Remembering Rooms

       My earliest memories of playing the viola are tied to a funny looking purple sponge, gross and matted green carpet, and a hard, black viola case with a silver circle marked on the bottom with a sharpie. I remember the slim line of windows paneled in a strip across the back wall just above the rack that held the basses. I remember the high ceiling with the foam panels, cluttered with hair ties that had been shot up there and stuck. I remember the tiny room with a single wall of shelves to house the violins and violas that would hardly ever see an hour of practice. I remember starting out like this, with a mediocre instrument and stuffy middle school orchestra classroom and the crazy lady with the curly black hair, who would soon become a good friend of mine.

       Next summer, I started taking private lessons from that crazy lady, who was in fact not so much crazy as she was passionate and fun. I remember her basement; unfinished with sheets hanging as make shift walls with a futon and a book shelf on opposite sides of the room. I remember her three cats, lazily meandering about as I played, sneaking into my viola case for a quick nap before they were caught and shooed away. I remember the stairs leading down to the basement; they were part of a slim hallway just for stairs, and half way through, there was the door to get inside. Every Thursday evening I would ring the doorbell, listen for my teacher to holler, “Come in” and then open the door, taking two steps up the stairs, closing the door, and fumbling with my case the rest of the way down.

       From my two years of high school orchestra, I remember the spacious white room with the back wall covered in mirrors and lined with racks of cellos. I remember the sketchy looking back room with concrete floors that housed the violins and violas in shelves with doors that made them look like cages, and held our concert uniforms in wooden cabinets stuffed full of black dress bags hung on cheap wire hangers. I remember the auditorium; a black stage with red velvet curtains, with rows of seats at its feet that were never quite filled, and with rows of lights above it, each one shining as if it were a sun.

       Remembering how I came to be the player I am today, it seems, is quite like walking through the empty rooms I once filled with music. I imagine, also, that if I went back and walked through these rooms again, physically, I would hear the music swelling up inside them, despite the literal silence.

Beats and Beets and Beats and Beets and

       Beats/beets are pretty cool because they can come from the ground or they can come from a drum, either way, they rock. Just kidding, I think beets are disgusting. But, I do enjoy the musical sort.

       Recently, I've made an effort to learn a bit more about the inter workings of music, so I've been studying audio production. Part of this, is making beats on a digital audio workstation, or DAW. Since I'm not a drummer myself, I thought it would be really difficult to make a good beat, but it has come a lot easier than I expected. Making beats has also proved to be a beautiful means of what I like to call: productive procrastination. You see, I'm learning something new, which is valuable, but I'm also having fun and avoiding doing my homework. I made Sunday afternoon, “appropriately” titled, “Cats Eating Lasagna".

       This is a picture of what “Cats Eating Lasagna” looks like on my computer. The different drum options are listed on the left, and the dots mean that that drum sound is being played on that particular beat. Each number along the top is a beat in a 4/4 measure, and each tick mark between the numbers is a sixteen of a beat. You can slow it down or speed it up, too. I have mine set at 94 beats per minute.

       What's really cool about making beats, is that you don't have to know how. “Cats Eating Lasagna” started out totally random. After I had something to work with, I just built on that. Originally, I had cowbells and hand claps woven in, but I found them too over powering, so I kept their rhythms but put them on a different instrument. I realigned some rhythms, so that certain drum sounds would all line up on a particular beat. I isolated certain lines to see how they sounded on their own as opposed to the beat as a whole. The whole time, I was just dabbling, but in the end, I was pretty satisfied with what I put together.

       “Cats Eating Lasagna” surely isn't going to top the charts anytime soon, but it was fun to create something of my own. When you play music, you get the rush of performing, but when you write your own music, it's a whole different kind of rush. My beats may not be actual songs, but they're a start. Eventually my beats will become actual songs, just like beets become baby food or canned preserves or some god awful casserole.

