Indecipherable

The CD release show came and went, all in all quite successfully. Except for my guitar battery giving out after the first song and an unexpected eternal span of minutes in which I was left to my own indecipherable sense of humor to charm the crowd until I could get my hands on another guitar, it went well. (Yes, the battery in my guitar gave out. Yes, silly me for not replacing it before the show.)

This whole endeavor has been a lesson in faith for me--trusting my community, trusting my own ability, trusting that things will come together. We took on a massive project by deciding to organize a plant sale as well as an album release. Oh, and not only a plant sale, but a plant sale and art show. We collected, painted, and prepared the pots. We dug and split and planted the plants. We assembled the "planted music" packages (hardly an hour before the show). We wrote and performed and arranged and produced the music. We showed up and sang. 

By "we," I mean specifically these people, but many, many more: Dan Zamzow, Jake Staron, Rachel Price, Bethany DeLine, Maya Dahlberg, Garden Harbor, Mother Earth Gardens, Colin McDonald, Thomas Kivi, Kjersti Rognes, Meg Stinchcomb, Henry Allen, Emily Pflugi, Sean, Ryan, all the boys and girls of East Terrace Road, etc. So, so, so, so many people contributed to this effort. 

I have been struck, repeatedly, by my luck at finding myself a part of such a generous and willing community. Out of nowhere, people have volunteered to donate their time and talents. The "Planted Music" event could never have happened without all that outside energy spilling over. I meant to gush about how grateful I was on Saturday night, while I had the microphone in front of me. 

However, it turns out I am not so graceful in front of a microphone if I'm not singing. 

That span of eternal minutes without my guitar was brutal. You wouldn't believe how scary it is to stand in front of a room FULL of people (disproportionately populated by unfamiliar faces) without a guitar in your hands. 

Standing there without anything to hold onto, without a song to sing, I felt literally naked. It was the first time I have had so much attention directed at me, all at once, all in a hushed, anticipatory waiting game, as everyone stood there, their multiple pairs of eyes resting on my nervous body as I tried to think of something funny to say. I felt required to entertain these people who had scoured the city to find Corner Coffee (not even on the corner!) on the edge of downtown in the middle of Pride weekend in Minneapolis. Unfortunately, I'm really only funny to like three people in my life, and those include my sister and brother who only think I'm funny because they remember the origins of certain quirky mannerisms.

I think I told some half-funny joke about working with kids, but only those three people laughed. Actually, I can't be sure if the people out there in the audience-o-sphere were as uncomfortable as I was, but it seemed to drag on forever. Thomas (who can't decipher my humor but sometimes laughs out of pity), thankfully, let me use his guitar, which is identical to mine, and I told another half-funny joke about how Thomas only got a Taylor 110E because I did. 

And when I finally had a guitar in my hands, I relaxed into singing. I could never be a stand-up comic or a improvisational actor. I love performing, but I seem to do much better with pre-constructed dialogue, or at least a plan. Songs, music--that's easy to perform. You know what to expect. Even if you are improvising while performing music, you're working within a system. You anticipate chord changes, melody line, harmony. 

Those lucky people (my sister is one), who can pull out ten character parodies on demand, baffle and amaze me.

At least I know my limitations. However, I should really study the art of improvisation as a precautionary measure. If I am ever in a situation again where I have a roomful of people staring at me, expecting me to perform, and my guitar gives out, what will I do? Next time I will be prepared.

Maybe it's time to take that juggling class?

A Good Day on the Job...

One thing I love about my job is that I get to have personal relationships with the people who have hired me. I could try to be strictly professional, only talking about music lessons and payment and scheduling, but when your job consists of going into people's homes, of stepping into their daily lives, it's impossible not to engage in a more personal relationship.

I never know what I am going to walk into. Sometimes I walk into a quiet piano room and am offered hot genmai cha and a homemade cookie. Sometimes I walk into a roomful of guests and apologetic parents--oh, we forgot you were coming, would you mind if the extended family watches you teach Little One piano? Sometimes people start their fireplaces just for me. Sometimes no one is home when I arrive. Sometimes people set out a rocking chair for me. Sometimes I walk into the heavy, uncomfortable remnants of a recent argument. Sometimes I get my own pair of slippers at someone's house. Sometimes the lesson is interrupted by the smoke alarm because dinner was left in the oven too long. Sometimes I am greeted with drawings from younger siblings, hot chocolate, high-fives, or the last of the Greek Salad that was for dinner. Sometimes the dog is happier to see me than the student.

Once I saw a parent pulling out of the driveway with her kids in the van (clearly forgetting the piano lesson), and when she saw me driving up to her house, she slammed on the brakes, swerved the car around, pulled back up to the house, put the car in park, ushered her son right back out of the van and turned to me and all she said was, "I am a dork."

