the next track and notch my treadmill 0.3 MPH faster. Because I’m shuffling the playlist I have no idea how long the next track will be, but I let it play out until I’ve heard my solo. Might be 30 seconds, might be 7 minutes. I click ahead and take my speed back down 0.2 MPH. Another excerpt, another .3 faster, another excerpt, .2 down.

This workout is a multi-tasker’s dream. At the end of 30 minutes I am running nearly a 10K pace (results vary based on how close to the front of the track the excerpts sit) and because it wasn’t continuous fast running but intervals of easier and harder work, I still have the energy to face the rest of the day. In fact, I’m glowing with the endorphins.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I find intentional listening an onerous task - sure, I can put some music on as I putter around and make reeds, but actually listening in order to intentionally contemplate the phrasing, absorb the harmonic underpinnings, and study the texture and orchestration of a solo feels like a chore. I don’t want to stop what I’m doing and pay attention to my stereo when there are reeds to make, laundry to do, and a two-year-old to wrangle.

But on the treadmill I am being productive, and I have nothing more important to do than listen. And listening through headphones is such a fantastically intimate experience. My car stereo is fine, but you don’t get a lot of nuance over the engine noise of a 12-year-old Beetle. In headphones you can hear every breath, every attack, every grunt from the conductor. It’s focused listening, and after a few rounds I have an understanding of the style of music I’m working in, I’ve heard two or three different legitimate tempos, I know where the underlying material is interesting or surprising, and what kind of mood I want to cast as I play the line alone. I know whether my solo is really a solo or sits under a singer (I’m in opera excerpt land right now) and thus how soloistic I should be in presenting it.

Also, and not irrelevantly, I feel strong, fast, and powerful, and my wind is all the better for having run. It is a huge win-win.

Flat Reeds

2012-02-04T11:31:00.000-05:00

All my professional life I have heard people complain about their flat reeds, and I was polite but unsympathetic. Actually, I was kind of jealous. My reeds were never ever flat - I have always struggled against being sharp. Not terribly, noticeably sharp, or at least I hope not. I match the pitch of the group I am in, and in solo situations like auditions or recitals I play in tune with myself such that it is comfortable to listen to, and many orchestras sit above 440 anyway.

But deep down I knew it, and wasn’t proud of it. I would cheat and pull my reed out for the tuning A, even though that’s not how I play the oboe, just to ensure that my pluck-it-out-of-the-air first note of the concert didn’t sound sharp. The tuner is a tyrant, and while most audience members can’t tell the difference between a 440 and a 442 in isolation, everyone can hear it when the oboist hits it too high and then has to quickly drop the pitch down to the needle. I avoid the “Doppler Effect A” at all costs, but the tricks I use to do so are personally embarrassing. I should be better than that. I envied the players who could just plant the A right exactly where their reeds wanted to be and perhaps even blow up to the note a tad. It sounded so comfortable and safe.

So last summer I embarked on a reed project. I wanted to get my pitch down to a solid A=440, and in the process I also discovered an ease of articulation that I had not considered possible. Where I used to have to start the note with a puff of air and a gentle whack of the tongue, I can now release it gently and reliably.   I attribute this to a summer of articulation work (and a certain amount of transitional awkwardness) and a significant redesign of the top of my reed. Where before I had used a very long tip with a long slope and lot of wood in the center, I now have a much stronger delineation and a shorter, thinner tip.

And I admit, I still glow when I plop a new reed on the instrument and the tuner’s needle stops one hair below vertical. I feel triumphant because that was my goal. Unfortunately, that result in reality doesn’t work.

If your reed is too sharp, you open your mouth more. You drop your jaw, you play more on the tip, you reach down for the bottom of every note. The result is that you are consciously, actively, physically relaxing all the time, and getting a great deal of depth in the sound. With a flat reed, you bite all the time, because it feels so crummy to be under pitch. Biting is a tense position, and makes you tired, and when you get tired you have to bite more, and notes become sharp and shallow because you are having to fight so hard to bring them up.   The few sharper reeds in my case have been played to death now, because they are just so comfortable in the ensemble compared to what is coming off my knife lately.

Habits are funny things. You get the hang of a new system or a new way of balancing a reed, and then little things start to creep in. Maybe the delineation starts to be TOO acute. Maybe the center of the tip gets a little TOO thin. Or maybe it’s just that the season and the goofy weather have conspired to make my new reed scrape no longer magical.   And I can’t go back. My hands don’t remember how I made my previous reeds, and those won’t accommodate my new, better articulation anyway. The only way out is forward - working through the difficulties and playing what I have. Experimenting as I go.

Unfortunately, with a reed business I really can’t do anything too drastic. There are plenty of people who buy my reeds every month and like them just fine the way they are. So changes to their reeds have to be gradual and those are the bulk of what I do. Every day I make 8-12 reeds, and only one or two of those are designated as mine. So I’m constantly making reeds with my “normal” scrape, and experimenting on only a few, which is a weird way to learn and make any sort of change. If I don’t think, think, think as I pick up a blank about what I intend to do differently, I’ll have it all scraped and be trying it on the oboe before I remember what my plan was, or that I even had one.

