This is our last week of classes.
I didn't realize this until a week ago. And truth be told, I am actually pretty heartbroken about it. Not that I'm sad that papers and readings and pop quizzes are over with, but I truly can't imagine not being here anymore after this year. Ambrose, and especially the music wing, feels more like home than my house does sometimes. I often come really early to school, just to hang out in the music wing with whoever stops by and crashes on the couches with me. The discussions and laughter and encouragement is always one of the best parts of my whole day. Imagining a summer without this community - never mind the next couple of years at a totally different school - is a bit depressing. "You won't forget us, will you??" asked one of my profs a couple of weeks ago.
"Of course not!!!" I declared forcefully. "Not in a million years!"
That would be like forgetting family. The faculty and students here have been just as important part of my life as my classes have been. And their presence has left unforgettable fingerprints all over my life.
In other news, I received offers of admission from every graduate school I applied to. This blew my mind. I have my pick of schools from all across the country. I can go absolutely anywhere to continue to pursue my musical dreams. Recently, I flew out to one campus and visited the university there. Seeing the campus, meeting the faculty and students, and getting to ask all my questions was extremely valuable. I'll be making another visit sometime soon, and then it comes down to a big decision. Having the world open to me, though, is a pretty amazing position to be in.
Changes, changes, changes. It's always so scary! You'd think I'd be used to change by now. But the things I need to keep reminding myself of are that every major change in my life has brought with it a lot of great new things that I can look forward to, and secondly, that God has a plan that I know is a great one.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Concerto Story
“Here he comes,” said Edwin, my piano instructor, peering at Dan, our orchestra's director, through the crack in the double doors that, along with mere seconds, were all that separated me from the waiting orchestra, lidless grand piano, and our largest-ever audience. I straightened my shoulders one last time, and released two very shaky breaths before the doors swung open, and Dan came through to stand next to me.
“I’m ready.”
The doors parted one more time, and my feet carried me forward somehow, past the applauding crowd, past the orchestra, to the platform where the glossy black Yamaha crouched, waiting for me.
Keep walking. Walk tall. Don’t walk too fast. Pause. Smile. Bow. Breathe.
The rich textures of a full orchestra wrapped themselves around me. Clarinet solo. Swelling violins reaching upwards. Adrenaline swarmed every receptor in my brain, swirling every sense into one massive wash of subconscious blur. The opening was over, but it was as though I’d played it in a dream. Careful consideration and tactics had given way entirely to over a year of committed conditioning. And now the orchestral exposition was coming to a close. This motive. I start it on E.
Animato!
But I don’t even recall playing it. Apparently I did, because I found myself reminding my wrists to launch off the descending accents on the way back down the keyboard. The chromatic thirds. They happened without my knowledge, and then there was the oboist, volleying Grieg’s triplet motive back and forth with me from across the stage, before we all came to the rush of a lush stream of notes arriving at the most breathtaking resolution in all of romantic music. I’ve always said I could play that single line and that single resolution for hours and be happy. The release of the final chord is like a spectacular cathartic drug for my fingers. My spine tingled as I let it go, and then I realized where I was.
I was on a stage.
Playing a piano concerto.
Dazzling arpeggios forced me to cut in on the recollections, and months of repetition allowed my fingers to comply with the score.
The harmonies began to shift moment by moment. A major? A major. Question? Answer. B major? Yes, B major. C sharp major?? D major?? Tension?? More tension?! Where is the answer now??
WAIT. BREATHE. D minor. Go.
This, I can scarcely explain in words. It was fire and technique and passion spun into a wave of sound. It was dozens of hours of discipline and inconceivable strings of countless mental cues streaming out in a flood as my mind assessed and adjusted their simultaneous execution. It was nearly a thousand notes on every individual page of music for a few minutes of unprecedented pyrotechnical, pianistic glory. And if you took every emotion that music is capable of evoking in the human heart and boiled them down into a crushing, intoxicating, exhilarating serum, then that would be the substance that replaced the blood in my veins in those moments.