I suppose one has to have a certain amount of flexibility in terms of practical skills while doing this sort of job. While my primary purpose in visiting my students' homes is to teach music, at times I find myself doing other things.

Like the time a six-year-old was having a really hard day and couldn't play more than a measure or two without crying. We wound up showing each other magic tricks and laughing until he felt better. Or the time an adult piano student was so melancholy she couldn't concentrate on the music. My job as a music teacher is to listen, but sometimes I have to do a different kind of listening.

I don't know if this is a job I will do forever. It can be exhausting (pun intended) driving everywhere. It can be boring and stressful keeping up with bookkeeping. It can be frustrating getting lesson cancellation phone calls.

But getting to watch a twelve-year-old sightread a Bach Minuet? Getting to hear an aspiring Broadway star confidently sing notes she didn't think she could? Getting to answer the same questions I used to ask? Getting to hear an eight-year old nail interval training? Getting to watch a nine-year-old learn how to write a song? Getting to hang out after the lesson and talk about spirituality and interconnectedness? Getting recipes from the anti-wheat suburban mom?

Some days it's worth the gas mileage. And some days, it feels like it's about more than the music.

Smelly

A 10-year old piano student stopped playing mid-song at his lesson yesterday, crinkled his nose, and said, "Eeew, something stinks."

He looked at me and said, "Is it your feet?"

I mentally walked back through my day. Was there any reason my feet would be smelly? Had I gone for that run with Luna and then forgotten to shower? Did I accidentally eat something that gave me gas? Hmm...no, no, and no.

"I don't think so, " I said, honestly. "But we have had a sick dog at home. Maybe you can smell that."

He nodded, took his hands off the piano, and said empathetically, "Is it....flatulence?"

Dotted Half-Note

At choir last week, the woman sitting next to me, who is new this season and whom I do not know because I was in New Zealand for the first few weeks of rehearsal, turned to me, held her music and a pencil to me and earnestly said, "Look, here are the markings I made to make sure I know that a dot next to a circle note with a stick equals three beats. Maybe you would like to make these markings in your music, too? I don't know if you read music or not, but it's really helpful to write this stuff out."

Dumbfounded, I stammered, "No, thank you," and uncomfortably shifted in my chair.

Suddenly my job as a piano teacher and the thousands of dollars and many years I spent getting a B.A. in Music seem so...invisible.

Same Name

Have you ever accidentally booked a show at a venue with the same name in the wrong city?

It's...embarrassing.

awkward moments

Awkward Moment #1

I stood up to turn a page of music, and my adult piano student said to me in the middle of her lesson, "My GOD, you're tiny!"

Now, this sort of out-of-the blue, out-of-context remark about body size always leaves me feeling...uncomfortable. There is no way she could know that I am in recovery from an eating disorder, but even if I had never struggled with body image and food, I think exclamations about people's weight are just darned awkward.

What are you supposed to say? If you are a woman, and someone exclaims that you are tiny, I think you are supposed to say, "Thank you," as though it were a compliment. Or, better yet, you are supposed to coyly deny it.

"Oh, stop it. No, I'm not!" And you're supposed to squeeze your stomach and say, "Just look at how fat I am!"

That's what you are supposed to say, because you are supposed to assume that (a), it is a compliment and (b), that you are too humble to accept such high praise, such attention and glory for the ultimate ideal for a woman--thinness. But, because I don't really appreciate any comments on size/weight/body appearance, and because I lost interest long ago in playing the body game, and maybe also because we were in the middle of a piano lesson, I had no idea how to respond.

Instead, I kind of stuttered, "Uh...yep," and turned the page and went about the business of explaining some musical term. Which, in retrospect, seems like a really odd reaction.

Awkward Moment #2

Another awkward moment occurred a few days later when I took Luna for a walk around Lake Como. We were about halfway around, when a woman appeared out of nowhere, walking beside us. She raved about how adorable Luna is, how much she misses her dead dog, and how much fun she had traveling recently in Scandinavia.

This is all without introducing herself. It was a cold day, and Luna didn't seem to mind this woman, so I figured what the heck, let's listen to her stories while we finish our walk. She went on and on about her three grown children, her grandchildren, and an upcoming trip to Hawaii.

Finally, she asked me a few questions about Luna. I responded using the genderless "we," as in, "'We' got Luna about three months ago," and "'We' weren't looking for a dog, but when 'we' saw her, 'we' couldn't leave her."

And the woman said, "So does your husband just love Luna too?"

Awkward Moment #3

I openly admit that I have a boy-crush on a certain co-worker. It's very innocent--the kind of crush that you wouldn't ever admit unless something like this happens:

I happened to be on the floor. (It's really not that unusual in my line of work as a preschool teacher.) I was cleaning up some water from this thing we like to call the "water table," where kids stand and roll up their sleeves and play in a table full of (you guessed it) water. It was the end of the week, so we had drained the water. Noticing there was a small spill on the floor, I took the initiative to clean it up. After soaking up the excess water, I stood up and absentmindedly dried off my hands by wiping them on my jeans.

