Musicians Are Real People

Greetings, readers!
I apologize for disappearing from my blog this summer! I have lots to write about, so come back and read more soon! (I don't want to bore you with gobs of thought and inspiration all at once. One idea at a time.)

This summer I had two major musical experiences. The first was working at Durley Youth Camp as the Worship Director.  I was there for about seven weeks, and it definitely was the highlight of my summer.  I hung out with kids, chose song-lists for each of the chapel services, and played my guitar. Oh, and I sang, too. Using my voice and playing my tertiary instrument in front of a crowd is not my dream job, by any means. In fact, I was just as nervous as (if not more than) I am when I give viola recitals. The other musical experience I had this summer took place at Indiana University, at a Violin/Viola Pedagogy Retreat. It was FABULOUS...but I'll get to that later. For now, I must stay on topic.

Although these two parts of my summer were drastically different (at camp, everything was funsy wunsy, and at the retreat everything was...serious werious.), I found a shared principle: musicians are real people.

When you listen to a CD of your favorite artist, do you imagine a human? A person who has had to try and try again to get that lick just right? A person who has hashed out all possible interpretations of a single phrase before deciding on the one that is the most musical? Most likely, no. It's a little easier to believe that a musician is a real person when they are using the same strum pattern for every song in the set, or when their voice cracks when they sing above a G, or when they forget to capo their guitar and the song nearly falls apart (this was me at camp, for those of you who didn't pick up on that). Of course she's a human.

I think it wasn't until that retreat at IU that I fully understood (and believed) that all those incredible professional musicians are real-life humans too.

On the first night, we all attended a fantastic chamber concert. I can't remember who was playing, or what piece it was, but I remember feeling a sense of relief when the cellist completely lost where he was in his music. The rest of the quartet had to scramble to keep the right harmony going, as to not get ahead of the bass line in the cello part. I was sitting in the front row, and I remember watching the other players' eyes zoom back and forth in a panic. After about 10 seconds of chaos, the group was back together, and they finished the piece with poise. It was awesome, actually. A huge mistake, and a great recovery.

Don't get me wrong, I was not "rejoicing in another man's misfortune;" I was simply relieved to know that the cellist was a real person.

Real people can do amazing things, but they cannot do amazing things 100% of the time. I found encouragement in that fact. I mess up a lot. It's comforting to know that even though I screw up, there is hope for me. I don't mean the hope of being perfect or famous; I mean the hope of being okay. A slip-up in a Brahms Sonata does not affect the rest of my life. Sure, I may be mad at myself for a month or two, or it may prevent me from nailing a doctoral audition, but I'll still be okay. That cellist and I will be just fine, because although music makes our lives what they, it isn't the source of our life.

Peace,
Blakeley