When Good Instruments Turn Tedious

       A few years back, I was more interested in playing music competitively than for fun of it, and I thought I might audition for All State one year. All State is a youth orchestra that plays really challenging music, and getting in is even more challenging. At your audition, you play selected excerpts from the piece, as well as a set of scales, referred to as the “All State Scales”, and for about a year it seemed that these scales along with shifting exercises consumed my playing completely. At the time, all that tedious practice seemed worthless. I was never going to make it to All State anyways, which is true, because to this day I haven’t even tried. But the skills I developed from all that scale and shifting practice proved to be all but worthless.

       Scales weren’t so bad. They were easy to practice and weren’t all that time consuming, and I could play them relatively easily. What I really got out of them was improved shifting technique and intonation. Going up the scale note by note trained my ear to recognize intervals, and three octave scales forced me to shift up so high that my fingers were only inches away from the bridge. I played with a tuner regularly, and eventually I became so familiar with the correct pitch that I could sing it in my head and match it on my instrument. When I would shift, I developed muscle memory, and now I can find third position without even thinking about it.

       Although I didn’t mind shifting in scales, shifting practice alone was torture. I played exercises out of a book called “Whistler” and I still hate it to this day. Whistler exercises did not shift up in convenient increments like scales did. Instead, they made your fingers jump all over the neck of your instrument, forcing you to shift from fourth to first position in a sixteenth of a beat. I can honestly say, I did NOT benefit from these exercises, mostly because I refused to practice them. That’s on me though. If I weren’t so stubborn I’d probably be a much better player now, but, alas, I refused to conform.

       Tedious practice of basic skills can seem like a waste, but those basic skills are what will make you great. After all, you can't run a marathon until you learn to walk. You can't be a culinary chef until you learn how to make cereal. And you can't be a principle violinist if you don't do your scales, and the god awful shifting exercises.

Experience vs Hard Work

       Are you at a disadvantage as a musician if you don’t start out playing at a young age? Is skill developed primarily from hard work? Or the buildup of muscle memory over time? Can extensive and effective practice compete with gradual improvement over time? I started playing in sixth grade, but I always wondered if it would be “easier” to play if I had started at a younger age.

       A few years ago, when viola was something I was really serious about, I played in solo recitals at my private lessons studio. At these recitals, students of all ages performed, so there was a wide variety of skill level. Middle school students were playing pieces I had just played last year, eight year olds were playing the songs I had been learning as a sixth grader, even the itty bitty three year olds were able to carry a tune that could be recognized as “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” or “The Monkey Song”. When I was three, I’m pretty sure I was eating dirt. It’s clear that starting out later put me behind the students that started at a young age, which makes sense, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but how does that apply to the development of technique?

       Technique comes through practice. For years I believed that starting a young age would magically make you a brilliant player, but now I'm not sure that that's completely true. If the child practices regularly over the years, their skills will improve rapidly, but if the child practices only ever so often over the years, their skills will not improve at such a pace. If you practice poorly for ten years, your technique would probably only be as advanced as a someone who had practiced frequently for five years. So I ask, is it “easier” to put in more time and less effort? Or more effort and less time? Or, perhaps, it is not about “easy”.

       The musical world is very competitive, and if you start out playing in sixth grade as opposed to second, you could be at a disadvantage. If you practice regularly and effectively , you will get ahead, but if you start in sixth grade and practice just as well, you won't be “behind”. But just because you're not behind doesn't mean you're not at a disadvantage. Whether or not you are at a disadvantage depends on why you play. If you play to be the best and compete for first chair in every ensemble you play in, then starting later may set you back. If you play simply because you love music, however, you'll never be at a disadvantage. Developing basic skills at a young age may make playing “easier” when you're older, and it may give you a bit of a competitive edge, but no matter when you start, it is ultimately your passion and hard work that will make you successful.

Outdoor Performances: Conducted by Mother Nature

       Outdoor musical performances are pretty common, because they're easy to organize and usually result in a higher attendance, as people passing by stop to listen. On a decent day, outdoor concerts can be really fun, too. The grass is freshly cut, a few clouds drift lazily across a crisp blue sky, the sun sits at the perfect angle, so it isn't shining in everyone's eyes, and there is only a slight breeze, so it's not too hot. That scenario, however, is the ideal, and surely we all know that the “ideal” is a rare occurrence in life. Ideally outdoor concerts are a giant PRO, but sometimes, they can be a giant NO.