At the precise moment that I brushed my hands off my jeans and out into the air, my unassuming coworker happened to be walking past.

And I accidentally hit him....

Right in the nuts.

Applying to Grad School

After encountering every possible deterrent, I have finally submitted the first of three packets of my composition portfolio to various graduate schools. You would think that the part about just obtaining your own work and putting it in the mail would be the easy part. The hard parts are supposed to be things like the Personal Statement. The standardized tests. The entrance exams. Interviews, etc. Not so. Just rounding up my own stuff was the most arduous and aggravating process of all.

In applications for music composition, you have to submit scores and recordings. Okay, no big deal, right? At the onset of all of this, say six months ago, I had two respectable recordings.

Fine, but I wanted the put my best foot forward--I wanted more, live recordings. Which worked out well because I had just been commissioned by Calliope Women's Chorus to arrange a song for them. I also had just finished updating this Woodwind Quartet and thought, hey, it'll be easy to find four woodwind players from various parts of the city and to coordinate their schedules in the middle of an early Minnesota winter with my friend who knows how to record stuff.
On the Woodwind Quartet: I planned to make a quick process of it. I had a friend who is a bassoonist and she said she could hook me up with a quartet. Well, that fell through. That was rather disappointing, but I took a deep breath, looked at the calendar (November 1st) and realized that I still had two months to pull it together. So I started emailing every college in Minnesota, every community band and orchestra I could think of, and every person in my address book, asking for referrals to woodwind players. Very quickly I had myself a trio of flute, clarinet, and bassoon. Missing an oboist, I continued the email chain, posted on Craigslist, and kept watching the calendar. November 8, November 15.....yikes!

I finally heard from an oboe player. Immediately, I sent out a Meeting Wizard request (if you don't know what that is, look it up, it is a life-changing schedule coordination tool) and attempted to get this thing done. Originally, my plan was to have us meet twice, the first time for a read-through rehearsal, and the second time for a recording session. I quickly discovered that I wouldn't be able to coordinate so many people's schedules for two sessions within the time allotted. So we planned to meet just once, on a Saturday at noon, at St. Kate's, who generously offered me the recital hall for excellent sound quality.

Saturday, December 1st came. And so did the first snowstorm of the season, with between 6-10 inches of snow falling in the metro and over a foot in other parts of the state. Driving conditions were not so great. My small ensemble was traveling from various locations, so I was a wreck that morning, making confirmation phone calls and hoping for the best.

I arrived at St. Kate's to find my recording friend, the oboist and the clarinetist ready to go. Nothing like instrumentalists--they are so....prompt! The bassoonist appeared shortly after noon, and we started warming up while waiting for the flute player. We waited. And waited.

Finally, 45 minutes later, after a few frantic phone calls, I gave up on her. We recorded the piece without a flute player. It sounded strange, but we did it.

We ended up finding a different flute player who was able to come in a few weeks later and play her part over the track of the other instruments. It was challenging, but she was awesome and professional and an amazing musician, and my recording friend is brilliant and blended the tracks very nicely. So it finally worked out.

On the Calliope piece: After going through all the stress of the Woodwind Quartet, I thought this would be relatively easy. All I needed was a recording of the choir performing my piece, and I was clear about that from the very beginning. "That is no problem, Liz, I will take care of it," a Calliope representative said. Indeed.

December 7-8 came, and so did another snow storm during our dress rehearsals. This meant that I didn't get a chance to confirm with the a/v people that we would be recording. Alas, after many phone calls to the Calliope representative, I felt assured that she was taking care of things on that end. Saturday night, when I arrived for warm-ups before our performance, I saw a disgruntled looking woman with an I-pod sitting in the front row. I approached her and asked
her if she was recording the concert. "Yes," she said, "But I have to do it from my I-pod because there was a misunderstanding about where the recording equipment was supposed to come from."

Oh dear. Well, okay, whatever, it's still getting recorded. Plus, we had another performance the next day. So Sunday came, and the first thing I did was ask the sound guy if all was well in the recording department.

"Recording? This is the first I have heard of that," he said. He also seemed irritated.

"You mean no one has talked to you about recording this concert?" I asked, slightly appalled.

"No one. And if you need me to do that, all I have is a tape, and I can't do it because you ask me to. You have to have your director talk to me."

Argh. So I passed on the word, and she got it sorted out.

In theory, after both of concerts were complete, there were two different recordings floating around out there. All that was left was me getting my hands on one of them, a.s.a.p.

