My parents were both music majors at Indiana University in Bloomington, renowned for its music program. So naturally our parents expected that my sister, Janet, and I would play music, too. Janet is the far more accomplished musician in our family, a wonderful singer and flutist (though, I think as was the case with me, her flute-playing days are long behind her).My experiences as a clarinetist are all over the map, due mainly to chronic stage fright, which prevented me from playing well as a soloist. But I also had a knack for ignoring technique and practicing as little as possible ... neither of which served me well, especially once I entered university in 1977.
Despite that, the saving grace of my high school years was band. My family moved a lot when I was a kid, and that inability to attach to a community and call it home has affected me throughout my life. Not all of it is bad. When it comes time to leave, as sometimes becomes necessary due to life's twists and turns, I think it's easier for me than it is for someone with deep roots in a certain place. For me, home is wherever I am.
In my younger years, though, I had not come to that level of acceptance. I didn't have many friends, and I was never one of the cool kids. So band became my refuge, the place where I could focus my energies toward a common goal and work together with a group, even if we were individuals going our separate ways as soon as rehearsal was over.
My junior high and high school years were spent in Vincennes, a small farming community in Indiana. I was not born and raised in Vincennes, and a term I have learned in Nova Scotia – "come-from-away" – was not used there ... but it might as well have been. If you were not from there, it didn't take long to learn that you were never really going to fit in. But again, there was where band helped. Being in that group helped me to fit in, in the only way I knew how.
There's a memorable line from M*A*S*H: "I can play the notes, but I cannot make the music." My small-town band had no business sounding as good as we did, but we had the gift of some amazing directors who moved heaven and earth to help us understand not only how to play the notes, but how to make music. Walter Anslinger, Don Barnes and Larry Stunkel each had his unique teaching style which helped us to learn and absorb what it meant to make music. (Here I will focus on the concert band side of things. Someday later I will talk about the marching band side of it, which led to drum corps, which led to my teaching color guard. That's a column for another day.)
I'm fortunate to have a recording of my high school wind ensemble playing "Lincolnshire Posy" by Percy Grainger. It was my freshman year, and Don Barnes had me play E-flat clarinet, rather than the B-flat I'd played up to that time. (On B-flat I would not have made the wind ensemble cut that year, and so I would have played in the much larger, but not as prestigious, concert band instead.) Mr. Barnes played us many recordings of the Eastman Wind Ensemble who, despite having only one player per part, sounded "like a pipe organ" due to their near-perfect intonation and balance. That was when I learned the importance of listening and playing in tune, and also the excitement of being part of a group where the sum was greater than its parts. I can listen to that recording of "Lincolnshire Posy" even now and wonder, "We played that well?" Yes, we did.
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| 1979 UE wind emsemble concert; I'm in the foreground, with Dr. James Chandler in the background. |
After high school, I attended the University of Evansville in southern Indiana. Things got off to a slow start my freshman year. There wasn't the energy and motivation among my fellow students I'd felt in high school. That surprised me. I thought going to university would mean taking it to the next level. With all that talent, surely things will be even better, right? It did happen, eventually, but not that first year. No one seemed inspired to do more than show up, go through the motions and earn a credit. Nothing more.
But by my senior year, things had changed, and the air was charged with expectation. We had an influx of younger students who were not willing to accept mediocrity. And our directors responded accordingly, taking us to heights I certainly never imagined ... but was thrilled to experience. That year I got to play not only in wind ensemble (directed by Dr. James Chandler), but also orchestra (directed by Dr. David Wright) and, something I'd always dreamed of, baritone saxophone in the second jazz ensemble (directed by Dr. Edwin Lacy). I'm happy to have recordings of everything we did that year, so occasionally I play those CDs and relive the fun, excitement and sheer joy of being part of a group where, once again, the sum was greater than its parts.
All three groups played exceedingly well that year, but the culmination of it all, for me, was the Concerto Concert on May 5, 1981. The Concerto Concert was an annual event, in which students auditioned to play a concerto solo with the orchestra. Normally there was only one soloist, but the judges that year could not decide between a field of exceptionally talented musicians. They were able to narrow it down to four soloists: Becky Schmitz on clarinet, playing Debussy's Première Rhapsodie; Danny Duncan on trumpet, playing Bloch's Proclamation; Laurie Hape singing
"Quel guardo, il cavaliere" from Donizetti's opera, Don Pasquale; and Debbie Henshaw on piano, playing Franck's Symphonic Variations.
The opening and closing pieces were hardly bookends: Brahms' Academic Festival Overture and Rimsky-Korsakov's Cappriccio Espagnol. Because our first-chair clarinetist, Becky, was first up with her concerto solo, she didn't play on the Brahms piece. So I, as second chair, moved up to first chair, and I got to have fun with some solos in that piece. Playing solos with a group has never bothered me. It was the terror of being the sole focus of attention, with just me and the accompanist, that got me down. So this was a challenge I enjoyed. It was easy for all of us to get caught up in the heraldic nature of the piece, and the audience enjoyed this start to a great concert.
Then Becky played, and she was superb. A perfectionist, I think Becky was not happy with her performance, but I was impressed by her fluent technique, resonant tone quality and ability to convey Debussy's fluttering, bird-like magic in this piece.