“Are you ready?” he asked, looking me square in the eye, but clearly not budging until I had taken a moment to be sure that I was in fact ready. I mustered every ounce of confidence I had in me to fight the overwhelming rush of adrenaline that had seized my body, and nodded quickly.
“I’m ready.”
The doors parted one more time, and my feet carried me forward somehow, past the applauding crowd, past the orchestra, to the platform where the glossy black Yamaha crouched, waiting for me.
Keep walking. Walk tall. Don’t walk too fast. Pause. Smile. Bow. Breathe.
The orchestra shifted to prepare. I pressed my fingers gently against A minor, and every fibre of my body readied itself for the hair-trigger impulse to explode into action. A moment of connection as the timpanist and I made eye contact. Dozens of muscles in my hands preparing for the task before them. The beginning arcs of Dan’s preparatory pattern. And then there were no thoughts in words, only action and my entire being surging with A minor. Descent. Octaves. A full-armed impulse connecting with the bottom note, then a stretto race to the opposite end of the keyboard once again. Electricity from the keys through each cell of my hands and arms as my fingers fused themselves to the final few chords of the opening, before I tore them away and allowed the orchestra to sweep in and take over.
The rich textures of a full orchestra wrapped themselves around me. Clarinet solo. Swelling violins reaching upwards. Adrenaline swarmed every receptor in my brain, swirling every sense into one massive wash of subconscious blur. The opening was over, but it was as though I’d played it in a dream. Careful consideration and tactics had given way entirely to over a year of committed conditioning. And now the orchestral exposition was coming to a close. This motive. I start it on E.
E.
E?
But somehow it’s not right. Why doesn’t that seem right? Hundreds and hundreds and uncountable hundreds of times I’ve played my part of the exposition. Why does the E seem false? Two measures. Time became tangled up in itself as my cue approached.
It’s not E.
One measure.
The fourth beat of the measure spilled over the cusp of time, and my fingers found A minor long before I did, but not a moment too soon. The first motive. A minor again. And the simplicity and elegance of Grieg’s famous first theme sounded into the auditorium. The first motive gave way to the second, and the orchestra rose underneath the piano’s bright tone to sweep us all away into the third motive.
But I don’t even recall playing it. Apparently I did, because I found myself reminding my wrists to launch off the descending accents on the way back down the keyboard. The chromatic thirds. They happened without my knowledge, and then there was the oboist, volleying Grieg’s triplet motive back and forth with me from across the stage, before we all came to the rush of a lush stream of notes arriving at the most breathtaking resolution in all of romantic music. I’ve always said I could play that single line and that single resolution for hours and be happy. The release of the final chord is like a spectacular cathartic drug for my fingers. My spine tingled as I let it go, and then I realized where I was.
I was on a stage.
Playing a piano concerto.
This was my moment, and I was in it.
My gaze swept around the orchestra, and a few players caught my eye with a grin or a moment of wordless understanding.
The over-the-top loss of control faded as the unprecedented adrenaline receded, and my mind was my own again.
And oh, here it was: the most heart-breaking entry of the entire piece. One finger, with utmost care, released beautiful, crystal-clear C major that pierced through the texture like a sunbeam, and I emptied my soul into the heavenly theme that carried it. Hours of minute adjustments to the nuances of touch, tone, and shape in that single line were all worth it as I breathed life into that melody in that moment. Grieg swept us all through the heights of ecstasy, through the clutches of turmoil itself, to the pinnacle of tension in a blaze of octaves and glory, before snatching it all back and depositing us all, with a gentle nudge, at the tender development section. Now it was my turn to step up and support – support Aly, sitting right across from me, who was painting a delicate reminiscence of the first motive with the translucent brush of a flute. A horn rose with its own contribution: a haunting echo in warm brass tone.
