Wednesday, February 10, 2010
As I grabbed the old horn I bought used for 600 dollars at age 17, it all came rushing back.
My fingers smell like horn oil...memories...the dirty yellow polish rag shined up my little Bach Stradivarius, and with the iPhone as my metronome (yes, it has that "app" as well), I started belching out old etudes from the biblical verses of trumpet land...Sigmund E. Herring Etudes...perhaps one of the fathers of technical classic trumpet...
And it was like riding a rusty bike. Full of groans, splats, and creaks, but it got down the road, perhaps slower than before, and certainly not with the grace it once rolled. But the nostalgia that came flooding back it was religious. It was like cooking a perfect meal, or that perfect moment after really saying, "I love you" to your wife. It was magic.
I thank my trumpet professor James Ketch, I thank my father for stealing his step-dad's "Olds Coronet" and letting me impersonate Louis Armstrong before ever taking lessons.
To all the times when I ran out of my bedroom crying because dad criticized my playing during our lessons (he was my first teacher), I am thankful I was given the opportunity to come back into this art.
Tommorow...more etudes I guess...the dog woke up once, and went back to sleep. No howling, she didn't even investigate. And my wife said, "It sounded pretty good, a couple of hangups"...
At least I'm legendary to myself.