The View from [what should be] the Back Row

Most of the playing I do I get paid for; however, I do play with a community band whose rehearsals are a seven-minute drive from where I live.  It keeps my chops in shape when I don’t have a lot of gigs, and every now and then they throw me the “featured solo” bone (no pun intended!).   We play an annual Mother’s Day concert at a local botanical garden.   This year, I came down with a head cold (you know how the month of May just screams cold season, right?  Oh wait, I have a preschooler, so EVERY season is cold season), and was combating it with an arsenal of zinc drops.  At intermission I popped one in my mouth, figuring I had plenty of time to whittle it down to nothing.  I almost made it.  There was the tiniest sliver floating in my mouth when the conductor was on the podium, ready to start the second half.  I could have crunched it down in haste, but for some reason, I held onto it behind my teeth.  Was it the irresistible flavor?  Did I think it wouldn’t work as well if I chewed it?  I have no idea what I was thinking; in fact, I probably wasn’t.  Before we were a quarter of the way through the first piece, the damn sliver escaped.  During a multi-measure rest I glanced into my mouthpiece, where I could see the drop resting at the throat.  The next time I played, it was sure to go down the shank and into the horn, where it would wreak havoc.  I couldn’t let that happen, so I quickly dipped my finger in and pulled it out.  Not knowing what else to do with the drop, I put it back in my mouth and quickly chewed until it disappeared.

Normally I can do this---and any number of other things---without anyone noticing, because I sit in the back row.  While this group does seat the trombones in the back row, it is an arching back row, so that the trombones are actually quite close to the audience, leaving my deft actions on display for whoever happens to be gazing at the section at the moment.  And, sure enough, the second the drop was back in my mouth, I looked up, only to see a lady in the front row, first whispering to her husband as she pointed at me, then glaring in disgust.  She caught me (catching her staring at me), purposefully turned her head away, and avoided looking at the trombones for the remainder of the concert.   

I should probably feel badly about this.  What if she is so turned off by the piggish behavior of “that disgusting musician” that she stops attending concerts? 

But wait.  If it were me sitting in that audience and I saw someone eat something from inside their mouthpiece, I would probably piss my pants laughing, all the while wondering what the hell story was behind that swift move.  If she was that bent out of shape about my lozenge sucking shenanigans, it would have only been a matter of time before something else rubbed her the wrong way.  Sorry for eating a cough drop out of my mouthpiece Miss Manners, but a sick trombone player’s gotta do what a sick trombone player’s gotta do.

I’m an Infant/Toddler Music Teacher Whore

Well, not really.  But I have been around the block a few times.   Alex, Lincoln and I---and previously Alex and I---have done, um, a number of different music classes in our area.  I guess I’m pickier than your average parent about young childhood music classes.   It’s not that I want my kids to be musical prodigies---because I don’t, and the reasons why could be another whole blog---but I do want them to be exposed to good music fundamentals, interesting music, and a solid curriculum, delivered by a stable, reliable, competent teacher.  Is that too much to ask?    

Apparently, it is.

We did experience a blissful nine to twelve month period where we had a great music teacher.  But then there was the hired-her-as-a-sitter-and-my-visiting-brother’s-dog-bit-her-and-she-overreacted-and-sent-him-a-ridiculous-doctor-bill-that-I’m-not-sure-ever-got-paid incident.  That aside, we really enjoyed her class.  She was an actual trained musician, with good pitch, good rhythm and good time.  She worked with a curriculum that was interesting and diverse.  And she was great with kids.  Then, the “incident” happened.  And then she moved to Texas.

We moved on to another music teacher in the area that we really liked---good pitch, good time, fun songs, but she only had one curriculum.  If you took multiple sessions, you were singing the same songs as the previous session.  This is probably fine if you are a kid, but as an adult, I couldn’t deal.

We went back to the old program with a different teacher.  She was good---when she showed up.  When she didn't, she sent a substitute, or someone masquerading as one.    Her “substitute” was a bad singer, who was so tone deaf she was somehow able to modulate on songs as simple as “The Wheels on the Bus.”  What the hell?

We switched to a new program.  It was tolerable.  Then one day Alex wore a Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt to class.  The “music” teacher asked, “I should probably know who is on that shirt.”  After we told him, he wondered aloud if he was too young to know who that was.  Dude, Jimi Hendrix died 8 years before I was born.  My husband the ENGINEER knows about JImi Hendrix.  You’re fired.

We stayed with that program, but switched teachers.  He was good.  He was hot.  Unfortunately, Alex didn't like the class.  It was our first class with Lincoln in tow, which probably played a big factor.  And the songs were too standard.  Not enough global perspective here.   So much for the eye candy.

Okay.  First program, new teacher.  Good singer.  Stays on pitch.  Bad at rhythm.  Doesn’t know she’s bad at rhythm.  I don’t think I can do this.  We take some time off. 

At Lincoln’s Mommy & Me class, a DIFFERENT music teacher does a demo.  He LOVES it.  She appears to be a decent musician.  But her classes are separated by age---we have to do a different class for each of the boys, AND neither one can be at the other one’s class.  The logistics do not work for us. 

First program, different teacher.  Stays on pitch.  Rhythm is okay.  She’s not the most charismatic or creative teacher, but the curriculum is good enough to cover this.  Lincoln likes her (although to be fair, Lincoln likes everybody.  He would probably smile at Joseph Kony).  Alex likes her (and he won’t smile at Santa Claus).  On the third class he presents her with his new shoes.  We may have a winner.