Day 20. Musical Mishaps.

When I was in third or fourth grade, living in the haunted mansion in Pennsylvania, my parents decided it was time for my sister and me to start playing an instrument. They brought home a guitar and a flute and let us battle it out over which one each of us would master. My sister practically started playing Flight of the Bumble Bee, then said, "no, not that one. Gimme the guitar." Left with the abandoned chunk of silver, with all the intricate keys, mouthpiece, and no idea how to get a sound out of that thing, I picked it up.


And I didn't put it down until I graduated college. 


I took lessons. I practiced. I had a special cork made to make sure I held my right hand properly over the keys. I embarrassed myself at the school talent show. I played in the band. I went to All State. I went to college on a music scholarship. I took more lessons. I played in the marching band. I played in the symphony. 


And I grew to despise one of the things I once treasured. 


Everything was fine through high school, really. There was competition, but it wasn't mean or cutthroat. Aside from a couple incidents, I got through just fine. 


As I continued getting better and winning competitions and stuff, my parents decided to get me a fancy flute - one with a low B and open holes. It was gorgeous. And I could wail on that thing, especially when I was mad. Did it ever feel good. One day I was practicing outside the music trailer - yeah, that's all we had at our poor high school - and the entire surrounding area was gravel. I couldn't get the hang of this one chunk of music I had to perfect for All State, so I started swinging my flute. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Lef ---- thwooonk! The head joint went shooting out and bounced about a hundred and eighty times across the rocks. It was no longer brand new. And my parents were going to shit bricks. 


Then, our high school band went to an elementary school to perform for an auditorium filled with kindergarten through sixth graders. I was sitting first chair, which was closest to the edge of the stage. We launched into The Stars and Stripes and when the piccolo solo arrived, I had to stand up and play that shit to so many beady eyes I was sweating bullets. I managed to make it through, but as I retook my seat, I guess I sat down a little too hard and the friggin' chair tipped sideways and backwards off the stage. With me in it. I'm not kidding. 

At the time, I was totally expecting the room to break out into hysterical laughter, but it was dead silent. The band stopped playing. The kids' faces were frozen with fear. You could have heard one of my flute pads falling off in that deafening silence. 

I was righted. I was okay. We finished the piece, then I gave a special flute presentation just to prove that I was all right. 

You know what I did? I told my parents that I banged up my flute when I fell off the stage. If there was physical harm inflicted on me at the same time as my flute, it wasn't so bad.

That's the extent of my high school humiliation. And now, for college. 


Like I said, I went on a music scholarship. I remember the audition like it was yesterday. I even remember what I wore - a bright pink blouse with a vest over it, a skirt and some kind of dorky shoes. You want to know why I remember these details? Because as I was anxiously awaiting my turn, I had a full blown anxiety attack. My pits started spraying sweat and there was no way to control it. So instead of wearing a soaked shirt in front of a panel of judges, I went to the bathroom, stripped it off and played with just the vest on.


No, it wasn't appropriate. It was a v-neck with big arm holes and I looked like trailer trash. Maybe that's why they gave me the money. They felt sorry for me.


I was required to take a bunch of classes in order to fulfill my scholarship and one of those was Sight Singing and Ear Training. I can't sing to save my life, so I was white as a sheet walking into that class. Which was in an auditorium. The professor came in and played a different note on the piano for each and every person in the class. We, in turn, had to sing it back to him. Jesus Rice. He took one look at me, put his fat ass finger all the way to the right of the keys and dinged the highest note that piano would play. 


"Can I take it down an octave?" I pleaded.
"No, sing it as it's played." And he dinged it again.
"I can't. That's too high for me. I'll never be able to hit that note." 
"Sing it," the Meatloaf impersonator said.  


I started way down at the left end of the piano keys, then gradually just let my voice rise and rise until I was shrieking out a sound that rarely comes from a human. Everyone busted out laughing, but who could blame them? I think I remember laughing right along with them. 


Private lessons and marching band were two of my other requirements, and since we were practicing during sorority rush, that's something I never had a chance to do. I'm not sure I was even interested, but at least let me make the decision for myself instead of presenting me with the "opportunity" to join the band sorority. No, thanks.


My private lessons teacher was this extremely talented but very strange woman who sported one of the worst comb-overs I've ever seen. And she beat my ass every week. I look back on some of the music I used to play and I don't believe I was ever able to play it. The sheet music is black, there are so many notes and accidentals. I wouldn't know where to start today.


When marching band wasn't in full swing I had to audition for Symphony or play in the regular ol' concert band. Who wanted to play in concert band!? I wanted the real thing and I went for it. I wasn't first chair but I was in the top half and that made me feel good. The music was hard but damn, we sounded like professionals. 


Our first concert. I was a freshman. I was told to buy a "formal black gown." So that's what I did. It was pretty poofy and everyone took turns making fun of me because everyone else had a little more sense than to dress like they were visiting Tara. Whatever. 


During my sophomore year I decided to change my major from music to English/Writing. News spread through the symphony pretty quickly. One day I got to practice and there was a note on my music stand. It very plainly and rudely stated that as I wasn't a music major, I didn't take it seriously, I sucked and the band director hated me, and how dare I take a chair when others were going to dedicate their lives to music? 


I'm not gonna' lie. That hurt. What kind of psycho does a thing like that? Someone in the symphony, that's who. So I decided to shit-can that nonsense. Not because I can't take the heat. It's because I didn't love it enough. So I did my time in concert band my junior year then ceased all involvement with music from that point forward.


I did manage to squeeze in a European tour with the symphony first, though. Peeing in the Alps, not having a Visa, people having sex next to me when I'm trying to sleep, making out in Hyde Park, and a bunch of other crazy shenanigans. It was well worth it. 


Oh, I forgot to mention that I caught my rubber marching band shoe on fire and one time I was so stoned on the field I didn't play a note and went in the wrong direction at every turn. A stellar addition to the cause I was. 


So there's the story. I learned to play well enough to impress even myself. And there were times I treasured playing that instrument. 


I still have all three of my flutes. I suppose I keep them as a reminder that I once did something great. Something that even I didn't think I could do.