Every day when I come to the oboe, I pick up a new in-progress reed. I warm up on it, scrape, practice, scrape, and hope that the process of breaking it in both with my embouchure and my knife will ultimately result in the warm, responsive, comfortable, and manageably sharp reed that I crave. So far this winter I have not found it. But it is out there.   Oh, it is out there.

The Magic of the...Viola?

2012-01-27T23:32:00.000-05:00

I love a wind instrument. It feels so personal, mainly because the breath is so integral. We inhale, we send air through the instrument, and we can’t play a phrase longer than we can breathe. It feels so organic, and so intimate. I coached a college wind sectional this morning, and loved- just loved- the earnestness that the kids brought to the table. Wind players struggle, and sweat, and grunt. It is hard to translate the air that your body needs into musical phrases, especially complex, deeply felt phrases that reflect a viewpoint far removed from college students in southern Michigan. Our goal always is to transcend the instrument, and the physical process of playing, and make beautiful music through it, and with it.

Rehearsing the Bartok Viola Concerto tonight, I was reminded that playing a string instrument is so different. On the one hand, it is much more removed from the body - when air leaves the equation it is completely possible for a person to play without singing, and without making vocal phrases, and to treat the whole thing as a technical exercise instead of a musical one. On the other hand, though, there is so much simplicity to the bow on the string, and to the fingers’ placement on the fingerboard. It is a purer exercise than playing a wind instrument, and I say this as one who would rather sit through a student oboe recital than a professional string quartet concert ANY DAY OF THE WEEK.

When a professional soloist comes to play with us, they play the piece through once, facing out into the hall to learn our acoustics, and we are focused on putting the (usually) familiar piece together quickly to save time for the Symphony, whatever it is. But this week, with one of our own principals soloing, the vibe is different. I’ve never played the Bartok Viola Concerto before; it is unfamiliar to many of us, and we are focused on Gabe and eager to make his job easier. On his part, he faced in toward us for the whole rehearsal (I do that too, when I solo - it feels so much more interactive to rehearse looking at the orchestra!) so we could really see and hear him well. And I am left with a new appreciation of the art of string playing.

Of course it is extremely physical. The player’s whole body is involved in making a beautiful sound - the bow arm utilizes an infinite variety of gestures, directions, and pressures, and the left hand sits at an uncomfortable angle yet whips agilely through fingerings and forms vibrato with a fluidity which is no less intimate for being created with the hand instead of the air.

The musical downside of a wind instrument is keys. Anyone can learn to arrange their fingers over the buttons and move them fast. It’s easy - you don’t have to feel it. The pitches on a string instrument are created by choices that the player makes. How much to stretch, how much to slide, where to place a given note among infinite possibilities. It’s so organic, and so difficult, at a high level, anyway, and extremely impressive. And lastly, BECAUSE the phrasing is not dictated by the breath, it is that much more impressive when Gabe makes music that breathes, and flows, and communicates.

There’s something so romantic about a string instrument - the vibrant, alive wood, the sense of history, the purity of the process, and, not least, the fact that you can play it without making your face all scrunched up and red. No one makes artistic movies about oboists, because no oboist’s physical mien could stand up to close scrutiny on a big screen. And I get it. More tonight than usually.

I don’t regret my choice, but occasionally I see the magic of someone else’s - and I love that. Thank you, Gabe, for tonight’s happy insight!

Upcoming Concert

2012-01-26T22:54:00.000-05:00

We are playing Rachmaninov’s second symphony this weekend in South Bend, and I have always liked it very much. It’s beautiful, extremely romantic, challenging enough to be fun but not so hard that I have to practice it every minute. The musicians in general are very enthusiastic about it and the orchestra is playing well, and we have enough rehearsal time to prepare and play successfully and enjoyably.

But I wasn’t personally excited about this weekend’s concert until we rehearsed the concerto this evening. I had not heard the Bartok Viola Concerto before (aside from listening to it this week to prepare) and I find that its stark harmonies and odd atonal-yet-folksy licks are incredibly satisfying to hear and play. Our principal violist, Gabriel Schlaffer, will be the soloist (he joins us tomorrow) and I am absolutely eager to hear his beautiful sound join our orchestra in this fascinating VERY late Bartok work.

The concert will be terrific, and good for the soul on a snowy northern night. Even Steve is going to come!

Details HERE.

What I'm Trying

2012-01-17T08:34:00.000-05:00

I am still, yes, still working on how to approach my audition mind. I wrote about this before HERE and HERE.

As I practice for this month’s audition, I am trying to get away from working solely on the music. Of course the music is important, but I know these concertos and excerpts. I’ve worked them out a million times, played them in auditions, and even performed most of them in the orchestra, and my basic plans are in place. I am trying now to get myself into a good, focused, clear mindset before each one. I want to use my breathing to launch myself into a place of focus. If I can get to where I need to be with a few mindful breaths, perhaps I can control the time and my mastery of the stage while I’m in that crucial ten minutes.

