Can classical musicians groove?

 A tuba player, with a solo encore. My goodness, perhaps the best unaccompanied solo I've heard, any instrument.


A pre-LA Dudamel, leading the Simon Bolivar Orchestra. Danzon Number 2, by Arturo Marquez. Hadn't heard of this piece, but boy I have now.

Morbid thoughts

A few weeks ago, slightly bored with the solo pieces I had to work on, I started playing through the Bach Cello Suites. Famous famous pieces, transcribed for every instrument, subject of a new book, and near the top of the charts in terms of recognizability  by the general public. The bassoon transcription is well known too, I think the standard is Arthur Weisberg's, but I'm reading one of the old engravings on IMSLP. The Praeludium to Suite #1 is very cello-istic, filled with down-slurs that work poorly on bassoon, and essentially no reasonable place to breathe. I'm not sure that I could ever bring it to a place to where I'd want to listen to it. Still, it's gorgeous, and a joy just to work on. I remember being struck by the thought that, if the universe were to be ending in five minutes, I'd want to spend my remaining time doing exactly that: practicing the prelude to Bach's first cello suite.

Looking back, it's a strange thought. Why exactly five minutes? If I'd had half an hour, would I have had to work too hard? And not just me dying: it's the entire universe being destroyed. Was, say, the destruction of the planet insufficiently melodramatic? Apparently. So, music for the end: Bach Cello Suites for the destruction of the Universe, Nearer my God to Thee for the sinking of a ship, and something else for the planet, Penderecki maybe. Or Messiaen. For a single, personal death, I'd pick sentimental: Bridge over Troubled Water, say, or Travellin Shoes.

Our time is finite. The husband of the concertmaster of my orchestra died this week. Not young, but not yet old, I guess I'm getting to the age where sixty-something is more of a peer than an elder. And I had a weensy scare myself: a funny bump appeared on a freckle, and the internet, purveyor of all knowledge, had nothing good to say about new bumps on freckles. The first hit showed a small unassuming dark bump next to the phrase "At this stage, it was destined to be fatal". Yeesh. That sentence, plus getting rejected as a blood donor because of it ("Let us know what the doctor says") got me in to see someone. The good news is that it's nothing interesting, but there are various kinds of nothing, and the jury is still out on which kind of nothing my bump is. To be a melanoma, you have to be dark, and my bump isn't. Still, I had a couple days of What if I had 30 days to live? fantasy going on.

It's an interesting exercise, no matter how unrealistic. It gives a chance to think about what matters, and what doesn't, in a very selfish sense. If I had 30 days to live, would I waste my precious time practicing? Actually, I would. My gut reaction would be to practice more. Not because the practice is building towards some long-term goal, evidently! But as an end in itself. What about making reeds? I was kind of surprised by my reaction to this one: I would. Both because I feel like I have unfinished projects in understanding how reeds work, and also because good reeds making the instrument respond more readily, sound better, and make better music. So yeah, I'd keep working on reeds. What about work? Actually, I'd keep doing this too. There's stuff I'd want to finish. I can kind of see a pattern forming, not sure where I'd find the time to do all of these things, but that too is a helpful insight. But blogging, obviously stop that? Well, hard to say. There are some half-formulated posts that I'd want to finish. Plus, the whole dying thing would give lots to write about, wouldn't want to miss out on that. So blogging might end up in the plus side too.

Is there stuff I'd do less of? Absolutely. I can think of a bunch of things that I'd simply stop worrying about, since after 30 days they'd be somebody else's problem. Anything in the bureaucratic paperwork category. Meetings, committees, reports. Money. Or things preparing for a long-term outcome. And people. There's people I'd spend more time with, and people I'd spend less. Kind of a silly exercise overall, but amusing.

Overthinking, and putting the behavior on command

Here's a nice post on how to avoid overthinking. Basically, you can think about anything except what you're trying to do. It meshes nicely with what I've been working on, which is basically relaxation, following the Kenny Werner book I mentioned before and which I've slowly been reading. There's a lot of exercises and specifics that you're supposed to do. It's actually quite hard -- just play one note, but totally relaxed? And then accept that whatever nasty sound that comes out is the most beautiful thing that you've ever heard? That you're already a master, and the only reason you don't sound like it is maybe a lack of familiarity with the material? It's very strange, trying to adopt an attitude of loving acceptance towards my sound, rather than the analytical, critical attitude that comes naturally to me, and that seems inherent in all of my training. I think it may be slowly having an effect, though. Sometimes I can play things, and they can come out smooth, rather than the notey effect that normally characterizes just about anything I play. I think the issue is that if I'm thinking and struggling, trying to make the slur and the fingers precise, my air naturally forces the next note, resulting in a lump in the sound on every note. A Zen-like state of meditative relaxation, on the other hand, has the possibility for a smooth sound.

I found another effect, working one of the Werner exercises. Basically, in a state of total relaxation, do a free improvisation. Play anything, make any sound. And the goal of the practice is to love what comes out. Whatever it is. Very hard, to love every squawks, rough slurs, missed attacks, and weird pitch and tone color. After a bit, though, I got interested in those sounds. That's kind of interesting, that noise between those two notes. That squawk. Can I make that sound again? Hm, that note didn't speak, resulting in a breath of air in a tuned air column. Interesting sound. And by loving the sounds, or trying to, I was then drawn to trying to repeat them. And boy, that's not easy either. Apparently, without even trying, I'd succeeded in creating an interesting and hard to reproduce sound. I ended up playing with lots of attacks that didn't speak, or were on the edge of speaking; exactly how to move my fingers to squawk or not, playing with the sounds that I could make. This had a few interesting effects. One was learning a bit of acceptance: once I can accept that the sound is part of the tonal spectrum that I can make, I don't get so freaked when I make one. It's a bit of reprogramming, turning a mistake into a variation. The other is that I learn control over that aspect of the sound. It's a bit like the dog training technique, called putting the behavior on command. If the dog does something you consider undesirable, eg yipping at the neighbors all night, then invent a command for the behavior, tell your dog to do it when they are about to, let them do it, and reward them. Soon, you can have them do the behavior whenever you want. This is counterintuitive, since it's an undesired behavior. But actually, you've achieved communicating with the animal about the behavior, and given them the skill to control it. Often this is sufficient to reduce the behavior (yip all night? Not unless I get a treat!) or as a step to telling them not to. So, practicing squawking is a kind of putting a behavior on command.

Seems like a lot of thinking, in service of thinking less, and that all in service of "playing less notey", which has been a longstanding issue for me. Maybe it'll help, though.