Dazzling arpeggios forced me to cut in on the recollections, and months of repetition allowed my fingers to comply with the score.
The harmonies began to shift moment by moment. A major? A major. Question? Answer. B major? Yes, B major. C sharp major?? D major?? Tension?? More tension?! Where is the answer now??
It revealed itself in a sudden, quiet, unassuming return to A minor and the first theme. ‘Do you remember?’ asks the piano. ‘Yes, we remember,’ answer the strings quietly. ‘Then let’s do this.’ Soaring cantabile, daring animato, and it all comes sweeping back.
A twist, and harmonic sleight-of-hand have taken us past a point of no return, though, and three sharps leap into the key signature. “A major! A major! Isn’t it glorious??” laughs Grieg. A rich new tone colours the return to the tender cantabile theme, as we savour its romantic beauty together one more time. The new colour is short-lived, though, as a blast of fortissimo and a final, brass-laden I-IV cadence bring every vestige of motion on the stage to an irrevocable halt.
Cadenza.
This, I can scarcely explain in words. It was fire and technique and passion spun into a wave of sound. It was dozens of hours of discipline and inconceivable strings of countless mental cues streaming out in a flood as my mind assessed and adjusted their simultaneous execution. It was nearly a thousand notes on every individual page of music for a few minutes of unprecedented pyrotechnical, pianistic glory. And if you took every emotion that music is capable of evoking in the human heart and boiled them down into a crushing, intoxicating, exhilarating serum, then that would be the substance that replaced the blood in my veins in those moments.
The last four notes. My fingers pulled them from the keys like thick strands of rich molasses, lingering, savouring the last one as the orchestra took it from me one last time…
“NOW!!”
Some unconscious reflex within me snatched my brain back from Narnia, where it had left to without my permission, and my fingers, machine-gun-like, began picking off staccatissimo sixteenths that I had not even mentally located, never mind issued instructions for my hands to play. The only part of the last page that I actually recall after that moment was plunging onto the penultimate tripled A, and then the very last chord. Oh, the last chord! If there was ever a chord or a musical moment in my life that I invested every particle of my body and soul into, it was that final, second-inversion chord that was being held by everything I am made of. Everything – EVERYTHING emptied through my fingers, through those keys, in a surge of unreserved passion, and we held it, held it all together, and my eyes locked onto Dan as he held it all in his hands for that last glorious, resounding moment where time stood still. And in the instant of the final cutoff, that mysterious and miraculous corridor that only music can open between the hearts of musicians and their audience, those of performers and their colleagues, of the past and the present, and of the Creator with human beings, was sealed once more, until the next time the power and beauty of music would stir within us again those things we did not even know were there.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
March flurries bring...
Tonight, we dress-rehearse. One last run-through, one last chance to make final adjustments, check your memory work, and convince yourself that everything really is going to be okay.
Tomorrow is the Concerto Concert itself, and a year's worth of hard work will be all worthwhile when I get the chance to share this amazing piece of music with the family and friends who are coming out to hear it. I've got the dress, got the shoes, got a friend to do my hair, and really, I also have a one-in-a-million-lifetimes opportunity here. It's going to be amazing.
In other news, paper season is upon us, but we music students can definitely make even paper-writing fun. Recently, shortly before a large research paper on the music of Chopin was due, a few of us collected together at my house and had a paper-writing party. Ice cream, pop, chips, resource-sharing, and many breaks taken to laugh at hilarious sentences in our research or silly mistakes in our own writing were all part of the fun. As it turned out, the men's gold medal game landed right on the afternoon we had planned for our paper writing, so cheering our country on to a sweep of hockey gold took precedence over our research for a while! It was a great day.
Only one thing makes me sad about the fact that it's March already. That is the fact that I am graduating in April. It struck me suddenly a few weeks ago that I am almost finished my time here at Ambrose, and I can hardly even say how much I'm going to miss the community, the adventure, the support, and the amazing times I have here. But that's part of life, right? Change is inevitable. And just because you're feeling comfortable somewhere doesn't mean that's where you're meant to stay. There's often an even bigger adventure waiting right around the corner. Who knows how much we'd miss out on if we stayed put where it was safe!
