Last night I had the privilege to perform a solo recital on campus. This is my ninth recital I’ve given and by far the least stressful. I’m not sure why this was the case as I usually dwell on the performance for a week or so beforehand. In this instance, I completely forgot about it lots of times, even telling a friend that I was “done with performances for a month” on Sunday. Oops. (Ironically, she showed up last night.)
Yes, I managed to put off the fight-or-flight feelings until yesterday. They are never fun. To quote a previous blog, it usually feels something like, “omg my life sux so bad right now I cant handel it.” That kicked in around 2pm yesterday as I sat at my desk doing mindless data-entry. It would have been nice to have some mind-FULL work to do, but alas, I just had lots of time to think. And as I thought I realized that I was an idiot that didn’t have programs and didn’t have a page-turner or stage-manager. (It’s not my fault! I’m used to walking into the music office and picking this stuff up! What is all this have-to-do-it-yourself-mumbo-jumbo???) Enter semi-panic as I skulked around the office trying to email appropriate people and get programs copied without looking TOO delinquent. By 4pm everything was done and I could breathe a bit easier. I got home, did some yoga to stretch out and relax (it actually helped), and then hit the next tradition of recital prep:
What in the world am I going to do with my hair? And why does this stress me out more than the recital itself?
Being a curly-headed creature, it was highly unlikely that washing my hair and blow-drying it was going to result in anything other than Bush Woman (and I don’t mean Barbara). So I was stuck with what I had--half-straight, half-curling hair that already was leaning towards frizz. Thankfully it was not a humid day and I was able to tame my locks with some TLC, bobby pins, and a lot of hairspray. (Even more thankfully, it didn’t come falling apart until after the last piece on the program.)
So we headed over to the recital hall, hastily-made programs in hand, and I warmed-up. Of course, I use the term “warm” loosely. Forgive my forthcoming rant, but why is it, ladies and gentlemen, that men who give recitals get to wear LAYERS and women get to wear GAUZE? Seriously, it’s smack-dab in the middle of February in upstate NY. My VWH, who performed alongside me on one piece, wore concert black with a jacket over his dress shirt. I, as required by the higher-powers who decided that all females must dress for beach-weather whilst performing, wore a little black dress with no hose. I managed to acquire an additional flimsy black wrap so I wasn’t complete bare-armed (thus preventing my co-worker from watching “arms flapping in the breeze” as she so aptly coined it), but that equivocated itself to sticking a band-aid on a broken dyke. I was cold.
I shivered in the back hallway waiting to start, knowing that once I was underway adrenaline would take over and my body would thaw. 7:30 rolled around and I was ready. However, VWH came around the corner and informed me that I’d have to wait a few more minutes. My teeth chattered miserably until I heard why. “They’re setting up extra chairs and you’ve run out of programs.” …really? People actually came? I didn’t even hang up posters!
So I peeked out at the crowd as we entered the hall and couldn’t help but utter “WOW” when I saw how many friends and family were there. And strangers for that matter. They seemed genuinely pleased to see me, which is always a relief to a musician. By definition, we are required to coerce and guilt people into attending our performances so that we can make money to buy food and shelter. When they’re looking neutral it’s good. Looking happy is a plus.
A half-hour later I uttered, “YOW!” as I plowed through Ian Clarke’s Zoom Tube, a tour de force of extended techniques that required me to make a complete fool of myself. I never anticipated beat-boxing as a part of my future when I picked up the flute at age 8. It’s a lot of fun, but also kind of embarrassing. I was relieved when the audience clapped and cheered at the end instead of looking at me with blank expressions. Two pieces later, including duets with VWH and my most beloved flute teacher, we wrapped up to a lengthy standing ovation. What a thrill!!
As I reread this entry it looks like it was stressful. It really wasn’t. It’s just the typical get-ready-routine that most musicians go through to prepare for a big performance. In reality, I couldn’t wait to play and make music, something that is rare in my life right now. Sharing music with others is the ultimate high, so to speak. And to have them come on-board and share the adventure with you—well, that’s the ultimate honor. Bring on number ten!
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