PagliaLori, the Saddest Clown
Okay, so my life is not a sweeping triumph of the arts, a tragedy to be forever etched into the cultural milieu. But I *did* want to be an opera singer when I was a little girl. That was when I was maybe five. I was cured of that notion relatively quickly, in favor of wanting to be a famous archaeologist (and even found buried treasure once, in the form of what was once a roll of nickels in the old truck bench seat near the rope swing in the back yard). I wound up dropping out of the music track in college in favor of anthropology, but neither one of those childhood dreams really came to fruition.
Between childhood fantasy and college, I had a much, much more reasonable life goal. It too wound up being abandoned.
Amazingly enough, I've never wanted to be a famous rock star. I DID want to be a musician, though, of the humblest sort - I wanted to be a music teacher. Yes, you heard me right.
There's an old adage - "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach." I hate that old hack, and find it to be imminently untrue. A lot of people who can't also do, and none of my teachers were failures in their field. Well... I couldn't, so I got on with something else.
When we got to start band in fifth grade, I was pleased - it was a class hour where I was on the same level as everybody else in school. Nobody had an advantage, nobody had any extra expectations of the "gifted" kids. But I was also not a terribly ambitious music student. I did not practice much at home.
The piano came the next year, while i was in 6th grade. I knew even then that at 11 years old I had started too late to become a concert pianist; they all started playing as babies, and without the skill built in very early formative years, mastery wasn't truly going to be mine. That was okay, though. I could still learn to play the piano. Grandmother sent over the old piano that had been unplayed in their living room for years, paid to have it tuned, and bought my brother and I a year's worth of lessons. Larry Anderson was a really nice guy, and a wonderful musician. He played around and about as a studio musician, and taught us the basics. Mostly pop, and a little bit of music theory - but even then I wanted to learn classical. That was not Larry's bag, but he was still a good teacher. I took lessons from him into high school.
Sixth grade was also the time when we got to branch out a bit - the opportunity to play some new instruments was given, on a limited basis. I missed the audition, though, and so I was not one of the five kids who would get to switch to saxophone in middle school. I asked if I could audition late, but I was told no - but was offered the chance to play bass clarinet. I took it, knowing that one of the girls I knew from IORG played it and enjoyed it very much.
It was at this time that I grew more interested in music, and wanted to become more proficient. However, there was a major, major obstacle.
My dad.
I love my dad, and I respect him very much - but I resent him a lot, too. He was primarily a source of fear and frustration when I was a kid. For starters, my dad is HUGE. He's six and a half feet tall and built like a wall. What is now a salt-and-pepper goatee was then a full, auburn beard. He still works on the waterfront, but back then he was a B man and worked mostly nights; it pays better than day shift. He slept during the day, and disturbing his rest was sacrosanct. If he was home and not sleeping, he was watching TV, or working in the garage on the race car.
What this means, in practical terms, is that it was a rare occasion indeed that I ever invited friends over, or had the opportunity to play my shaky clarinet, or drill on the piano. Doing so resulted in getting yelled at for making too much noise, or having the TV turned up so loud that I couldn't hear myself play anyways. I hated it. HATED it. I hated HIM.
When I was troubled, or upset, or hurt, it was not my parents that I went to to talk about it. It was Jan Jessen, who I took lessons from for a few short years. And it was Terry Stombaugh, who accepted me into Wind Ensemble even though there was already a bass clarinet in the band, and introduced me and a couple of other losers who took refuge in the band room to what Alice Cooper had been in the beginning of his career; who donned his 7 year old son's Disney bucket cap and his wife's sunglasses and played a studio piano and sang to win an Elton John lookalike contest at Universal Studios on a band trip. I loved band. I loved music. I have fonder memories of my band teachers - even weird old Mr. Gary - than I do of my own family in that time. These were the people who inspired me, who nurtured me, taught me, and I wanted to be like them when I grew up.
I enrolled in Shoreline Community College's condensed music theory class the summer between my junior and senior year in high school. I did quite well. I stayed late at school to use the practice rooms. I paid for my own sax lessons with the money I earned working at Wendy's. I think Jan would have kept giving me lessons even if I couldn't pay. I played in the All City Marching Band, one of only two students from outside of the Seattle School District. I loved it. But I didn't have enough practice time, and by the end of senior year, I knew that I was not going to be able to successfully audtion for a position in a university level band.
I applied for, and was accepted into Berklee Academy of Music (my audition tape stunk, but 16 year olds who already know how to write 4-part chorale style and have passed the piano proficiency and sight-singing exams aren't terribly common). In hindsight, I kind of wish I'd gone. But I was scared, and didn't feel ready; moving to Boston to go to a VERY expensive private school was a little much for me at 17.