       Last weekend, I played with in a quartet at the farmer's market. Now, usually, quartets don't require a conductor, but we sure had a conductor that day. Ah yes, Mother Nature. She must have been really pumped about our performance, because she conducted quite crazily. She sent the wind, to encourage us to play loudly, the rain to speed up our tempo, and the thunder to serve as applause. She had the best intentions, really, but as far as we knew, we were just a budding group of musicians battling the sound of the wind in the microphone while seven year old Suzuki students crouched down beside us and held our music in place.

       There are thousands of cons to playing outside: the wind snatches up your music, the heat or the cold bends your instrument out of tune, the sun shines in your eyes and makes you loose your place, and the bugs can be unbearable. The pros are few, but still present. Outdoor concerts are easier for people to attend, you don't have to worry about things like seating (for the most part), and if the weather is nice, it makes for a beautiful performance. When you look at it like this, the cons out weigh the pros, but if you look at it as if the weather is just one giant con, then the pros over rule! With the right attitude, Mother Nature's cons can even be eliminated completely.

       Generally, all you need to avoid the cons to outdoor playing is a few clothes pins, or in some cases, a seven year old or two to keep your music from flying off the stand. Often times, the sound gets lost in the open space, but that just means you play louder. If it's hot, you sweat. If there are bugs, you just tell them to “buzz off”. If it rains, you actually cancel the concert, there's no getting around that one. But! For the most part, when it comes to outdoor playing, there is a solution to the cons. It may be a giant NO at times, but with the right attitude and a bit of resourceful thinking, you can turn that giant NO into a giant PRO.

Words and Feelings and Music

       What can convey emotion most effectively? Music or words? I got to thinking about this the other day as I watched a movie based on a book I had read. Certain parts of the movie seemed for dramatic or significant than they did in the book, and I drove myself crazy wondering about it until I realized that it was the music that was carrying the emotion. The book created strong imagery to evoke emotion, but the music coaxed it out of the pages. Is one more effective than the other?
       Words can conjure up entire worlds, illustrate the human struggles that unite us, and tap into peoples' hearts and minds to make them truly feel and understand the author's purpose; their power is unmeasurable. There is a poem by Amy Lowell called “A Lover” that I think demonstrates that power rather nicely. It reads like this:


       “If I could catch the green lantern of the firefly

        I could see to write you a letter”


It's short and simple, but extremely effective. Can you feel the longing? The ache of a lover's heart? The extent to which the speaker would go to merely write a letter to the one she loves gives off a strong sense of longing in a matter of 18 words.
       Music, like written works, can summon the same sort of emotional effect in similar ways. For example, it uses tools too, like dynamics, key signatures, and phrasing (the syntax of the musical world). There is a piece by the Piano Guys that just makes me feel elated. It combines a piece by Beethoven with a more modern piece by the band One Republic.






       The cello pulls out such a rich sound, and when layered with a full orchestra, it just makes me feel like golden bubbles are swelling up in my stomach; I feel inspired. The song has a lot of build, starting with a cello and piano, then adding on percussion and additional strings. The emphasize on the first note of each phrase gives the song drive and the rich tone helps it give listeners that swelling feeling, tapping into their hearts.
       Written works and musical ones work in similar ways to poke at people's emotions. Using tools specific to their craft, both art forms manage to sneak their way into the reader or listener's hearts to make them feel something. It is hard to say if either is more effective than the other. On one hand, written works entail more of a mental connect to the emotions felt, but musical pieces have the power to sweep you up completely in an instant. It truly depends on what the purpose is. Words and music alike tap into the core of human emotion to connect people to people in the similar ways we think and feel.

