- To the anonymous “some of us” for whom Bach’s D minor partitas get in the way of “trying to study:”Alestrom’s beer hoedown is emanating from the room next door. You can take your earaches straight to the left.
- As a matter of fact I did intend to check my low C sharp with the open D string, resulting in that dental-drill half-step clash you heard. Embrace the raw unapologetic.
- You’re right. At times, I sound like a cat on caffeine withdrawal, a European siren looking for Godot, and even occasionally a class-B reproduction of the hearth goddess shattering to abalone smithereens on a marble museum floor. That’s a good thing. It means I’m not afraid to sound like something. I’m finding my voice. (It doesn’t prefer to talk about Phi Kappa Sigma Delta Theta or juicing detoxes either.)
- If someone told you you had to schlep through hailing downpour, driving wind and impending dusk to the remote solace of the music building and squish into a practice room every time you wanted to take a selfie, would you obey that rule?
- If you think you’re in pain across the hall, cringing mid-mascara-swoop as I try yet again to hit that shrieking high chord, think of my agony with my ear smushed right up against the thrumming body of the instrument wheezing its anti-melody breath right into my ear canal.
- Finally, a word to thou who “used to play” but quit for some forgotten but compelling reason: It’s not too late. You can still take up the violin again. But as long as you “play” in the past imperfect, you aren’t one of us and never will be.
Image credit: Otto Scholderer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons