Friday, June 10, 2011

Make a Joyful Noise

Today I took a hesitant, nervous walk down memory lane. Just last week, I enrolled myself in The Beckett School of Music in Kitchener, hoping to reacquaint myself with my trumpet, which has silently accumulated a layer of dust in my closet.

It has been over four years since I have seriously played. Previously, I had studied music in University, spending hours cooped up in a practice room, playing until it felt like my lips would fall off. For all the physical pain and monotony of scales, there was nothing quite like the feeling of getting on stage and playing before thousands of people. Fellow band members were closer than family and the exhilaration of hearing a piece come to life was indescribable.

Playing a university level was likely the most challenging hurdle that I've tried to overcome. Within my first lesson, it was discovered that my embouchure ( the use of facial muscles and the shaping of the lips to the mouthpiece of woodwind instruments or the mouthpiece of the brass instruments) was completely wrong. My range of notes I could reach was deemed insufficient. I played too tensely. I attacked the notes. Before long, my fortitude crumbled and I began to doubt myself as a musician. It was because of these reasons, that I gently put my trumpet back in its case, closed the lid, and shoved it to not only the back of my closet, but to the back of my mind. For four years my trumpet sat there, only to be dragged out dutifully for Christmas and Easter celebrations at church.

However, the part of me that was passionate about the art of music never died. Those feelings lay dormant inside of me. I believe if it wasn't for J, who told me time and again, to not let that talent die, I would never have unearthed my instrument. And today, I did it. I could barely eat all day. All I could think of was my lesson, looming ahead of me.

I sat on a hard pew bench within the school, my palms sweaty, waiting for my teacher (who turned out to be late). I could smell the metallic of brass, the dusty sheet music, the valve oil spilled on old carpets, and it was euphoric. The lesson was 45 minutes long - probably the fastest 45 minutes of my life. I had been prepared for the worst. I was ready to hear things re-iterated about my lack of skill. My teacher, on the other hand, had high words of praise, deeming me "quite an accomplished player" by the end of the lesson. Of course there are kinks and quirks to work out of the system. My teacher acknowledged that yes, my embouchure was different than perfect form, however, not unable to be worked with. My range was somewhat limited, but the clarity of my notes was excellent. It was true that I somewhat attacked the notes, but my style was lyrical and full of emotion.

I left the lesson today, walking on a cloud. Taking back what I have lost will be a lot of work. My trumpet, though, now sits in the middle of my bedroom floor, where I will have to step over it every time as a constant reminder.

(Want to check out some amazing female trumpet players: Alison Balsom: www.alisonbalsom.com; Tine Thing Helseth: www.teinthinghelseth.com; Cindy Bradley: www.cindybradley.com)