Briefly, here is a list of problems I had while trying to obtain those recordings during the following week:

*Waiting for the tape to be transferred to CD and then having that completely fall through
*Someone dubbing a blank tape onto the original copy of the tape from Sunday after meaning to do it the other way around to make me a copy. Whoops.
* Trying to find a phone number for the woman who had the other recording--I had to call about four people just to get her phone number.
*Hearing that this woman would be able to email me the file from her I-pod. And then getting the phone call the following day saying the file is too big.
*Driving in ANOTHER snow storm to physically pick up the CD in Edina (which I never, never do--if I can avoid driving in the snow, I do. If I can avoid driving, for that matter, I do. And if I can avoid driving to Edina, well, clearly, that is also to be avoided at all costs. But this was urgent and very, very, important!)
*My car spinning out on 494 across four lanes of traffic on an overpass and crashing into the cement wall while driving on the ice in the fog and snow to pick up the recording. (I am okay and so is the car save for a new dent and a few big scratches and a tail light that sticks out--luckily I was driving about 30 mph because of the dangerous conditions). And, needless to say, I did not get the recording that day. Instead I spent an hour in the parking lot of the Mall of America, which was the closest place I could think of to pull over, crying and shaking and cursing higher education, Calliope Women's Chorus, and the idiot who angrily signaled for me to drive faster for causing this chain of events.
*Finally, after returning from Iowa on December 26th, driving to this woman's house and picking up the goddamn CD. Getting home and putting it in my computer and hearing the WRONG BLASTED PIECE OF MUSIC.

............

I finally have a copy of the piece. After having a break-down and screaming at the top of my lungs--and frightening my cats and possibly the neighbors--and possibly the neighbors' neighbors--I settled down and called the woman back and told her what had happened. She was great. She was very apologetic and professional and said she would get the CD of the right piece to me tomorrow. She put aside whatever it is was that she had going on to make the right copy for me and, yes, we met halfway the next day and I finally, finally, finally had the right piece of music.

So, after all is said and done (which is an expression I hate but feel compelled to use anyway), it turned out that I ran out of time to put the application materials in the mail. I had my girlfriend, who happens to work at the University of Minnesota, hand deliver the packet to the School of Music. And the other schools leave me plenty of time for mailing--the next one is due Jan 15 and then Jan 31. And now that I have all of my scores and recordings, it should be no problem. I hope.

I also realize that a lot of people came through for me during this process. Stacia, thank you for delivering that packet and thank you for listening to me vent about the entire process. My recording friend was awesome and he also had to listen to me vent and cry and stress. The woman who came through with the Calliope recording was great--she totally hung in there and kept working until we had the right copy. All of the performers were excellent and willing to work hard.

I have learned a few very important lessons during this process.
1. Always persevere and keep asking for what you need, even when it seems impossible!
2. Never trust anyone else to take care of the details around recording a live concert.
3. Never, never, never drive on icy roads. Not even when your career is on the line. I'd rather have my career on the line than my life. (P.S. I actually thought I was going to die when I saw the cement median rushing toward my face. This is what I thought: "After all I have been through, this is how I am going to go?!")

Did I want to give up during this process? Yes, of course.
And then Stacia and I ordered take-out from Taste of Thailand the night that she delivered the complete package (pun intended?), and my fortune said this:

Don't stress. You will soon be rewarded for all your hard work.

Composing and Catherine Catastrophe

Wow, September is here and that feels strange. It is the first week of public school, and while I am not a student or an official teacher in a school system, the schedule change affects me in a big way. Most of my students are kids, so I am also beginning a school-year schedule, which of course means most lessons are late in the day. And, since I do teach part-time at a pre-school, I get to return to the world of three-to-five-year-olds learning Spanish. This year, I am also teaching Music at that same pre-school. Expect blogs.

We had our first Calliope rehearsal of the season last night, and, wow!, there is always a lot to digest in those rehearsals! Lots of new faces, which is way exciting, lots of new music, lots of new energy. I have had the honor of spending some time this summer working on a couple of arrangements for the chorus, so I am really looking forward to hearing them! Calliope has also agreed to learn a piece I wrote (many moons ago) in college, for the St. Kate's Women's Choir, and when we took it out last night, I realized that it had numerous errors (mispelled enharmonics resulting in unsingable intervals, that sort of thing). Eek! Luckily, a choir full of sweet souls can be very forgiving. We will see how it turns out!

I am also working on a few other pieces at the moment, specifically a Woodwind Quartet and an art song (Our Eyes Would Whisper For Us) for soprano, piano, violin, viola, and flute. Both of these are from the vaults, and one of those got a performance in its day, but looking back, I'm not sure how because it is terribly repetitive. Retrospect is a funny thing.