So, I play an excerpt. I make sure I know how I want it. Then I stop, breathe, and try to find my way to the timeless place, the place where I totally know what I’m doing and I can turn the scorekeeper off and just enjoy playing beautifully. This is so hard to do. My plan, once I work through all of the individual pieces like this, is to start stringing them together, as I would play them in the audition itself. Practice taking the breaths quickly between excerpts to clear my head, reset, and be the me I want to be.

I know this technique is fairly obvious, but it’s genuinely something new for me. Of course I have practiced stringing excerpts together before, and practiced finding my mental cues and my tempo, and practiced getting from one mood to another. What I have not worked on in that process is my own brain. I was always thinking about the music.

That last statement troubles me, and I think it’s the reason I have taken so long to get to my current project. Of course it should be about the music. What on earth is the point of what I do if it’s not about the music? I should be the conduit for the music, and the interpretations I’ve prepared should just flow through me, and I shouldn’t have to think about myself. That is what feels awkward about this. I’ve resisted making the issue be me, because I always assumed that if my interpretations matured just a little more, or if I chose my reed more carefully, or if I pushed through that crescendo more meaningfully, things would just work out. If I took care of the music it would take care of me.

But the problem, and the reason that I am not making the beautiful music in a much bigger arena, seems to be that I am getting in the way. My self-talk and distractibility over the course of a multi-day audition process HAS prevented the smooth, perfect flow of the music, and in order to correct that I have to focus on myself. So as to take the focus back off myself. Paradoxical, yes, and difficult, but clearly the answer.

My success so far has been mixed - sometimes I feel right but then I make mistakes (so am I not as focused as I think? Or is the focus not the only answer?) and sometimes I just can’t get there at all. Meanwhile, though, in context - in rehearsals and concerts - I find that I can fairly easily get to where I want to be by broadening my visual field and looking at more than one note or line of music at a time. If I can turn on the right feeling and attitude in the orchestra but not alone at my music stand, what is the answer?

I’m open to suggestions. Meanwhile, I keep working. Working harder is probably the answer.

A Rough Start

2012-01-14T23:48:00.000-05:00

First off, let me say that I am so happy to be starting up again. I haven’t sat in an orchestra since December 21st, and I hadn’t played any “real” music that wasn’t holiday related since November. So it was a pleasure to reconvene with my colleagues this weekend and play some good old Beethoven and Haydn. We did some very nice things. Some beautiful things, really - the trio of the symphony, or the second movement of the concerto, to name a couple. However.

You know that anxiety dream you get, where it’s curtain time and everyone is pushing you out there and you are the leading lady but you don’t actually know the aria, or the blocking, and actually you don’t even know how to sing because you are really an oboist, but the audience is all there and they are waiting for you?

That’s how it felt today when our string players had to perform Beethoven’s Grosse Fuge on two rehearsals. Coming into the weekend, I didn’t know about this monster of a work or grasp the challenge that lay ahead for them. I don’t have a great knowledge of string chamber music, but I have been given to understand that this piece is legendary in its difficulty. Having now heard the performance, I can say that I’ve never been more relieved to be offstage.

It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. Our musicians are professionals. They deserved the time to work on a piece that difficult. They deserved a fighting chance to perform it well. They evidently weren’t given that chance.

I felt under-rehearsed, too, but the pieces I was playing were harmless enough. I was angry about the situation, and I listened critically as we were performing today, and yes, there were spots. Transitions that juddered and hesitated. Attacks and releases between the winds and brasses which did not line up quite precisely. An occasional patch of rough intonation. Articulations that differed between strings and winds. We were aware of these things, and we were trying, but it is not possible to catch every detail the first time. Our cohesion kept getting better, but there wasn’t enough time to really produce anything we could be proud of. It was just all right.

The South Bend Symphony is having a rough patch. We have had so many services contractually cut in the past few years that it is not at all the orchestra I was proud to win a job in 6 years ago. It’s not as lucrative a job, certainly, but that’s not my worry - money always comes from somewhere. Unfortunately, it’s often not as strong a musical experience. I am surrounded by wonderful colleagues, great musicians whom I am honored to work with. But when we consistently have to scrape concerts together by the skin of our teeth, and when weeks or months pass without us even meeting, so that we forget how to play together, we inevitably lose cohesion. We lose that magical connection - that in-the-moment effortlessness - that comes from knowing each other's playing.   Every time we get together now we have to relearn how to get along musically, and it takes time. Time that we don’t have because our rehearsals have been cut.

This musical slippage is something I feared, and wrote about a year or so ago. Things have worsened since then. My hope - and I am always hopeful - is that this is the bottom.   We have more concerts coming up in the spring than we had in the fall. More of those concerts involve interesting, fun music. Our Performance Opportunities Committee, which I served on throughout the past year, came up with a number of interesting ideas to engage the community, add services back into our contract, and build new audiences. Some of these might begin as early as next season. Perhaps as the economy begins to recover… oh, never mind. Now I’m just fantasizing aimlessly.