Tomorrow is the Concerto Concert itself, and a year's worth of hard work will be all worthwhile when I get the chance to share this amazing piece of music with the family and friends who are coming out to hear it. I've got the dress, got the shoes, got a friend to do my hair, and really, I also have a one-in-a-million-lifetimes opportunity here. It's going to be amazing.
In other news, paper season is upon us, but we music students can definitely make even paper-writing fun. Recently, shortly before a large research paper on the music of Chopin was due, a few of us collected together at my house and had a paper-writing party. Ice cream, pop, chips, resource-sharing, and many breaks taken to laugh at hilarious sentences in our research or silly mistakes in our own writing were all part of the fun. As it turned out, the men's gold medal game landed right on the afternoon we had planned for our paper writing, so cheering our country on to a sweep of hockey gold took precedence over our research for a while! It was a great day.
Only one thing makes me sad about the fact that it's March already. That is the fact that I am graduating in April. It struck me suddenly a few weeks ago that I am almost finished my time here at Ambrose, and I can hardly even say how much I'm going to miss the community, the adventure, the support, and the amazing times I have here. But that's part of life, right? Change is inevitable. And just because you're feeling comfortable somewhere doesn't mean that's where you're meant to stay. There's often an even bigger adventure waiting right around the corner. Who knows how much we'd miss out on if we stayed put where it was safe!
Friday, February 5, 2010
24 Pretty Average Hours in the Life of a Music Student
Thursday, 4:00 PM
Rehearsal with High School Choir at Diefenbaker
An hour before our usual rehearsal time, members of Ambrose's Chamber Singers began arriving on campus, packing up practice rooms, or ducking out of lectures early. We were on a mission today. After congregating and planning routes, we piled into vehicles, and made our way up to Diefenbaker in the north end of the city to participate in their choir's rehearsal.
In a few weeks' time, Ambrose is hosting a 'choral collaboration' with quite a few high school choirs from around the city. It's going to be a great opportunity for all of us to remember that we're really a part of something much bigger than the usual grind of rehearsals that we all go through on our own. Choral music is everywhere. And we get the chance to celebrate that fact, and pull together to create a performance on a much bigger scale than any one group could ever do on their own.
The rehearsal was a blast. Diefenbaker's choir was pretty great, and we really had a good time working with them. They sang for us, we rehearsed two mass pieces for the choral collaboration, and then we sang for them. Being in a high school again brought back old memories for a lot of us, but, truthfully, the overall consensus was that we're all really very happy that that part of our lives is over and done with! After a pit stop at McDonald's, we hit the road back to Ambrose, with the awesome harmonies of Rajaton cranked up all the way.
Thursday, 6:30 PM
Pre-Orchestra Meeting
My concerto is coming up in five weeks. It's time to start rehearsing in earnest with the orchestra. So tonight, before all the musicians arrived, I spent some time going over the score with our conductor. We clarified tempo changes, I demonstrated sections, we discussed them, marked places where I wanted to take time for rubato, and talked about places where one of us needed to cue the other. And with that, we were ready to go. I took two minutes to warm up my hands, and I was on.
Thursday, 7:00 PM
Concerto Rehearsal
A downbeat. A measure-long timpani roll. And I was in. Two weeks of hard practice had paid off - the introduction felt solid under my fingers, and sounded just how I wanted it to sound. We worked our way through the entire movement, stopping occasionally polish and adjust, and then took the whole thing from the top again. The great news is: I survived! I got through it! That was a huge victory for me. And hearing the strings swell up underneath the cantabile phrases I had shaped so carefully was breathtaking. It all came together to create a thing of heart-stopping energy and beauty. Concertos are really, really incredible.