All About That Bass

       In an attempt to gain inspiration for a third blog post this week, I searched for “Let it Go” string covers on YouTube, hoping to compare different groups and how they varied stylistically. Instead, what I found was a brilliant cover performed by a quartet composed only of bassists, called the Contrabass Quartet. I've only ever heard a group of bassist play one time before at a musical summer camp I attended a few years ago, and even then, I thought all the bass players had just been lumped together because they don't play in a traditional quartet. I had no idea that bass ensembles actually existed, but I was pleasantly surprised by their sound.

       Throughout all my years playing in orchestra, I've rarely played in a group with more than one bassist, so I'm not very used to hearing them. On the off chance that I did hear the bass in all those years, quarter notes were being played and I was using it as a metronome. In my mind, the bass had always been an instrument that kept time. I saw it as a big, thumping, heart that sat in the back of the room; thumping, thumping, thumping, right along to the beat of the music.

       What I never realized, until recently, was that the bass is a truly beautiful and unique instrument capable of producing all sorts of sounds and rhythms. The cover that I watched was of the song “Let it Go” from the Disney movie “Frozen”. This song, as I'm sure you've heard, includes some higher notes, which I never thought a bassist would capable of playing, but I was totally wrong. The players were able to shift so high that they were practically bending over their instruments, and on top of that, they played it perfectly in tune! The higher you shift, the harder it is to get accurate pitch and a good sound, and I was amazed at how well the bassists were able to execute such difficult notes so beautifully. Aside from amazing me with their pitch, they also blended together really well as a group. If you listened to the video with your eyes closed, it was almost as if there were a violin, viola, and cello playing instead of four bassists. Just listening to how diverse the parts were among the same instrument, really blew my mind. I don't think I've ever really heard more than one bass play at a time, and it blew my mind to hear what the instrument can really do.

       Based on my previous experience with the bass, I miss judged it. I never knew it could carry a melody, or play in the same octaves as a viola, or even function as anything besides a metronome! But the bass is very versatile and dynamic instrument that can do just about anything. It may be big and heavy and awkward to carry, but the bass really is a beautiful instrument that contributes so much more to an ensemble than I had ever thought previously. 

The 0.5 Theory

       I'm taking a music class of sorts outside of school on audio production, and my homework is to listen to Led Zeppelin. Some kids would be delighted by such an assignment, others horrified, but I'd say I'm pretty neutral. As I sit here, simultaneously doing my audio homework and my language arts homework, my only thoughts are: I can't complain. Everything just feels...chill. There are guitars and bass thumping out of the speakers of my computer, but yet, it is relaxed, and I can't help but wonder why.

       My first theory, is that the puzzling relaxed quality I've found in Zeppelin is rooted in its lyrics, or lack of being that I can't understand them. The way they're delivered reminds me slightly of blues music, which takes me back to the evening Jeep rides home from my viola lessons; the wind blowing and the air chilling and the local blues cover artist vibrating from the speakers about his last two dollars. So perhaps that is theory 1.5.

       Theory number two would be the current state of my bedroom. Evening is coming and it's rained all day. The only light in the room pans out in a golden arch from the burlap lamp on the dresser beside me. There is also the glow of my computer screen, but I'd consider word documents a sort of home for me, as I write constantly and aimlessly in the night time on the weekends. So maybe that's theory 2.5; the thing that reminds me of the thing that reminds me of the thing that reminds me of the thing, which I'd say can be appropriately labeled as the 0.5 bit.

       My final theory, the grand number three, is the vintage of it. It's classic, therefore, I'm supposed to enjoy it and I'm supposed to appreciate it. However, the fact that something is classic has never swayed my opinion before, which leads me to theory 3.0: I just like it for what it is. It just keeps jamming. The bass, the drums, the guitar- there is a subtle blend of catchy and consistency among them all. The music follows a structure, just like classical music does, or really, just like all music does, which adds a touch of familiarity to it at well. So there, I suppose, is theory 3.5.

       A large part of my appreciation for Zeppelin lies in the relaxed principle of the 0.5; the remembering of familiar things. The 0.5 factor exists in every piece of music, though. Maybe not everyone feels it in every song or every artist, but every once in a while, people find the 0.5 in strange and unexpected places, like I did, and perhaps that is the true purpose of music.