Meanwhile, we meet tomorrow to rehearse for our MLK day concert, and the music is on the whole very new, which I love, and very technical, which is also fun, although it has been eating up my practice sessions for a week now.   We have three whole rehearsals for it, so at least someone is thinking. Every time we appear in front of an audience we should be at our best, but the audience for Monday night’s concert will be a broader one than usual. People who attend no other symphonic event in the year will be there, and they should walk away with a strongly positive impression. That is always our job, regardless of our personal disappointments.

Upcoming Concert

2012-01-11T12:52:00.003-05:00

We have a great concert this weekend in South Bend. Beethoven’s 8th Symphony is always a treat, and we’ll also be featuring our principal trumpet, Steve Orejudos, in the Haydn Trumpet Concerto.

I love hearing my colleagues perform, and it’s always particularly exciting when the soloist is a wind player. The Haydn is one of my very favorite non-oboe concertos, and Steve is an outstanding musician, so this should be a special event. ALSO, we get to play at the lovely DeBartolo Performing Arts Center, and for all of these reasons I am looking enormously forward to Saturday afternoon.

Details HERE.

She's Gone Again

2012-01-09T20:00:00.002-05:00

In 2002 Steve had a one-year position with the Oregon Symphony. I was working steadily in Chicago, and didn't want to jeopardize the network we had built up, so I stayed in town. We visited back and forth a few times, but I lived in my apartment and he lived in his, and it was fine. In some ways, I really enjoyed it.

I had never lived alone, after all. I had had a roommate in college, and had lived with Steve basically since we met. I found that I easily got used to eating, practicing, and sleeping on my own schedule, and I liked being able to walk into a room and see the book I had set down exactly where I expected it to be. I missed him, but I'm pretty self-sufficient. I got my work done, talked to him on the phone, and lived my life.

The challenging part was when Steve's position ended and he came back home. Suddenly my apartment was our apartment again, and I had to relearn how to live hour to hour, day to day with another human being. Of course I loved him, but the crazy early-relationship excitement that had eased the original transition was no longer there, and it was hard for us to work out the difference in our lifestyles. Sometimes he was hungry and I wasn’t. Sometimes I wanted to cook and he hadn’t cleaned the kitchen from the last meal. Sometimes we ran out of things just because neither of us had realized how fast two people would use them.

We worked through it, obviously, and are great together now, but I don’t want to go through that again. Not for a year and not even for another week, not with Steve and certainly not with Zoe.

Since Steve’s father’s illness became very acute in October, he’s been traveling to Tennessee a lot. And now that he is working to probate the estate I anticipate many more long trips. He takes Zoe when he goes, as his family is happy to sit for her. I love my career, but it is simply the case that if I am not WHERE the work is, and DOING the work - the concerts, the reed-making, the teaching - I don’t get PAID for the work. Going on extended trips just to keep close to Zoe is not the best choice for our family, and she is in perfectly good safe hands. And she loves her Nana and her extended family.

But I hate this. I used to thrive on being alone, and I admit that for the first few hours with no baby in the house I sort of luxuriate in the quiet and the freedom and the possibilities. But I have no real tolerance for this anymore. I want my child with me, and I want to put her to bed at night, and take her for walks around the neighborhood, and catch all of the little developmental milestones that fascinate me. I don’t want us to grow out of the habit of each other, and to have to relearn our rituals each time.

While they are away, I am maximizing my time with ruthless efficiency. Practicing, exercising, reading and studying. Working on venues for my spring programs. Cleaning the house and running bags to Goodwill. Eating healthy meals and missing little girl’s demands like crazy. This has been a long, hard fall, and I’m hoping right now for a short week, and the safe return of my family, and a general return to normalcy.

Writing About Auditions

2012-01-02T16:41:00.000-05:00

I love auditions. I genuinely do. I like how preparing for an audition makes me a much better player, and I like playing the audition game. I like having the opportunity to play on some of our country's great stages, and I like performing for a committee of great musicians who are listening closely to every note. I like traveling and seeing my friends and colleagues in the waiting rooms. I like advancing, and I really like winning.

But I don't like talking about auditions. Every time I write about auditioning on this blog, I squirm in my seat. I edit and re-edit, and publish an uncomfortable over-worked little piece that doesn't really express what I want it to, and I've been trying to figure out why that is.

The audition scene is insanely competitive - we routinely see fifty or more oboists come out for a single job opening. Every one of us has prepared to our very best ability and traveled at our own expense to the audition site. The process lasts a grueling one to three days or even longer, and consists of multiple elimination rounds of excerpts. These mostly take place behind a screen so the committee cannot be biased. From the perspective of the auditionee, it’s hours of waiting around followed by 10 important minutes trying to impress a blank wall, literally. At the end of the time, there may be three or four people in the finals who will perform for an actual, visible committee and usually, though not always, one will be hired.