Thursday, 7:45 PM
Conducting, Take Two
"So now I'll call Alyssa back up here..." With that, I found my feet carrying me back up to the podium I had nearly died of terror behind last week. But I arrived with my head held high, my right hand clutching a score that I had painstakingly studied and marked up over the past week. This time, I was READY for what I was facing.
Last week, I had stood frozen in front of the orchestra, unable to dissect the wave of sound that was overwhelming me from all sides. And I was deathly afraid that the same thing would happen again this week. Sensitive musical hearing is absolutely critical for a conductor. If you can't probe into what is happening in front of you, you cannot work with it. But I realized something important: a large part of the reason I had felt so overwhelmed was because I was glued to my score, struggling just to keep up with the fourteen layers of unique sound that were mingling together. Let me tell you something: hearing and analyzing fourteen layers of sound at once is physically and mentally impossible. One thing a good conductor must be able to do is understand their music so well that they know exactly when they need to be listening closely to certain parts, and being able to preemptively prepare to compare the sound the musicians create with the ideal sound they are already imagining in their mind. And when I was glued to my score, lost in the sea of weaving lines, I was completely unable to do that. So this past week, I studied the score in earnest. I marked entries, solos, dynamics, accents, and every other important detail in colour, and I divided up important phrases and sections with coded markings. Now, at a glance, I could see what was important at any given place in the music. Working through that process also meant that I knew the music much, much better.
So, armed with this heavily-marked score, and brand-new determination and confidence, I took the podium again. And this time, I felt like my musician's ears had been given back to me. I could hear again. Now I could rehearse. We played. I listened. I called authoritative halts where corrections needed to be made. I articulated my adjustments clearly, and we got right down to work again. After we'd covered a lot of ground, I was feeling pretty good about the job I was doing.
"I've got this!" I thought to myself. "I still have a lot to learn, but...maybe I'm 50% there."
I thought this for a grand total of about two minutes. After we had worked through a fair chunk of the piece, our director took the podium back, and allowed me to stand next to him and just watch. And as I saw the way he crafted the music taking shape in front of him, pulling the exact nuances he wanted from the orchestra through the sheer strength and clarity of his gestures and eye contact alone, I realized that I am still a mere scarecrow of a conductor. I have miles and miles to go yet before I can express my musicianship through my conducting, and before I have the wisdom to know exactly how to handle an orchestra. Maybe I'm 5% there.
Next week, my hands are freed. Not to mechanically beat patterns into the air, but to communicate with the orchestra as they play. I was literally assigned to take time this week to lock the doors, close all the blinds, and do interpretive dance to the piece I am working on. (I definitely thought my conductor was kidding at first, but he assured me he was completely deadly serious.) Because, as he told me, conducting gestures are just everyday movements, adapted to a musical situation. Interpretive dance: those are the kinds of expressive gestures he wants to see in my conducting next week. This, ladies and gentlemen, is going to take a whole lot of guts, shamelessness, and courage.
Thursday, 8:30 PM
The Rest of Orchestra Rehearsal
Oh yeah, we also rehearsed two movements from Dvorak's 9th Symphony. This piece is chock-full of the most beautiful woodwind solos you have ever heard. As a clarinetist, this causes me fear and thrill in equal measures.
Thursday, 9:30 PM
Evening, Thank Goodness!
After a flautist kindly gave me a ride home, I unwound with hot chocolate and a chat with my roommate. Well, and Facebook (let's be honest, here).
Friday, 8:30 AM
Morning: Attempt #1
I hit the snooze button. Three times.
Friday, 9:00 AM
Morning: Attempt #2
Iron a shirt. Brush teeth. A check in the mirror, a check in my bag, and I was off and running. I took some time on campus to eat a bit of breakfast in the music wing with some other music majors, and then to practice. Today, you see, I was playing in a masterclass. A Russian concert pianist had agreed to honour us with a visit, a recital, and a masterclass, which a few of us were chosen to play in.