I stayed at home and went to Shoreline Community College. I was in the band, and got into the Jazz Ensemble - but only barely. I was let in to absorb a shortage of trombonists, but I did not make it into the sax line. I played the bass trombone parts on baritone saxophone. I played tenor in the evening band. It was all kind of second rate. But even so, I finished the music transfer degree requirements. Two years of music theory, piano proficiency exam, performance credits, everything.
I sent audition tapes to half a dozen schools. I did not get accepted. I just wasn't good enough; my skills were several years behind and it was unlikely that I would "catch up". I have not played since.
I used my transfer to get into a state university; my grades were fine, so I went on to literally major in the next interesting class I took. Upper division anthropology classes are interesting, sure, but my heart wasn't in it. My later grades suffered badly, and my personal life went sideways; I dropped out one class shy of graduating. Making myself go back and finish was difficult, but I'm glad I did it, even if my degree hasn't gotten me jack shit.
I still have my sax. It's too beautiful to part with. I have, once or twice, played it only to have to stop - sax requires a soft embrasure and an open throat, which are impossible when you're crying. I loved playing in the past, and I miss that; playing now is a bitter reminder of having to give that up. And also of the resentment and fear of my father, who effectively stopped me from developing my skill. And my failure. I used to be pretty good, but now "rusty" doesn't even begin to describe it.
The piano does not have those negative associations, for some reason. I guess it might be because I knew I'd never be a piano major. I played piano in part because I knew that learning it would be useful (and it was - I learned to coordinate my hands better, to read bass clef, and a lot about chord progression and harmony) but wasn't something I would compete at, ever. Useful, yes, but done primarily for a my own enlightenment and for pleasure. It's still pleasurable, despite being horribly out of practice. Playing at home is only painful because the old piano is so badly out of tune.
There is a very real and tangible pleasure in making music. At risk of sounding like a total hippie, the vibrational qualities of producing music are a highly tactile and physically involved thing, and it is healing. Operas move us to tears even though they're in a foreign language; rock concerts affect us in ways that recorded music never can - but neither of these things compare to what it feels like to MAKE music. There is no way to describe it. There is NOTHING like being in the middle of a 120 piece marching band that is so loud that it sets off car alarms, nor is there anything to compare to feeling the dissonance resolve in your ears as you bring a pitch into harmony, into tune.
I gave that up. I walked away. My heart breaks again every time I look back.
I could sell my sax. It would make moving much easier; it's a very nice horn and could easily bring well over a thousand dollars. But.... it really is physically beautiful, and I hope that someday I can set aside all of the baggage and be healed by it again.
I have more to say about this. Later, though.
Between childhood fantasy and college, I had a much, much more reasonable life goal. It too wound up being abandoned.
Amazingly enough, I've never wanted to be a famous rock star. I DID want to be a musician, though, of the humblest sort - I wanted to be a music teacher. Yes, you heard me right.
There's an old adage - "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach." I hate that old hack, and find it to be imminently untrue. A lot of people who can't also do, and none of my teachers were failures in their field. Well... I couldn't, so I got on with something else.
When we got to start band in fifth grade, I was pleased - it was a class hour where I was on the same level as everybody else in school. Nobody had an advantage, nobody had any extra expectations of the "gifted" kids. But I was also not a terribly ambitious music student. I did not practice much at home.
The piano came the next year, while i was in 6th grade. I knew even then that at 11 years old I had started too late to become a concert pianist; they all started playing as babies, and without the skill built in very early formative years, mastery wasn't truly going to be mine. That was okay, though. I could still learn to play the piano. Grandmother sent over the old piano that had been unplayed in their living room for years, paid to have it tuned, and bought my brother and I a year's worth of lessons. Larry Anderson was a really nice guy, and a wonderful musician. He played around and about as a studio musician, and taught us the basics. Mostly pop, and a little bit of music theory - but even then I wanted to learn classical. That was not Larry's bag, but he was still a good teacher. I took lessons from him into high school.
Sixth grade was also the time when we got to branch out a bit - the opportunity to play some new instruments was given, on a limited basis. I missed the audition, though, and so I was not one of the five kids who would get to switch to saxophone in middle school. I asked if I could audition late, but I was told no - but was offered the chance to play bass clarinet. I took it, knowing that one of the girls I knew from IORG played it and enjoyed it very much.
It was at this time that I grew more interested in music, and wanted to become more proficient. However, there was a major, major obstacle.
My dad.
I love my dad, and I respect him very much - but I resent him a lot, too. He was primarily a source of fear and frustration when I was a kid. For starters, my dad is HUGE. He's six and a half feet tall and built like a wall. What is now a salt-and-pepper goatee was then a full, auburn beard. He still works on the waterfront, but back then he was a B man and worked mostly nights; it pays better than day shift. He slept during the day, and disturbing his rest was sacrosanct. If he was home and not sleeping, he was watching TV, or working in the garage on the race car.