I am happy with my current career. I love my job, and I love myself as a performer and a teacher - an authority in my field. People consult me. I am known. When I take an audition for a bigger job, though, I am submitting to scrutiny by others, whom I have to accept as authorities over me, and trying to win their support. Asking for their approval. It’s a role I rarely play in my daily life.

That’s not even the part I mind - I like the limited feedback that I get from advancing or not advancing and I know that I am still who I am back at home. Taking auditions puts me in my place a few times a year, and I can use that. And I get better every time I raise my excerpts back to audition level.

What I hate is talking about it to those who don’t know the audition circuit. I feel defensive, as though I have to explain myself and confess my weaknesses. I have to admit that I am vulnerable, and that's not part of my oboe persona. I am the unfussy oboist, and I have solutions for students’ problems, and I can speak and write fluently and with authority about what I do. Letting myself be seen as a supplicant is scary. Not being one, exactly, but being seen that way.

And that, in a nutshell, is my problem with auditions. I hate to admit that I'm not actually where I want to be and I'm not actually as authoritative as I claim, and I'm not actually a winner (or not recently). I don’t like to break character in that way. But I don’t want to keep the whole process secret, either.

I find that writing out what I’m working on, the approaches I’m trying, and the results I’m getting is enormously helpful. In the two years I’ve been publishing this blog I’ve been astounded at how much it has improved my playing, and my teaching, and my attitude. Working things out in words is a wonderful aid, and I hate to miss this opportunity for improvement while I cling to my pride. So I shall continue. I am auditioning at the end of January for the Milwaukee Symphony, and it’s a job I want very much, and now that my Christmas “break” is at an end I will be hitting the practice room hard, trying some new approaches, and writing with humility about my progress.

I Earned This One

2011-12-29T20:50:00.000-05:00

I earned this cold. I earned it by burning the candle at both ends all semester long, staying up late to write or wind reeds even though I had to be up early to teach, forcing the second practice session instead of the nap, caffeinating instead of exercising to get through my afternoon lessons.

Finally, I earned it by giving in and teaching my final student last week, who was obviously ill and mucusy, instead of sending her right back out to her mom’s car with a Christmas cookie and a smile as I briefly considered doing.

As a performer I don’t think twice about going to work sick. I have played concerts with a bottle of cough syrup beside me that I drank like water. I have played with broken ribs and recently excavated wisdom teeth. It takes a pretty serious illness to keep me home, because that’s what it means to be professional. There isn’t a co-principal oboe waiting in the wings to slide into my seat and cover my job, and when I play freelance gigs it’s an article of faith that I will be there, early, come rain or shine or just about anything. If I’m not there I don’t get paid, and maybe I don’t even get hired back.

HOWEVER, if it’s about being one-on-one in a small room with students all day long, I am much more likely to cancel. If you as a student are thinking of coming and sharing your germs with the captive presence of your teacher, I would say think again. Your music study won’t suffer that much by missing a single week, and your teacher will appreciate it. A word to the wise!

Happy New Year Everyone!

Upcoming Recital

2011-12-28T15:47:00.001-05:00

Jennet Ingle

What's Going On?

I am giving a recital at Fourth Presbyterian Church in Chicago on January 6, at 12:10 pm. This program will be a shorter, more traditionally classical version of my upcoming Moveable Feast performance. It is free and open to the public.

This Chicago program will feature a veritable travelogue of works, drawing the listener along with me to Tunisia, Naples, and Scotland, along with the wide-open spaces of our own nation. I am also featuring the Bach G Minor Sonata, as a personal home-coming. I grew up hearing and internalizing the complex counterpoint and fugues of J. S Bach, and in many ways his works for a musician - especially an oboist - feel like coming home. It's a piece that terrifies and thrills me, and I am eager to present it in beautiful and historic Fourth Church.

What Else is Going On?

The full version of A Moveable Feast, starring myself, Paul Hamilton, and cabaret singer Justin Hayford, will be presented on:

January 22nd at 3pm at Valparaiso University. I will soon have repeats of this neat program scheduled in February in South Bend and Chicago.

I am still working on an East Coast Tour of last spring's CHROMA program, anchored by a performance on:

Sunday, April 29th at 3:00, at Delaware County Community College outside Philadelphia.

I am giving a noontime recital at the Chicago Cultural Center on July 23rd, 2012. I have no idea what will be on it, yet. But we'll have fun.

Where Else Can I Read About You?

I am on the web at www.jennetingle.com, and I blog about my adventures at www.jennetingle.blogspot.com. If you are not on my email list, please do join it HERE - I will not send spam but I will keep you well informed about my upcoming performances.

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Zoe's Musical Beginnings

2011-12-20T23:41:00.001-05:00

I've mentioned before that I started out on the piano by figuring out melodies. Connecting notes and trying to learn how they worked. I'm fascinated to observe that Zoe's initial approach to the instrument is totally different from mine.