All of this energy toward composing is....making me a little crazy. Composing, I suppose like any art, is funny. You spend so much time creating, in a really personal, private space, and then, if you're lucky, you send it out into the world for many eyes and ears. And while you are in that private, cozy space, you forget that what you are creating is actually going to be public. I had a professor who said, "All writing is public." It seems strange, spending so much time in your quiet, small, cocoon of an apartment writing music, and then suddenly realizing that it will escape you, it isn't just yours anymore, it belongs to the performers, to the conductor, to the accompanist, the musicians who take it and make it alive. What you have spent your time laboring over is really just a set of guidelines, a roadmap.

And, if you are prone to insecurity and anxiety, handing over your roadmap can be a bit daunting, to say the least.

And, if you have spent three years not writing a drop of music because you were busy recovering from and eating disorder and chemical dependency, and if your identity has been wrapped up in success and failure, and if your biggest advocate has died of cancer along the way, you are certainly going to feel a little unsettled.

My friend Catherine, who passed away last October, sat by me in choirs for years. She was the soprano that sang my art song, the last public performance of my music until now. She watched me work and stress in college over a piece that finally was performed for a large audience. She likened the process of writing music to pregnancy. She said, "Liz, you have worked on this for months and months and no one has seen it, and now it is going to be birthed to an audience of hundreds of people." That rang very true to me too.

I can't help but miss her as I start to reclaim composing and choral singing. It is strange singing in a choir without her next to me. She was that friend I would go to when I felt anxiety about the pressures of the music world. She would wave her hand and say, "You are doing a good job, it's not worth your time to worry so much." She was supportive and patient with my many insecurities. Without her around, I feel a little lost putting my music out there. Who is going to be my biggest advocate? Who is going to listen to me banter my crazy-anxiety talk? Who is going to temper my worries with her good-natured humor? Who is going to ask me to write a piece for her children's choir? Who is going to make fun of my dreadlocks and piercings? Who is going to love me, no matter what, no matter how unstable or insecure I am? Who is going to love me through music theory tests, through endless choir rehearsals, through Germany and deep, deep depression, through drinking, through coming out, through bulimia, through detox, through a long absence, through her own struggles, through her house burning down, through her brother's car accident, through cancer, through hospitals, through chemo, through hospice, through morphine, through bed-stricken months? Who is going to love me like that again?

I miss her a lot. I didn't have enough time with her. I didn't thank her enough for being there for me. I suppose, as the fall approaches, along with the anniversary of her death, I will think of her more often. I have seen some leaves turning already, and it reminds me of the daily drives I made to her house last year, the beautiful leaves, the warm autumn, long Sunday afternoons at her family's house with her family, and Catherine sick inside, unable to see the changing leaves or sunshine, unable to hear the birds, unable to leave her hospice bed. And I also remember autumn in college, when I made a habit of picking up the brightest leaf I could find as I crossed the Quad, and I brought it to choir rehearsal and gave it to Catherine. "It was too beautiful to pass by," I said. She would sort of roll her eyes, clearly thinking I had some strange quirks, but she would take it anyway, and put it in her folder, where it would stay.

And she would smile at me, with her dark, pleasant eyes and jet black curly hair and tell me, "Thank you," before getting ready for rehearsal to begin. She was beautiful, with her carefree laughter and soaring soprano voice, and her compassionate, love-filled heart.

At a getting-to-know-you choir retreat one year, we had the task of alliterating our names, so that we would choose a word that began with the same letter as our first name and introduce ourselves that way. As we sat in a circle outside of our retreat center, amid the falling, colorful autumn leaves, Catherine chose the name "Catherine Catastrophe." We all laughed, because she was nothing like a catastrophe, not even remotely close. We adopted that name for her because it was ironic. Today I miss Catherine Catastrophe, the big, pleased, delighted grin that accompanied her when she announced her alliterated name, and her enormous capacity for unconditional love.

Mrs. Jack Black

• One student, who is exceptionally small for her age, really wanted to sing a song she had written for the class. She begged and begged, and finally I said, "Ok, let's hear it." She settled into performance mode, holding her tiny guitar on her tiny lap. All the other kids patiently set down their guitars and listened. The junior singer/songwriter took a deep breath into her tiny lungs, starting making some tiny strums, and then opened her tiny mouth and screamed, "RECESS! Ohhhhhh, RE-CESSSSSSSS! I love you RE-CESSSSS!"

• Shortly before the gentle folksinger's debut, I had handed out books for the kids to use. One student, stunned, said, "I feel like I'm in college."

• Another kid raised his hand, and, when I called on him, he said, "Can we have a talent show? Because. Look what I can do." And his piercing blue eyes took on this sort of creepy quality as he began to move his scalp back and forth so that his poufy hair flopped into his eyes and then back beyond his forehead. Naturally, I responded with, "No. But. Look what I can do," and proceeded to show off my ability to wiggle one ear at a time, shake my eyes, and alternate raised eyebrows.