Friday, 11:00 AM
A Fabulous Performance
A small, but enthusiastic audience of music majors, music lovers, and community members gathered for an incredible recital by an incredible pianist. We were treated to music by Schumann and Chopin, along with a couple of encores. Our guest artist's technique was nothing short of stunning. We had never seen anything like it, especially up close like that. An hour passed quickly, and, hands sore from so much applauding, we trickled out to lunch.
Friday, 12:00 PM
Lunch Time
A brand-new coffee shop opened up by Ambrose recently. A lot of us are pretty ecstatic about that. I kid you not, this place serves the best white mochas I have ever tasted in my entire life, bar none. It's like heaven in a dark blue mug.
But anyway, three of us piano majors who were picked to play in the impending masterclass ducked out to grab paninis and hot drinks (I opted for the caffeine-free rooibos latte today. In my experience, caffeine does NOT contribute to a good piano performance!). We went through the usual rigamarole of agonizing over runs, octaves, and arpeggios that we had not yet perfected. But this, we followed with a healthy dose of collective encouragement for each other. And that, my friends, is one of the things I love most about studying music at a smaller school. In the bigger schools, it's all about competition, and climbing over your fellow students to make it to the top at all costs. That is an environment I know I could never survive in. I love the atmosphere of mutual edification we have here, and it's made all of us much more generous, confident, positive, and selfless musicians.
Friday, 1:30 PM
Go Time: The Masterclass
Far from being the stereotypical 'shred-fest' masterclasses are often cracked up to be, we all received encouragement, solid advice, and unique perspectives on our playing. I played my concerto, not as well as I know I can play it, but, nerves always do that to a performance. I was left with a lot to consider as I continue to work on this piece over the next several weeks.
Friday, 3:30 PM
It's the Weekend!
How does a music major wrap up a busy week? With more hours locked away from the world in a practice room? No! Peering over theoretical analyses of complicated works? No!
I, for one, went and thoroughly enjoyed seeing Avatar. Is that a stellar movie, or what??
Rehearsal with High School Choir at Diefenbaker
An hour before our usual rehearsal time, members of Ambrose's Chamber Singers began arriving on campus, packing up practice rooms, or ducking out of lectures early. We were on a mission today. After congregating and planning routes, we piled into vehicles, and made our way up to Diefenbaker in the north end of the city to participate in their choir's rehearsal.
In a few weeks' time, Ambrose is hosting a 'choral collaboration' with quite a few high school choirs from around the city. It's going to be a great opportunity for all of us to remember that we're really a part of something much bigger than the usual grind of rehearsals that we all go through on our own. Choral music is everywhere. And we get the chance to celebrate that fact, and pull together to create a performance on a much bigger scale than any one group could ever do on their own.
The rehearsal was a blast. Diefenbaker's choir was pretty great, and we really had a good time working with them. They sang for us, we rehearsed two mass pieces for the choral collaboration, and then we sang for them. Being in a high school again brought back old memories for a lot of us, but, truthfully, the overall consensus was that we're all really very happy that that part of our lives is over and done with! After a pit stop at McDonald's, we hit the road back to Ambrose, with the awesome harmonies of Rajaton cranked up all the way.
Thursday, 6:30 PM
Pre-Orchestra Meeting
My concerto is coming up in five weeks. It's time to start rehearsing in earnest with the orchestra. So tonight, before all the musicians arrived, I spent some time going over the score with our conductor. We clarified tempo changes, I demonstrated sections, we discussed them, marked places where I wanted to take time for rubato, and talked about places where one of us needed to cue the other. And with that, we were ready to go. I took two minutes to warm up my hands, and I was on.