She sits at our new piano and plays random notes, and tells us what to feel. If she is playing slowly then the music is sad, and we should cry. When we are "crying" she either gets up and hugs us so we feel better (so awesome!) or bangs faster, to indicate that the music is now happy and we should dance.

Her other piano game is accompanying herself - she plays "chords" in alternating hands while she "sings" the ABC song or Camptown Races or Sesame Street. She makes us sing along. She loves it when we clap at the end.

When I was little I wanted to know how music worked. Although I make my living as a performer now, I learned about the interpersonal aspects of music later. Her immediate interest is in how others react to her music. How it can elicit emotions. How it can bring people together.

I can see where all these elements come from. The accompanying is because Steve plays guitar and piano for her all the time, and the intentional stirring of our emotion is from It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown - she LOVES the scene where Schroeder plays a medley of WWI songs and Snoopy reacts with dramatic emotion to the changes in character.

But as a child I saw and experienced the same sorts of things and still turned into me and not her. She's so different from me and I made her. I love that and I have no idea how it happened. Is every child this miraculous?

Working On It

2011-12-19T23:39:00.003-05:00

I am still thinking about a method for getting my energy and focus better directed so that I might finally win a big audition.

Several people have recommended books - Zen and the Art of Archery, The Inner Game of Tennis, Performance Success, The Power of Full Engagement - and these are all books I own and have read before, enjoyed, and drawn inspiration from. I've got them pulled out and ready to refer to.

My December has not been generous with time either for practicing or for reading and intellectual speculation. So many Christmas concerts, so much travel, so much stressing out over the phone with Steve in Tennessee, so many reeds due.

But what I am doing is performing. I've had a Nutcracker or a Pops concert or at least an orchestra rehearsal almost every day since the 1st of the month, I'm treating this as an opportunity to really analyze what's going into my performances. How often do I really focus well, and what did I do to get there?

Here are some things I have noticed so far. Things I can physically control.

Posture actually makes a dramatic difference. If I slump in my chair my mind wanders. Not that I slump in auditions, but I love my new awareness that I can control that tendency in rehearsal or performance.

When I am at my best my actual focus is broader than I had assumed it would be - I see more of the page than just the line I am playing, and hear more than just myself. Knowing that, I can choose to force that wider lens when I am feeling overwhelmed.

I'm experimenting with deep controlled breathing between pieces to maximize my recovery and stay present in my body.

I'm also trying to manage my coffee consumption. Not to eliminate it, no, no, NO. But to be aware of how many cups I have and how long before I play and what seems to be optimal. I've found on previous occasions that I can be too calm for a concert. Because stage fright is not fundamentally a problem for me I normally have some coffee on the way to a performance. I figure that a paying audience is entitled to a slightly heightened version of me. I'm not sure I've drawn any conclusions yet, besides that multiple cups on an empty stomach are not a great choice. Duh.

This is obviously analysis I could have done 10 years ago - but I've always basically been good enough. Good enough to get where I am, good enough to not worry about the nitty-gritty of performing. It's easy to play exactly as well as I play and hard to be better. But now I want it. My self talk has always been that I am constantly driven to improve, but I am beginning to think that sometimes I work very hard to stay in exactly the same place. I needed that recent kick in the pants to get moving again.

At any rate, I am committed to my new project. I am teaching myself to trigger the time warp I need and to stay out of my own way so that I can perform more consistently than before. I am enjoying dipping back into my performance books and paying attention to my process more than I had been doing. I am inspired by the work I am doing. I love my life.

Upcoming Concert

2011-12-17T09:56:00.002-05:00

Our annual Home for the Holidays concert takes place tonight and tomorrow afternoon, here in the beautiful Morris Performing Arts Center. I've been playing Christmas Pops all month, in various towns, and despite the repetition and schmaltz I always enjoy these concerts.

There is something so nice about a community tradition like this. I love to see all the people at the symphony who come only once a year. Families all dressed up in red and sparkles. Everyone out at the same time, enjoying the ornate hall and the festive atmosphere. At this once-a-year pops concert I don't even chafe at all the normal symphonic rituals - the walking out and bowing, the formal tuning procedure, the standing up and sitting down. I kind of enjoy this showing off of our traditions.

So come on out, if you live nearby. It's fun to slow things down and turn off your phone for a couple of hours to enjoy the magic of the season with the Symphony!

DETAILS HERE.

I Fear the Bach

2011-12-15T20:58:00.001-05:00

I admit it. I am scared of J.S.Bach's big G minor Sonata. And I'm not totally sure why.

I've performed it before, back in 2002, and it went fine. There's no horrible backstory to make me dread it.

It's beautiful. I like the themes, and the interplay between the oboe and the piano. Or, actually, between the two hands of the piano and the oboe. The three-line counterpoint is complex, and interesting. The second movement has a lovely melody that is almost romantic. The third is a fun fugal romp in cut time, followed by a terrific 12/16 section that can't decide whether to lilt or gallop. It's fun to play. So I don't dislike the piece at all.