All of the other soloists performed magnificently. You could almost feel the "Can they top this?" anticipation with each round of applause.
Coming as it did at the tail-end of a very long concert, Cappriccio Espagnol could have been an afterthought, but no one was having that. It's a real roller coaster for the clarinets, transitioning back and forth between B-flat and A clarinets. Poor Becky, who had just been through the wringer with her concerto solo, had an equally daunting series of solos in this piece. But she nailed them, as did all the soloists showcased in this piece. I think we in the orchestra knew Cappriccio Espagnol was going to be something special as we were rehearsing it, and it was. As the last notes rang in the air, the audience rose to its feet ... and it wasn't a gratuitous standing ovation. The thunderous applause was genuine.
The next day, with the energy of that performance still coursing through me, I played at a workshop recital. Workshop recitals were held every Wednesday at noon, and were required for anyone taking music. You didn't necessarily have to do a senior recital (though I did ... big mistake), but you had to do one workshop recital every quarter. During my time at UE, I did not have my pick of accompanists. I was not one of the better soloists, and overworked pianists quickly filled their quota of soloists they were required to accompany. So I typically had disinterested accompanists, some of whom were less steady on their feet, musically, than I was.
But this year I got lucky. Matt Boatmon, a superbly talented organ major, had just transferred to UE from the Eastman School of Music. He was desperate for soloists to accompany, and my clarinet teacher, Dr. David Wright, snapped him up. And then I discovered the difference between having a disinterested accompanist and someone who cared and was motivated to work with Dr. Wright and me to make our performance the best it could be. Matt's energy was infectious, and he made me a better player. Not only that, but his skill and musicianship gave me a rock-solid foundation, so that meant I could focus on my job and not worry about his. It was a true collaboration, one that I realized I had not experienced before as a soloist.
Matt and I were scheduled last in a long lineup. It was nearing the end of the school year, so soloists were scrambling to get their time in. As I waited my turn I paced, as I always did, unable to make small talk with anyone. I couldn't relax, but I also didn't have that sinking feeling I usually had before a solo performance. I felt our preparation was enough to carry me through. And it did.
We played two movements from Hindemith's Sonate. Now, if you know Paul Hindemith's music, then you know it's far from traditional. There's lots of syncopation and quirky rhythms. It's really more of a clarinet/piano duet, with the piano "accompaniment" actually being harder than the solo clarinet part, which is why it's so important to have someone capable of taking it on. Matt was more than up to the challenge.
I would be lying if I claimed I played perfectly that day. But that's not the point. Yes, I made mistakes. But I didn't allow them to defeat me and drag down the rest of the piece. Listening to it now, I can still point out every little mistake, every minor "Oh, darn, I had that fixed and I still messed it up" moment. But I didn't fall apart, the way I had so often before. I kept going. And the stuff that was good, was pretty good ... so much better than any of my previous performances. So when I listen to that CD now, my inner perfectionist still laments those mistakes, but I don't languish in them. I hear the good stuff, too. And I feel the exhilaration of overcoming that old nemesis, stage fright. It was a good way to end my last year of university, and my clarinet experience.
A few years later, feeling no real attraction to playing, I sold my Buffet clarinet. Since then, I'd felt no desire to play until this past summer, when Pat Melanson told me that Robbie Smith had some clarinets that Robbie's late Uncle Robert had played, and would I be interested? He hooked me up with Robbie, and I took a look at two of the clarinets. When I opened the first case, I thought, "Uh-oh." The clarinet and case lining were littered with what looked like sawdust. So I quickly snapped that case shut and opened the second one. An Amati from the Czech Republic, it looked to be in pristine condition.
So I put it together and started playing. Not well, mind you. At least for me, playing music isn't like riding a bike. It had been 33 years since I last played a clarinet, and the sounds I was making weren't pretty. Lots of squeaking and squawking, wheezing, fumbling around for the correct fingerings. My embouchure was as flabby as the rest of me, and my breath support was not very supportive. But at least I could make a sound, which can be improved upon.
This clarinet felt smaller than I remembered, but I thought it was my imagination. Nope. When I looked at the manufacturer's pamphlet, I saw that this was not a B-flat clarinet, but a C! I'd never heard of a C clarinet before. The dilemma is that most concert music is written for B-flat clarinet. And the whole reason Pat Melanson got me hooked up with Robbie was because Pat plays oboe in Shelburne's pit band, and he wanted me to join the band. No problem. Our multi-talented director, Bill Smith, transposed the B-flat clarinet parts to C. And we're off to the races!
So (and I apologize to anyone who has made it this far), very long story short, now I'm playing clarinet again. I don't know if I will be able to get back to the level of playing I had before, but I know I'm getting better. So hopefully that progress will continue.
Oh, and by the way: That first clarinet I thought was toast? Turns out Robert had left a reed on the mouthpiece, and the reed had disintegrated. But when I cleaned up the clarinet and played it, it actually played pretty well. All it needed was some cosmetic repair work, which I left in the capable hands of Forbes and Yola Christie at Windward Flutes. Plus, it's a B-flat clarinet, so Bill won't have to transpose for me all the time. Two clarinets; hmmm, the possibilities are endless!
One more thing: Yes, there are lots of "come-from-aways" in Shelburne. And we've all found ways to fit in.
