The One when I was a Human Metronome

I’m not sure I can adequately describe how frantic the past three weeks have been. Thanks to those readers who have contributed in sending encouraging texts, helped out with childcare, and/or attended some of the numerous performances Roy and I have had this holiday season. We’re already saying “never again” as far as the number of commitments we’ve gotten dragged into. (Some willingly, some kicking and screaming the entire way.)

This week, in particular, has been nuts. And, as a musician, a complete study in contrasts. For one thing, I haven’t touched my flute, which is my primary area of formal training. Instead, by day I am a collaborative pianist for a college trumpet studio. By night I am a director and conductor of a large-scale (dare I say) Christmas musical extravaganza. Let me attempt to describe the schizophrenic nature of this…

I’ve been accompanying trumpet students for a long time. Piano parts for trumpet repertoire are, largely, stupid. It’s either orchestral reductions of Baroque harpsichord parts where everyone knows when you mess up, or complex, rhythmic 20^th century sonatas that take weeks to put together with the soloist. Over the years I have learned most of the repertoire and know every single pitfall in the counting of Hindemith, Stevens, Kennan, Arutunian, etc, etc, etc.

So this week I’ve been catching. And catching. And catching. Hours and hours of lessons putting together music for juries. (Not a single Baroque piece…) I’m not sure I can adequately describe the rapid-fire adjustments that have to happen to smoothly anticipate and catch the hundreds of missed entrances I’ve corrected this week. It’s mentally exhausting, but at least it’s familiar. And there’s an inner satisfaction of knowing how hard I am saving these kids’ butts.

By night I am working with a twenty piece orchestra and fifty member choir of solid musicians. Many of them are professionals, all are more than capable of counting and coming in correctly. It’s a chance to finally forget about rhythm and focus on making beautiful music.

Except.

This darn musical is on a click track. I could write a separate entry on the atrocious click track for this production and how the voiceover reads like the guy was drunk based on the incorrect cues, meters, and wildly unstable click. I could tell you how hard we pushed the publisher to fix it…in 72 hours, knowing it would never happen. And how somebody in Nashville got bawled out and they actually redid the ENTIRE musical for us in time for our dress rehearsal. And how I cried tears of relief. But I won’t. ;)

Instead, by night I smash in my in-ears and turn the beautiful orchestra and choir almost entirely down in my mix and blast The Click until I fear for my eardrums. We play. And the clarinet soloist wants to add some rubato and stretch a lovely melody. I automatically start to ebb with her until I hear The Click. It’s like an electric shock goes off in my brain. “Do Not Follow. Do Not Adjust.”

The orchestra wants to push the tempo. The Click is my master. “Do Not Follow. Shut Your Eyes and Just Keep Conducting.” The choir wants to drag. Once more The Click smacks me upside the head. “Idiot. I am in control. You Shall Not Adjust.”

For, you see, The Click is attached to The Video, displayed for all to see. And if I fail to serve The Click, The Video won’t match the words or the choreographed movements to the music we’re creating in real time. The 45 minute production saps me of energy in a way I’ve never experienced before. Cueing musicians, giving the choir every entrance, word, and cutoff. Praying the others on The Click (piano, keyboard, drum set) are feeling equally as subservient as I so we stay together. All the while attempting to convey joy and Christmas cheer on my face so we don’t look like a bunch of kids taking a calculus final.

I collapse into bed this week unable to keep my eyes open, but my rapid-fire brain won’t shut up for at least another hour. My final thoughts each night have been the imagined dings of text messages from my fellow director or The Click.

I wake up the next morning and ebb and flow and jump and hang back a few more dozen times at the next trumpet lesson.

Coffee coffee coffee…