• Sometimes I split the class into groups so that they can learn songs appropriate to their ages and abilities. The group that chose to learn, "Born to Be Wild," decided that they didn't want to use Steppenwolf's lyrics. Instead, they decided to write a parody song entitled, "Born to Be Mild."

Get your fridges runnin'....Lay down on the fuuuuton!.....Lookin' for a channel....Whatever show is on....Born....to be....Mi-i-i-i-i-ild, Born.....to be M-i-i-i-i-i-i-ild......!"

• One kid said, "It's like...we're in the School of Rock, except you're not Jack Black." Then he grinned mischievously. "But I bet you're married to him!" And all the kids made kissy-kissy noises, saying, "Ooooh! Mrs. Jack Black! Ooooh, I bet you loooooove him!"

So...tell me why you want to learn to play the guitar.

It's week six hundred-thousand-million of guitar class, and on the first day of each week (since I start fresh with a new group of beginners each week), I always ask, "So...tell me why you want to learn to play the guitar?" and we go around the room and everyone says something like, "Because it's cool," or, "Because my uncle is in a rock band." It's a chance for me to get a little background information on any exposure these kids have had to playing the guitar, and also a chance for me to practice saying their names in my head while I look at each of their faces.

I was getting all the standard responses today: "Well, I took piano lessons, but I want to really rock out," and, "I'm already in a band, but we don't know how to play any instruments," and that sort of thing.

Then the question came to a 3rd grader little girl with a flippant attitude. "So, Sam," I said, (and, no, of course that's not her real name), "Why do you want to learn to play the guitar?"

She gave me the old hair toss and head tilt. "Well," she said, clearly irritated with the question, "I don't."

I raised my eyebrows and waited for her to continue.

Sighing, she said, "I had other plans for the morning, but they fell through."

Drums

Last week I taught beginning drums and percussion for 3-5th graders. I do not play the drums, and the only percussive instrument I have is my rugged Spanish, save for the occasional tapping on the pick guard of my guitar or inadvertently practicing rudiments on the coffee table while waiting for my bank's automated phone system to grace me with my balance.

Inevitably, my experience as a drum teacher has gifted my pedagogical lexicon with a few new phrases. For example:
"Actually, bongos aren't for sitting on."
"No, no! Don't drum on your neighbor."
"Please hold your drumsticks with your hands."

And, my personal favorite:
"Please take your drumsticks out of your eyeballs."

Not to be confused with:
"Please remove the drumsticks from your nostrils/mouth/ears/etc."

There was a kid who apparently thought it felt nice to listen with his drumsticks lightly resting upon his lower eyelids. Every time he blinked, his sticks would rattle. I had terrible visions of him slipping or sneezing. I can't tell you how many times I actually used the phrase, "Please take your drumsticks out of your eyeballs." It got to the point where I made him hand them over while he wasn't drumming.

Don't even ask me how I liked trying to speak over nine kids with drums. My voice has taken quite the beating. I started using body language to instruct them, rather than screaming for three hours, and I used the games that work really well in pre-school when kids are noisy. In the midst of the cacophony, I would whisper, "If you can hear me, set down your sticks," and the one kid who reads lips anyway would stop playing and nudge his buddy, and slowly, one by one, they would all stop playing and look at me with quizzical eyes. "Why are you whispering?" one would ask. "To save my voice," I'd respond. They didn't get it.

I'm still feeling it in my throat this week, and I'm back to the grind of kids with guitars. After screaming over a room full of nine-year-old drummers, acoustic guitars seem like the most serene instrument there is. Except of course for the part about tuning. But. You know what I mean.

Protest

It's a new week, which means a new crowd of rudimentary guitar students.

In this group, there is a kid who can't seem to keep a grasp on his pick, and every thirty seconds or so it slips from his fingers. I see it almost every time because he sits right in front of me, but I have learned not to make a big deal of it, because he is clearly traumatized every single time. As soon as the pick plops onto the floor, he sinks in his chair and looks from left to right to make sure no one saw the little mishap. Then he leans over oh so carefully! so as to not bump the neck of his guitar on his neighbor's head and stretches hopefully with his short fingers to the floor, where his pick is lying on the ground.

Whew! You can see the relief in his eyes when he silently scoops up the pick and carefully eases back into an upright position, althewhile being very, very stealthy and punctilious about his range of motion so the other kids don't notice.

And he ever-so-carefully sets up his G Chord or whatever we're on, and joins in, seamlessly. Not a word! Most kids would make a big stink: "Liz, we have to stop! Liz, my pick is on the floor! We can't go on!"

This kid, however, keeps it covert as possible.

