Argh. I apologize (mostly to myself) for not posting in such a long time. Stories/pictures from New Mexico are forthcoming, I promise - for now I'll summarize and say that it was a fantastic trip.I'm back at school and, as always, shopping period is driving me into the cliffs of insanity. And we've only had a day of classes. Oy vey. And the inauguration! I haven't even talked about that. Maybe I'll come back to that and reflect a bit later. For now I'll leave you with Alex Ross's take on the music, with which I essentially agree.Ross's final point: "I liked most of all the diverse picture of the classical world that the performers presented: an Israeli-born violinist, a Chinese-American cellist, a Venezuelan-born pianist, and an African-American clarinetist from the South Side of Chicago."I mean, John Williams was kind of a lame choice - as some other critic said, they should have just played Copland - but it fit in well nonetheless. Other than that, I nearly cried several times, including during the swearing in when he said his full name. And also, you know, everything he said. I keep on pinching myself to find out if this really happened. Now, at some point in the months and years to come, people are going to inevitably be unhappy with him because there is no way he can live up to the expectations of every single person who has entrusted their hope and faith in his vision. But I'm an anthropologist, and I believe that symbolic events can carry a lot of weight. This one, I think, has the power to inspire the world. It's been fascinating to read the accounts of my friends who watched the inauguration from abroad.I promise that I'll write at least the first installment of my New Mexico stories tomorrow. But now to bed, because I'm worn out already. Looking forward to this weekend, when I'll be seeing Kenny Garrett in Boston! He has such a gorgeous sound. Can't wait.And now, your moment of Zen (courtesy of my brother):
My heart rate has been increasing proportionally to the closing gap of time before the song. Finally, the jazz band director announces proudly that the next piece, a Charles Mingus tune called “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat,” will feature me as a tenor saxophone soloist. Rising from the chair with quavering smile, I’m not certain that my knees will hold. The sax dangles leadenly from my neck strap, which I compulsively tug, adjust. Lick the reed, slurp the mouthpiece, finger the keys rapidly. No turning back now.
It takes all my willpower to put my mouth to the plastic mouthpiece, tighten my lips, and blow the first little phrase. The piece starts right in with improvisation; not only am I the only one playing, but I am also making it up. At first I think too hard about each note and the sound is unconfident. My racing, panicked mind has gone slightly into shock by the time I get into the blessedly written-down melody of the piece, my fingers numbly pressing buttons in familiar patterns. But then the moaning ache of the low notes stirs something, some feeling of sadness and longing, the word my subconscious has already detected as love. Love for the beauty of the song, the smooth pearl of the keys I press, the air hissing past my teeth and sliding through the length of the horn to erupt out of the bell. All at once I know what I am doing here: I have to share this with the audience. I have to convey a glimpse of what I am feeling right now, of my love affair with this music and this emotion and this instrument.
When I reach the second page, the notes have fallen away. Improvisation, my greatest musical fear, involving both creativity and confidence. I face a sheet of music that is blank but for chord changes, a page that under normal circumstances would have caused fear to paralyze my fingers and tighten my throat. I would have stopped, simply stopped right in the middle, tears springing to my eyes. I would have allowed self-consciousness to plant itself firmly between my mouth and the mouthpiece, stumbling and stammering to produce a single note. A legit player knows only written music, sonatas and concertos of carefully pre-meditated notes. In this classical world, intricate sixteenth-note runs call to be practiced over and over, and I am safe in comforting, concrete, written notes.
But tonight—tonight I am in love, so I stop worrying about mistakes, un-focus my eyes, and allow my fingertips to melt into the golden gleam they grasp. Tongue taps on rough reed, hot breath pushes and fingers dance. A straining wail erupts from my core out into the air, transformed into to some beautiful noise by a piece of brass, notes hanging for an instant before fading away smokily. There is nothing to decide, no physical body over which I have control, just this vessel through which I am sharing this song of beautiful mourning. I am no more aware of the passage of time than I am of the actual notes emerging; my body leans forward slightly to ground itself. Wide, breathy vibrato quivers and calms to a purr, and I savor the buzz of air that passes by my lips sounding only as a soft staccato sigh. A deep inhale, a twitch of fingers, and I gliss up the range of the horn before tumbling slowly down again to a long blue note. This is the first time I have ever been able to let go, to channel the melancholy and desire the song inspires in me through the melodies I create. The sax reveals every secret in me as I lose myself in the heartbreaking movement of the chords.
On the release of the last, high, long note, I blink for a moment until applause sets in. The spell is broken, zinging off into corners of the dark auditorium, and I am suddenly acutely aware of my dizzy panting. As the unfamiliar sensation of real satisfaction creeps up into me, I grin and take a bow.
