Family Trees

Sometimes I wonder about my lineage. Not really where I came from as far as parents and relatives go, since I'm adopted and that's kind of difficult to figure out, but my oboe family tree. Both of my teachers are really, really fantastic--and they've been taught by some pretty phenomenal teachers to make them the players and teachers that they are today.

I was talking about this with my friends Stephen (who writes a really excellent woodwind blog), and we realised that though we've never studied under the same teacher, parts of our oboe family trees overlap. We thought this was pretty cool. Below, I have mapped out my family trees and connections. Enjoy!

My Family Tree--the oboe version

Me > Adrian Gnam > Marcel Tabuteau (the year before he died) and John Mack
Me > Paige Morgan > Richard Killmer

Oddly enough, when I visited Eastman and met Killmer, he told me to "tell Adrian I said hi!"

Funny, how the music world is large and small simultaneously.

For musicians: that brief moment when you think "why the HELL do I do this?!?"

My roommate and I were having a conversation a few days before the end of exams. We were both stressed out, worn down, exhausted, overworked, and any other adjective that goes along with being a music major during finals. Such times of stress get you to thinking: Why do I do this to myself? Is all of this work even worth it? And if I succeed, what am I getting myself into?

I sat there for a few seconds, curled in a fleece blanket in my desk chair, just thinking. Why DO I do this? Wouldn't a career in something else be more stable? Wouldn't I go to bed knowing all that work would be worth something?

These thoughts lasted less than three seconds.

I believe that any good musician plays music because they have to, because it's in them and it's so ingrained that they can't do anything else. A real musician strives to put himself/herself into the music in every breath they take. A real musician does this because it's who they are. They are, to use a slight cliche', one with the music.

We all got into music for some reason or another, and those of us who stayed probably didn't get into it for the sole reason of "my mother forced me to take piano" or "it was something to do in high school, so I joined band." Those of use who have chosen to do this with our lives do it because music is our way of communicating, of expressing what we feel without words. We take the music someone else has written, use their intent as a guideline, and make the music our own. My hope is that the listener hears both my intent and the composer's and makes the music personal. That's why I do what I do. That's what makes all of these hours that I could have been spending socialising or...whatever non-music majors do with their time (seriously, I honestly don't know right now) worth it. It makes my complete lack of job security okay, because the music is in me and I have to do it.

Now...there are certain personality types that are drawn into being musicians. I'd say that generally we are the misunderstood, artsy, half-crazy ones that are drawn in to spending hours of our lives in a five by five room trying to nail down that passage in La Scala di Seta. I think most of us probably turned to music because it was our way of being understood. The world around us was unrelenting and we found solace, found happiness in music. I think a lot of us who love to perform do it because it's the only way we knew that we could stand out and become known.

I speak for myself mostly, but I'm taking a stab at the general music community. We, as musicians, are needy people. We're artists. We need people to appreciate the beauty in life and the beauty we create. To a degree, we need their approval. We feed off of it. We feed off of pressure and unhappiness and bring it into our music, the rawest illustration of ourselves, and we look to our audience for approval. As performers, that's who we are. Part of the reason we play music is so we can gain that approval we need.

I think that when you grow as a person, you grow equally as a musician. Over the past year, my music-making has become less about "don't you like me" and more about putting myself into what's written on this page in front of me. I hope that in my life as a performing musician I can touch someone with music the way that countless oboists have touched my ears and heart and mind. I won't lie--I still secretly like the attention I get from a solo well-played, even though praise embarrasses the hell out of me.

We play music because we have to. Because we need to communicate--and we need people to hear it.

Debugging my JavaScript at 3am...

Here's why I'm a computer science minor and not a computer science major (you know, aside from being unable to live without music): Debugging my JavaScript at 3am.

It took me three hours, staring at that one document, wondering what the hell I did wrong, going back through the book and trying to troubleshoot my own problem. Turns out...I forgot a space. I guess that's what happens when you spend nine hours coding your fraternity's webpage...in one day. Because you made it your final.

Hi, I'd like to place an order for eight extra hours in the day...

Oh, it's that time of the year, meaning that I just realised that I have my sophomore proficiency jury, the Lambda chapter of Mu Phi Epsilon's website to write for computer science, a busywork final (meaning Intro to Music Technology) and quiz, a theory composition (finally done), a theory final, a piano exam, and a music history final. Oh, and a sight-singing dictation exam and a sight-singing hearing. And practicing.

I don't see how sleep is supposed to fit in here.