What this means, in practical terms, is that it was a rare occasion indeed that I ever invited friends over, or had the opportunity to play my shaky clarinet, or drill on the piano. Doing so resulted in getting yelled at for making too much noise, or having the TV turned up so loud that I couldn't hear myself play anyways. I hated it. HATED it. I hated HIM.
When I was troubled, or upset, or hurt, it was not my parents that I went to to talk about it. It was Jan Jessen, who I took lessons from for a few short years. And it was Terry Stombaugh, who accepted me into Wind Ensemble even though there was already a bass clarinet in the band, and introduced me and a couple of other losers who took refuge in the band room to what Alice Cooper had been in the beginning of his career; who donned his 7 year old son's Disney bucket cap and his wife's sunglasses and played a studio piano and sang to win an Elton John lookalike contest at Universal Studios on a band trip. I loved band. I loved music. I have fonder memories of my band teachers - even weird old Mr. Gary - than I do of my own family in that time. These were the people who inspired me, who nurtured me, taught me, and I wanted to be like them when I grew up.
I enrolled in Shoreline Community College's condensed music theory class the summer between my junior and senior year in high school. I did quite well. I stayed late at school to use the practice rooms. I paid for my own sax lessons with the money I earned working at Wendy's. I think Jan would have kept giving me lessons even if I couldn't pay. I played in the All City Marching Band, one of only two students from outside of the Seattle School District. I loved it. But I didn't have enough practice time, and by the end of senior year, I knew that I was not going to be able to successfully audtion for a position in a university level band.
I applied for, and was accepted into Berklee Academy of Music (my audition tape stunk, but 16 year olds who already know how to write 4-part chorale style and have passed the piano proficiency and sight-singing exams aren't terribly common). In hindsight, I kind of wish I'd gone. But I was scared, and didn't feel ready; moving to Boston to go to a VERY expensive private school was a little much for me at 17.
I stayed at home and went to Shoreline Community College. I was in the band, and got into the Jazz Ensemble - but only barely. I was let in to absorb a shortage of trombonists, but I did not make it into the sax line. I played the bass trombone parts on baritone saxophone. I played tenor in the evening band. It was all kind of second rate. But even so, I finished the music transfer degree requirements. Two years of music theory, piano proficiency exam, performance credits, everything.
I sent audition tapes to half a dozen schools. I did not get accepted. I just wasn't good enough; my skills were several years behind and it was unlikely that I would "catch up". I have not played since.
I used my transfer to get into a state university; my grades were fine, so I went on to literally major in the next interesting class I took. Upper division anthropology classes are interesting, sure, but my heart wasn't in it. My later grades suffered badly, and my personal life went sideways; I dropped out one class shy of graduating. Making myself go back and finish was difficult, but I'm glad I did it, even if my degree hasn't gotten me jack shit.
I still have my sax. It's too beautiful to part with. I have, once or twice, played it only to have to stop - sax requires a soft embrasure and an open throat, which are impossible when you're crying. I loved playing in the past, and I miss that; playing now is a bitter reminder of having to give that up. And also of the resentment and fear of my father, who effectively stopped me from developing my skill. And my failure. I used to be pretty good, but now "rusty" doesn't even begin to describe it.
The piano does not have those negative associations, for some reason. I guess it might be because I knew I'd never be a piano major. I played piano in part because I knew that learning it would be useful (and it was - I learned to coordinate my hands better, to read bass clef, and a lot about chord progression and harmony) but wasn't something I would compete at, ever. Useful, yes, but done primarily for a my own enlightenment and for pleasure. It's still pleasurable, despite being horribly out of practice. Playing at home is only painful because the old piano is so badly out of tune.
There is a very real and tangible pleasure in making music. At risk of sounding like a total hippie, the vibrational qualities of producing music are a highly tactile and physically involved thing, and it is healing. Operas move us to tears even though they're in a foreign language; rock concerts affect us in ways that recorded music never can - but neither of these things compare to what it feels like to MAKE music. There is no way to describe it. There is NOTHING like being in the middle of a 120 piece marching band that is so loud that it sets off car alarms, nor is there anything to compare to feeling the dissonance resolve in your ears as you bring a pitch into harmony, into tune.
I gave that up. I walked away. My heart breaks again every time I look back.
I could sell my sax. It would make moving much easier; it's a very nice horn and could easily bring well over a thousand dollars. But.... it really is physically beautiful, and I hope that someday I can set aside all of the baggage and be healed by it again.
I have more to say about this. Later, though.