Then, as quickly as he recovered his pick and set up his G Chord, plop!, there it goes again. I'm not exaggerating this time, it's really that regimented. Almost like he's experimenting with rhythm, or maybe a funky new dance move that entails throwing one's pick on the floor and picking it back up again. And the way he does it, so...quietly and lithely, it's like he's rehearsing for the Ballet of Pick Plops.

Early on, I couldn't help but comment about the pick habit. I acknowledged the behavior by laughing and saying, "Mark, it looks like you keep throwing your pick down in protest." I illustrated my point by throwing my own pick down on the ground and saying defiantly, "I do not want to learn this chord!"

The other kids laughed. Remember, it was early on in the class, and sometimes I err on the side of being a little too informal in the hopes of winning over their hearts, but poor little pick protester looked horrified. Whoops, I thought, this kid is really hard on himself. Note to self: lay off the jokes at his expense. And I quickly changed the subject and have not so much as blinked at the sound of his pick plopping ever since.

Unfortunately, the other kids think throwing down your pick in protest is really fun, and now I have three little comedians who, every time I say, "It's time to learn a new chord," mockingly slam their plastic picks on the floor and laugh and laugh. Oh dear. Another lesson learned for this teacher...

Bass Clef

Guitar Class Day Three:

It was Music Theory time, so I had everyone set down their precious guitars and listen up to the exciting, riveting fun-filled world of basic music theory. I was explaining the Bass Clef by writing down the note names of each line and space on the staff. Skinny, ADHD boy (who had not been paying attention at all until this very moment) exlaimed, "I know how to remember the spaces! It's All Cows Eat Grass!"

I nodded and said, "Yes. You could also say, All Cars Eat Gas."

Skinny Boy said, "You mean All Cars Pass Gas."

I frowned. "No, there is no note called P for Pass. It's E for Eat." I pointed at the E space.

Skinny Boy leaned back in his chair and looked around at his hardcore nine-year-old rocker friends. "It is too All Cars Pass Gas." He paused, smirking ever so slightly. "What do you think the muffler is for?"

Guitar Class Misogyny

It's the second day of Guitar Class. This week I am teaching 4th, 5th, and 6th graders, mostly a class of boys, there is one quiet girl who shyly asked if we could sing something from The Sound of Music in the midst of the boys' requests for hard rock, "shredding" (I don't even know what that is) and riffs from Guitar Hero.

These kids (save for the little Julie Andrews) are not impressed with my folk-singer's voice or my repertoire of children's songs. They want Queen, they want Iron Maiden, they want to sing songs I would be embarrassed to teach them.

One kid, a skinny, itty-bitty nine-year-old boy, who looks more like a six-year-old, raised his hand when I asked, "What kinds of songs are you interested in learning?" The itty-bitty rocker said, in his very small child voice, "Can we play 'Big-Bottomed Ladies?'"

I blinked. There was a chorus of, "Yeah," and "That's a good one!" from four other very small boys. Julie Andrews was quiet.

"I don't know that one," I said, feeling perturbed that these children seem to think it's okay to listen to a song called Big Bottom Ladies and then request that their Twenty-Something Female Guitar Teacher teach it to them. I also felt furious that such a song exists. Granted, I don't know what the song really says, but it sounds like objectification to me. Maybe we should talk about this in guitar class.

I feel like there is a huge culture gap between me and these fifth grade boys. I mean, I want to sing Joan Baez and they want to sing about women's butts and smash their guitars.

Yesterday, another kid starting ripping on Beethoven, saying his music sounds like "High School Musical high-note opera crap." For that, too, I blinked and felt perturbed, and then I took about ten minutes of classtime to talk about Beethoven and his struggles as a composer and musician. By the end of my soapbox lecture, the kids were thinking it's pretty cool to write music when you're deaf. I told them that if anyone rips on Beethoven without being able to play a piece by Beethoven, I'm going to make the executive decision that our recital is strictly classical music, so that they can all spend some time appreciating it. I did not address the "high note opera crap," but the next kid who says anything near to that is going to get a solo recital of opera arias. And, anyway, Beethoven only wrote one opera, and the main character is a mezzo who plays a gender-bending role, so I don't know what this kid is talking about.

Nor did I even attempt to redeem High School Musical crap. He may have had a point there.

So, for now, I am educating myself in the ways of hard rock. But there will be NO Smoke on the Water (unfailingly, two out of the six kids in this class walked in bragging about being able to play Smoke on the Water before they even introduced themselves to me, blah blah blah, I'm so sick of that stupid boring song I can't even tell you).

Any suggestions for hard rock songs for a classroom full of macho nine-year olds with tune-slipping acoustic guitars who are being taught by a classically-trained soprano and feminist folk-singer?