Endurance is a factor in this work - it does go and go and go, for 15 minutes, and Bach does not give me a lot of comfortable long rests in which to regain my composure, but I have played more grueling pieces- the second Schumann Romance, for example, and the Strauss Concerto, and I don't fear those as much as I do this work.

The technique is tricky at times. Just a little un-oboistic in its intervals, and sometimes at its hardest when I am most oxygen-starved, which is just mean. But heavens, I've played many many pieces that were much harder. Even on this same program, there are licks in Pasculli and Tomasi that I am far more likely to miss than anything in the Bach. So that's not it, either.

All of those elements factor into my fear, but I think my biggest problem with the piece is that I don't understand it. That monumental first movement just keeps ticking along, for 7 minutes or more, and I struggle to grasp the big picture of the piece. All of the counterpoint is flawlessly written, well crafted, and intelligent, and certainly there are a few cadences I can grab onto. But I can't seem to find a narrative arc to sell to the audience, or to myself. I hear the motives, but they seem to repeat at random intervals and I don't have a sense of the movement as a whole. There's sort of a high point, but then there's sort of two or three of them, and there doesn't seem to be any real reason that it should end where it does. We play and play, and then we stop.

I think it is this discomfort with the form of the piece that makes me fear it. I have listened to plenty of recordings, but none that make me lean in and groove along. Each player does a beautiful job of playing each individual measure, but the piece ultimately goes nowhere. And that is how I feel playing it too - unsatisfied. I am so narratively driven that I feel very uncomfortable just dinking along enjoying the ride. I think this piece may just be too cerebral for me.

So I have a whole set of recitals coming up, some of which are not even officially scheduled yet, and this Bach will not be on most of them. Besides my obvious concerns, I'm not sure it resonates with my theme as nicely as some other pieces might.

But I WILL perform it on my first program, at Fourth Presbyterian Church in Chicago on January 6. Because I refuse to live in fear.

A Successful Accent?

2011-12-11T22:21:00.001-05:00

Remember how Yamaha made me better? Here's another awesome example of the same phenomenon.

I have a very young student who has been struggling to get her oboe playing off the ground. She's hampered by the dreadful instrument rented to her by the local music store.

The "oboe" she has does not sound good, which is not too unreasonable as few fifth grade oboists sound good on anything. Regrettably, it also does not work. If I adjust it carefully myself, turning all of the little screws (which are loose and wobbly in their holes anyway) to their most perfect positions, and then put a good reed on and CRANK my fingers down really hard, I can make that thing play almost all of the notes it should. When she does it, the oboe basically thumbs its nose at her and refuses.

As a result, the feedback loop she needs is totally severed. When she looks at her music, and translates the dot she sees into an F, say, and remembers the fingering, and then tries to produce the sound, it doesn't come. So she works harder and harder to make it speak, and even if it eventually does she has totally lost her train of thought. There's no way for her to get through even the most familiar piece of Christmas music without getting stuck and frustrated. We've been working together for a few months and have made very little progress. I try to keep it fun, and to take the focus off the page and invent fun games and exercises to increase her fluency, and we have a good time in lessons, but she comes in the following weeks back to square one. She can't reproduce the success at home, and is consequently having a hard time.

Fortunately, her mother is also a music teacher and understands these issues. They are actively seeking a new instrument. It's a bit delicate, of course, because oboes are expensive. You don't want to spend a fortune until you know she's committed to the instrument, but she can't make any progress or have any fun until she has a horn that works. But she says she wants to, so last week they brought a couple of new instruments in to try.

These oboes were Accents - if you've never heard of that brand be glad. They are comfortably in the realm of what a parent of a not-really-motivated child is willing to afford, and they have an impressive amount of keywork so they look like a really good deal. But I dread seeing 14-year-olds come in with these. They have such dreadful bores that everything is out of tune all the time, and the attractive shiny keys are not well made and frequently bend and shift and go out of adjustment so that notes won't work. I played them, cringed, and advised against purchasing one. She would have outgrown it almost immediately.

But here's what happened. We played the whole lesson on the Accent, and she practiced with it at home for the trial week until her mom had to return it. This oboe was not a good instrument, but compared to her Signet rental it was amazing, in that it worked. When she fingered an F she got one, and she could play the low notes, and the high ones, and the sharps and flats too. And as a result she could play recognizable tunes, and suddenly it got fun, so she practiced.

When she came in for her next lesson, on her old oboe, she was a rock star. She had the confidence of someone who could play Pat-a-Pan, and play it well. She could play We Three Kings. She could play Silent Night. I even convinced her to sight-read, a little. In so many ways she was a different player than before, even on the rickety old oboe that barely functioned. She was the boss of it. She could overlook the notes that didn't come, and most of them actually did. She knew she was doing it right because the Accent had taught her how to tell.

We've started looking into some used Foxes and Yamahas, and the family probably will buy a nice intermediate instrument soon, but meanwhile the loan of an oboe that worked made it possible for her to play, and learn, and get confident, and grow. This is the happiest experience I've ever had with an Accent oboe!