The Second Language

       It's like you're poking him in the side with your bow.

       You've gotta answer with like, an AMEN BROTHA.

       And here's where the British come marching in...

       Oddly enough, this all makes perfect sense. You see, musicians speak two languages: A) what ever is splattered out across the staff, and B) crazy. Just, plain, crazy.

       When I was first learning to play viola, my teacher made me walk backwards while I warmed up. She'd have me play with the bow upside down, and make me hold a cracker with my thumb while I did shifting exercises. We'd do yoga, too, and even though they were viola lessons, she'd make me sing. Musical phrases were described as spider webs, or a king's march, or an act of revenge. Notes were happy, or sad, or sassy, and rests were either a coffee break or a mental “UH!”.

       This is how passion becomes translated into music. When a musician plays, approximately 2.7 million different things will be passing through their mind, and while these thoughts zip through the folds of our brain at lightning speed, we don't have time to consider whether or not they are completely sane. Most of the time, they're normal. Don't rush, or get louder are some common ones. But thinking in the second language helps musicians add style and individuality to the pieces they play.

       So then, why should it matter that I play a piano like cotton candy, while someone else plays it like snowflakes? They both add style don't they? What difference does it make if my forte is like church bells and yours is like a snare drum? In some cases, it does make a difference, but other times, the difference is only in your head. For example, the sound of a snare drum comes in short, loud, bursts, while the sound of church bells is also loud, it comes in fuller beats and has a warmer tone. On the other hand, the difference between snowflakes and cotton candy is not so drastic. The second language is important in understanding the difference between church bell and snare drum sound, especially in group playing, but sometimes, it's just for you.

       Speaking crazy in the music world may not be entirely necessary, but it makes playing an experience rather than just a performance. You can play a piece in terms of fortes and flats and those rests that look like hats, or you can play it in terms of elephants and sad little goblins and mental tea time. The second language sure is a strange one, but it helps players decide what sort of sound they want to make, while adding a bit of individuality to their performance.

The Table Salt Instrument

       A lot of people say that if music were a meal, the viola would be the salt, but I don't think that's completely true. Of course, it is in the sense that it adds a subtle bit of extra “flavor” to a piece, or that while it is not always recognized it is totally crucial, but I'd like to think my beloved instrument can be defined by more than a few grains of salt. After all, if the viola is merely table salt, how can it compete as a solo performer? Everyone knows that a main course like a first violinist can surely stand alone, but does that mean the viola is just a bitter taste in your mouth?
       I started out playing viola in sixth grade through the public school music program. I had a mediocre rental with the finger board all taped up so I knew where my fingers were supposed to go, a funny shaped purple sponge for a shoulder rest, and a vague notion of how to hold the thing. I was thrilled. The viola was a mean of making music, that I controlled. It was unique, because it was NOT a violin, and it was NOT a cello, but in a way, it could be both. It was a pair of wings driven by a gliding white bow, because playing felt like flying. It was anything but table salt, and I knew that from the start.
       So what exactly is the viola? Technically, it is an instrument played on the shoulder with four strings (A, D, G, and C) and the sound is drawn out with a bow. Metaphorically speaking, however, is where its definition becomes less clear. How I see it though, is as if the viola lives a double life. Peter Parker is to SpiderMan as an ensemble violist is to a soloist. In a group, the viola part tends to fly under the radar, blending in with the rest of the orchestra, but still contributing to the general sound. Sometimes the viola section will carry a few bars of melody, or march through a piece accompanying some of the cellos' phrases, or even carry a conversation with the violins, but for the most part, you could not pick a violist's part out of a piece without being a violist yourself or focusing your mind completely on that particular section. However, when a viola is played solo, it's like listening to the Grand Canyon.
       The viola is an instrument of both sunsets and table salt. Playing it can make you feel like a bird and a metronome. Listening to it can be like sitting in a bubble bath and feeling a single cool drop of rain on your cheek. The viola could never be defined by a single image or phrase, because no matter how mundane, how table salt, how Peter Parker it may be, there is always an and.