Because I'm Grounded

Last night I taught a few piano lessons, as I am currently reclaiming the title, "Maestro of Wealthy Suburbia." This title has recently expanded to include South Minneapolis and Saint Paul, most notably Merriam Park and Hamline Midway. One of my students, a ten-year old spirited, loquacious, audacious, loveable girl, was playing through her lesson, and it was stridently apparent to me that she had not been practicing. "Holly," I said in that inadvertantly condescending teacher voice that just happens when you become a teacher, "Have you been practicing every day?"

She looked at me innocently and threw me a big cheese. "Yes," she said.

I paused. "Really? Really really?"

She scowled and crossed her arms. "Fine. I haven't been practicing."

I sighed and reluctantly gave her the talk about practice time being imperative, about commiting to a time each day, about accountability and putting energy into something you love to do. I don't like giving this talk, it sounds so Stoic Piano Teacher, but sometimes I have to do it. I concluded with, "So, make sure you practice every day this week, ok?"

She sighed and narrowed her eyes. "Well, I can't," she said, her voice dripping with exhasperation. Then she widened her eyes and exclaimed, through clenched teeth, "Because I'm grounded!"

That wasn't quite what I had expected to hear. I mean, I've heard some pretty creative excuses about "why I couldn't practice," and I'm sure I have given those same excuses to a myriad of teachers of my own over the years. But I have never claimed that I couldn't practice because I was grounded, much less made it sound so obvious. This girl said it in a way that nearly intimidated me, it was such a compelling delivery that for a moment I nearly responded, "Oooooh, that explains everything! Why didn't you just say so?!"

But I blinked instead, and considered the reasoning. And then it seemed terribly funny. Instead of explaining to her that this was a poor excuse, my blethery self got the better of me and I said, "So! Why are ya grounded?"

At this point I realized I had crossed the line from teacher to gossipy adult friend, and that felt icky, so I retracted that question by saying, "Nevermind. I want to see all your practice times written down in your notebook next week, and make sure there are at least 20 minutes every single day."

She scowled and mumbled something about me being mean, to which I practiced choosing my battles and pretended not to hear her angry comment. I felt a little bad about becoming Strict Teacher. In any case, I was reassured of my high status with this student as I went to leave. As I approached the door, she threw herself in front of it and just stood there, looking up at me with big, serious eyes and a challenging frown. Her dad was standing behind me and he said, with raised eyebrows and a hint of embarrassment, "Holly....what are you doing?"

"I'm blocking the door, Dad."

It took some finagling, but we got her to grant me access to the outside world. I had to promise to come back next week, and that was easy, since I bill out a month ahead of time. Let's just hope this kid makes efficient use of her "grounded" time to practice piano.

It's Guitar Class

It's almost that time of year again. You know, picks in sound holes, missing strings, Smoke on the Water? Yep, that's right, it's almost time for Guitar Class. After much deliberation and some negotiation, I have decided to take the job again. In an effort to prepare myself for the impending summer months, I am revisiting a few highlights from last year. Let me just say that these highlights, after a year of teaching multiple instruments to dedicated, privately studying, serious and committed students (except for the kid who insisted that he play "Ode to Joy" on the piano with his toes), have reminded me that there really is nothing like a classroom full of eight-to-twelve-year-olds who know nothing about guitars. Imagine the process of tuning. Imagine a soundtrack of wavering microtones beneath a subculture of Sponge Bob Square Pants, Pokemon trading cards, and avid fans of High School Musical. Imagine all of that, and then include snapping wire strings, angry parents, and suburban perfectionism in elementary school kids. What a challenge. Here are some funbits, reprised (if you will) from last summer's "It's Guitar Class" blog series:

*The kid who can't stop dropping her pick in her sound hole...it may be on purpose...she thinks it's sooooo funny....

*The time that same kid came to class complaining of a pesky pick in her guitar, and instead I found a plastic spoon. We were both dumbfounded.

*The kids who show up with missing strings.

*The kids who show up without a guitar. It's guitar class.

*The kid who showed up with a ukelele. It's guitarrrrr class.

*The kid who told me I was brave to live in Saint Paul, where all the gangs were. I misheard him and thought he said where all the gays were. Either way, it's offensive.

*The kid who informed me that a whole note plus a half note plus a quarter note equals one dollar.

*The eleven-year-old, incessantly furious boy who said, "You can't tell me what to do. You're small." Say what?

...Not to mention, the Harry Potter Obsessed Kid (she insisted that she be called J.K. Rowling), the Praise Band Recruiter Mom, the neverending requests for Green Day, the (while flattering) persistent encouragement to audition for American Idol, the older class of angsty pre-teen boys who think my guitar playing is "sick," and apparently that's a compliment, and, of course, the hot-pink Hello Kitty Wal-Mart electric guitars, or, even better, the toy guitars that aren't actually meant for study of the instrument. Oh boy. What a summer I have ahead of me....