Plus, the weather keeps changing. One day it's 80 and beautiful; the next day it rains and is in the mid 40s. My reeds hate me. It's so mind-boggling how a simple change in humidity can make a reed flatten into a pancake or widen enough to let an elephant through (well, a very small elephant). And don't get me started on oboes and temperature...

I play a finicky instrument.

In other news, I have discovered that it is possible to make a decent oboe recording using GarageBand...if you have a very large room that is very quiet and turn the recording volume down almost all the way and use a trumpet filter. After about six hours of recording, I have a pretty decent track of Ferling 8 and the first movement of Vaughan Williams...all for a summer music festival that is desperate for oboists. They accepted me via resume', and this summer I will be studying with the assistant principle oboist of the Philadelphia Orchestra. How's that for nifty? And odd! On the bright side, it gets me out of Georgia for a portion of the summer.

And in the rush to catch up on sleep now, before the finals madness begins, I leave you with one new ushering quote:

(man tries to walk into the concert hall while Wind Ensemble is playing the Mozart Serenede)
Me: I'm sorry, you can't go in right now.
Him: Why?
Me: They're playing.
Him: I know. That's why I want to go in.

I then politely explained concert rules and resisted the urge to facepalm.

I know you have the munchies, but this is just too far...

Okay. I know I live in Ithaca, home of various illegal substances and subsequent munchie syndrome, but this is just too weird.

In the past week I have found a piece of Chex Mix, a red M&M, and a Dorito on the floor of the handicapped bathroom. All on separate days. Either somebody's trying to make that room their home...or the munchies have really, really gotten bad.

And thus concludes another random life tidbit.

Why is my job funny? Because people are dumb.

Ushering never ceases to amaze me with its hilarity.

People don't understand a) concert etiquette, and b) that the ushers did not make up these rules. Funnier still, sometimes the general misunderstanding of the usher's job; we are not here to make your life miserable, gather sick pleasure from denying you entry, hold your children while you go to the bathroom (yes, this did actually happen), or know where your children performing in the concert are supposed to be warming up ten minutes after the concert has already started.

It gets funnier, though.

Today, I was working the back door of Ford Hall. It is set up so that there is an aisle that is not inside the theatre, a row of columns, and the seating area. Thus, I was stationed in the aisle, listening to the concert. The Chorus and a small volunteer orchestra performed a phenomenal rendition of Haydn's Creation. Thus, three acts, no pauses between movements, one big pause, one intermission. Of course, everyone thinks it's okay to come ten minutes late to the performance...and still expects to be admitted. So, there were people waiting in the aisle as not to miss the first act. This is moderately annoying, but does not commit any egregious sin against concert etiquette.

The infamous "woman in the pink shirt," however, just simply doesn't get it.

She stalks up, somewhat noisily, to me about halfway through the third part. I nicely explain that she cannot enter the hall, but can stand in the aisle and listen.

Lady: But I just left for a second to get my coat!
Me: I'm sorry. I can't let you into the hall, but I can let you listen from here.
Lady: Why can't I go in?
Me: They're performing. This isn't my rule
Lady: Can't you make an exception? I just want to see the end of the show!
Me: I can't make an exception.
Lady: *bursts into tears* I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU PEOPLE.

She had apparently pushed past one of the upper door ushers, yelled at her when she couldn't go back in, and then stalked out and didn't even watch from the aisle when I told her she couldn't go back to her seat.

People are silly.

Apparently I was later called some rather choice words by her.

Unfortunately, cursing at the etude book doesn't help.

I constantly forget that sometimes, professors come back to Whalen after they're done with the day for important job-related things, like oh, you know, RECITALS.

I'm sight-reading the third movement of the Ferling double concerto with a soprano sax player (who is ridiculous and sight-reading and transposing simultaneously. Props to you, Andrew), and at the very end, I leap up something like an octave and a half to play a Bb major arpeggio...from high F. Not so hard if you practice it, but when you're sight reading, it's a little bit of a shock.

We finish the duet and Andrew, whose part does not have this leap from hell (not to diminish how hard the part is), sight-read half the damn concerto perfectly. I'm gigglingly frustrated at Ferling, so I half-shout "FUCK YOU FOR THAT HIGH F!"

Of course, that's the exact moment when Paige, my oboe professor, decides to walk into the room.

Of course, I react in the typical awkward Rachel way of laughing hysterically and then trying to explain the situation. Paige, luckily is cool about EVERYTHING, and once she figured I was cursing at Ferling and not Andrew, laughed with us.

I am lucky. Lucky to have teachers who understand my awkwardness.

Unfortunately, yelling at Ferling did not make that section any easier.