New Piano

2011-12-07T16:02:00.001-05:00

We just bought a piano. I feel like such a grownup.

Now, despite taking lessons from third grade through eleventh, and despite graduating from a conservatory with a two-year piano requirement, I cannot play the piano at all. If it were just about me we would not have bothered. A piano is a BIG piece of furniture, and it weighs you down and ties you down. It's a commitment.

But I remember having a piano in my house when I was growing up. Unlike a keyboard, or a record player, or even a radio, which an adult has to operate for you when you are small, a piano is always right there. I spent hours just fooling around on it, and picking out tunes, and figuring out how it worked. I could play the M*A*S*H* theme by ear before I entered school, and could pick out melodies from Disney movies or Broadway shows. I determined that there is only one place on the keyboard that you can start Chopsticks and have it work out with no black keys. I discovered a dominant seven chord all by myself - G-Bb-C-E - and played it every time I sat down because it sounded so cool. I didn't discover any of the other inversions or any other keys - harmonies have never been my strength - but that one was mine and I felt a kinship to it.

We always sang around the house but it was the piano that taught me that pitches are specific and not nebulous. You can start a song on any note but the intervals after you start are fixed, and they look different in different parts of the keyboard but you can always find them.

In other words, before I ever began to take formal lessons and before I had even heard of an oboe I had an intuitive sense of keyboard theory and a visual way to understand high and low notes and an ear for melody, and I want Zoe to be able to play with a piano in the same idle, figuring-it-out-for-herself way. She doesn't need to be a musician, but I need that option to be available for her as it was for me.

Willie!

2011-12-03T17:18:00.001-05:00

I was listening to The Essential Willie Nelson recently while driving home from Tennessee. And the great thing about the collection is that you quickly forget how weird and annoying his voice is, because the songs are so beautiful and so diverse and so well presented. But every now and then he does a duet, and you hear someone else sing - someone with an actual voice. When Willie enters again, the sound is jarring, a little painful - and so awesome. For example, THIS. And THIS.

He's such an oboe. Those entrances sound like the way it feels for me to come in after a beautiful clarinet, flute, or french horn solo - the oboe has a harsh edge after the round, warm quality of the the other instrument. I have to remind myself to embrace the sound of the oboe and not try to hide. I love how unabashedly Willie Nelson uses the nasal bray of his own voice as an asset and how he draws us in despite ourselves.

And this is exactly what I want to do. When I give a solo performance, it's a solid hour of oboe playing, and I hope that my presentation and the variety of material are engaging enough to not make it feel like that to the audience. On my spring recitals this year I will be collaborating with a superb cabaret singer, Justin Hayford, and as I try to plan the arc of the performance my only worry is that the change in genre and sound - from Romantic era showpiece to American Popular Songbook - will be awfully abrupt. I think, though, that Willie's approach may be the best one. He just sounds like he sounds, and makes us love it. We'll see if I can pull that trick off myself.

Slowing Time Down

2011-11-30T12:56:00.001-05:00

When I am performing and things are going really well, time seems to slow down. I am completely in control of my playing and of the music coming up, and I own the air around me. This is not some mythical "runner's high" that only hits once in a blue moon, but a fairly normal occurrence. Over the past few months, though, I have realized that it's not okay to just wait for that zone and hope it comes. My out-of-the-zone performances are not bad - I can always play the oboe - but they are not good ENOUGH.

Cases in point - recent auditions in Milwaukee, Utah, Indianapolis, Cleveland. I go in, and in my first round I am unsinkable. I know what I'm doing, how to do it, and I perceive exactly what the situation requires. If I make little mistakes they don't matter. The silence between the excerpts is mine, just as the sound is when I begin to play. In each case I am pleased but unsurprised when I advance.

But each time, I return for the semi-final round as a different player. Everything seems to happen too fast, from the moment the proctor collects me from my room. It is hard to catch my breath between excerpts, tiny errors seem disproportionately crucial in my mind, I make more of them. Although I remain competent, I can't quite find my way to the magic. And the results always live up to that expectation. I don't make the finals. I don't win the job.

And this is not because I am not good enough, talented enough, or prepared enough to have these gigs. It isn't. The me who plays in total control and owns the room is the same me. I can access that me in performance regularly. That me IS what I do.

I am a slow learner - it took 4 identical experiences in a fairly short time to drive the point home. I always assume that THIS rough audition is an outlier and that the next one, with no new effort on my part, will be better. But I get it now. The point is to access that slowing-down-time place at will. I need to find a focussing technique that works for me, and practice getting intentionally into that zone. I rarely feel nervous on stage or in the audition room. Calming myself has not been my goal, so practicing mental centering has always felt somewhat pointless. Now I see why I would want it.

Now that the goal is clear, I can work on it. I can devise a plan. I can conquer the challenge.

I'd love to hear what techniques have worked for other people in solving this issue. And rest assured that when I have established my approach I'll be letting everyone know about it.