One thing I've noticed about myself is that I've lost some of my mental and psychological resilience as I get older. My younger self was all about the
possibilities, while my older self tends to be about my
actualities. This entry is not about any instrument in particular, and is more about music learning in general.
Music Theory was a big challenge in college. I originally did not want to go, because I did not want someone telling me what the rules are, or how things have to be done. My grandmother challenged me.
"Look at you, being the big rule-breaking rebel, when you don't even know what the hell the rules are in the first place."
Challenge accepted. I went to university as a Percussion Arts major.
My Music Theory professor, name withheld, was not a good teacher. She did exactly what I feared she would do, by demanding that things MUST be a certain way all the time. Most students powered through her irrational tirades. I zoned out and my mind went elsewhere. She is the reason why I told my current guitar teacher "no" when he asked that I interrupt him if I already know something. I trust nothing that this old professor may have accidentally taught me.
String bass had its own set of challenges. To briefly paint the picture, imagine waking up early to get to the music building before anyone else. It's cold and depressing. Check out a bass and take it to a room so small that the instrument barely fits in it. Pick up the bow, and feel the cramp in your hand as you try to hold it properly. Drag the bow across the instrument, and nothing resembling music comes it. It's more like a an injured cow suffering its final moments after being hit by a truck. For every hour of class, two hours of rehearsal is recommended. I ended up getting just good enough to pass.
Marimba was the biggest mind-screw of all, mostly because of the not-so-surprising behavior of my professor, King Richard. I'll refer to him as that, even though I've used his name elsewhere. Think
Whiplash.
He was present for my first marimba lesson, which was weekly on a Monday at 8:00am. He had to drive from Indianapolis to Muncie for these instructions. Apparently, he did not feel like attending my lessons as much as I did, because after the first lesson, I never saw him again for the rest of the year. It's a 66-mile drive that takes over an hour in good weather. There is no such thing as good weather for most of the school year. Still, I showed up for class every Monday at 8:00am. I'd sit in the room and wait five minutes before starting to teach myself.
During this first lesson, I was instructed that I had to learn
Paul Creston's Concertino. It was a piece where I would have piano accompaniment. This piece may have appeared simple on the surface, for it was only four pages. But other students informed me that the last page alone can take 4-6 months to learn, depending on one's aptitude and ability. Since this was a piece that I would be performing at a year-end recital, I figured that I should put all of my focus here, and do my best.
Here's what I was up against (video of someone else performing the piece), and how it should have turned out:
Based on comments that I got from other students, I broke up the work by pages. When I got to the fourth page, I felt overwhelmed, so I made the decision to get the first three pages down as best I could, while completely ignoring the fourth page.
Flash forward to the spring, when recital was approaching. King Richard was still AWOL in my tutelage, and I had a decision to make. I could decide to not show up to the recital and quit, but quitting did not feel like an option. I had to do this recital, fourth page present or not.
The auditorium was full of about 300 of my peers, as well as the entire music school faculty. The pressure was on. There was no backing out now.
I stepped onto the stage, and received the typical welcoming round of polite applause. I pick up my marimba mallets, when all of a sudden, a few things hit me. The first was that I had never worked with the piano accompanist before. Thanks to my lack of instruction, I did not even know that this was something I could have done. I didn't think about it, because I rightfully assumed that I could follow the sheet music, and all would be fine. Well, at least 75% fine.
Even worse, I had absolutely NO plan for the fourth page.
We perform the piece, and even I was surprised at how well it was going.
We get to the fourth page, and I stop. The entire place goes quiet, save for a few mumbling voices from those who were shocked because this was most unexpected. The pianist asks me if I want to go back a bit and pick up. I agree. Still no plan. What will I do?
We back up and start playing. The fourth page arrives, and I stop. The pianist asks me if I want to pick up again. King Richard and his colleagues are staring at me. The people in the audience are quiet.
I ignore the pianist, and quietly step from behind the marimba, walking to the front center of the stage. I carried myself as if I had a big announcement to make. Slowly, and a bit dramatically. Each foot step is as audible, threatening, and terrifying as a David Lynch midnight movie. I look at everyone from left to right, panning slowly. Still no plan on how I'm going to get out of this.
Then, it hit me.
I threw my mallets out to the audience, like a rock drummer would throw sticks. I yelled out,
"That's all I know!!!" while thrusting up rock devil horns a-la Dio and yelling,
"Woooooooo!" The entire theatre erupted. The applause was deafening. It felt as if everyone else had suddenly forgotten that the fourth page even existed.
King Richard took me aside, and I was ready to get the tongue-lashing of a lifetime. In fact, I was expecting him to punch me in the face, even though he'd never done that before. That's how scary he was. Studying with him since junior high school, and tolerating his language and tone lead me to this conclusion. But those thoughts went away when, for the first time in my life, I saw a smile on his face.
He admitted that he had failed me miserably. He also admitted that he did not believe in me, and that was what allowed him to sleep in on Mondays. I wasn't his star student, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, I went from the biggest fish in a small town, to a baby guppy in a place where everyone was way better than me. I went from being the star of the town, to a place of utter irrelevance. By this point, I had no ego capable of feeding any delusions.
He said,
"Had you just stopped, or just walked off, everyone would have been uncomfortable with the situation, and I would have had no choice but to fail you. But you put the work into the three pages, with no thanks to me, and you made the performance entertaining. Music is about more than the perfect performance, and you've shown your understanding of this."
"Congratulations. You've passed my marimba class."
By my estimate, based on what school cost, I was paying King Richard $300 per hour to fail me. Adding insult to injury was the requirement that I purchase my own marimba, which cost $13,000. I sold it two years later to another student for $18,000 so I consider it a semi-wash in that regard, but only because I quit while I was ahead.
Leaving the music program made me feel like a quitter and a failure. At the same time, it was not working out for me, and I could not see pumping more money into a school that felt to me like it existed merely for the benefit of itself. These feelings of failure and inadequacy were alleviated by the fact that I showed up, did my best, and ended up making it entertaining.
I had to realize that passed this course, not with any help from a professor, but on my own. This also inspired me to leave school, for I felt that I did not need it. Looking back, I was right. Not only did I not need it for rock music pursuits, but I ended up doing lots of things with music in spite of this. Nobody ever asked me if I had a degree in music, except for one time when I considered being a teacher.
This is another one of my lessons learned, and then forgotten, that I'm remembering thanks to this thread.