Thursday, 7:00 PM
Concerto Rehearsal
A downbeat. A measure-long timpani roll. And I was in. Two weeks of hard practice had paid off - the introduction felt solid under my fingers, and sounded just how I wanted it to sound. We worked our way through the entire movement, stopping occasionally polish and adjust, and then took the whole thing from the top again. The great news is: I survived! I got through it! That was a huge victory for me. And hearing the strings swell up underneath the cantabile phrases I had shaped so carefully was breathtaking. It all came together to create a thing of heart-stopping energy and beauty. Concertos are really, really incredible.
Thursday, 7:45 PM
Conducting, Take Two
"So now I'll call Alyssa back up here..." With that, I found my feet carrying me back up to the podium I had nearly died of terror behind last week. But I arrived with my head held high, my right hand clutching a score that I had painstakingly studied and marked up over the past week. This time, I was READY for what I was facing.
Last week, I had stood frozen in front of the orchestra, unable to dissect the wave of sound that was overwhelming me from all sides. And I was deathly afraid that the same thing would happen again this week. Sensitive musical hearing is absolutely critical for a conductor. If you can't probe into what is happening in front of you, you cannot work with it. But I realized something important: a large part of the reason I had felt so overwhelmed was because I was glued to my score, struggling just to keep up with the fourteen layers of unique sound that were mingling together. Let me tell you something: hearing and analyzing fourteen layers of sound at once is physically and mentally impossible. One thing a good conductor must be able to do is understand their music so well that they know exactly when they need to be listening closely to certain parts, and being able to preemptively prepare to compare the sound the musicians create with the ideal sound they are already imagining in their mind. And when I was glued to my score, lost in the sea of weaving lines, I was completely unable to do that. So this past week, I studied the score in earnest. I marked entries, solos, dynamics, accents, and every other important detail in colour, and I divided up important phrases and sections with coded markings. Now, at a glance, I could see what was important at any given place in the music. Working through that process also meant that I knew the music much, much better.
So, armed with this heavily-marked score, and brand-new determination and confidence, I took the podium again. And this time, I felt like my musician's ears had been given back to me. I could hear again. Now I could rehearse. We played. I listened. I called authoritative halts where corrections needed to be made. I articulated my adjustments clearly, and we got right down to work again. After we'd covered a lot of ground, I was feeling pretty good about the job I was doing.
"I've got this!" I thought to myself. "I still have a lot to learn, but...maybe I'm 50% there."
I thought this for a grand total of about two minutes. After we had worked through a fair chunk of the piece, our director took the podium back, and allowed me to stand next to him and just watch. And as I saw the way he crafted the music taking shape in front of him, pulling the exact nuances he wanted from the orchestra through the sheer strength and clarity of his gestures and eye contact alone, I realized that I am still a mere scarecrow of a conductor. I have miles and miles to go yet before I can express my musicianship through my conducting, and before I have the wisdom to know exactly how to handle an orchestra. Maybe I'm 5% there.
Next week, my hands are freed. Not to mechanically beat patterns into the air, but to communicate with the orchestra as they play. I was literally assigned to take time this week to lock the doors, close all the blinds, and do interpretive dance to the piece I am working on. (I definitely thought my conductor was kidding at first, but he assured me he was completely deadly serious.) Because, as he told me, conducting gestures are just everyday movements, adapted to a musical situation. Interpretive dance: those are the kinds of expressive gestures he wants to see in my conducting next week. This, ladies and gentlemen, is going to take a whole lot of guts, shamelessness, and courage.
Thursday, 8:30 PM
The Rest of Orchestra Rehearsal
Oh yeah, we also rehearsed two movements from Dvorak's 9th Symphony. This piece is chock-full of the most beautiful woodwind solos you have ever heard. As a clarinetist, this causes me fear and thrill in equal measures.
Thursday, 9:30 PM
Evening, Thank Goodness!
After a flautist kindly gave me a ride home, I unwound with hot chocolate and a chat with my roommate. Well, and Facebook (let's be honest, here).
Friday, 8:30 AM
Morning: Attempt #1
I hit the snooze button. Three times.
Friday, 9:00 AM
Morning: Attempt #2
Iron a shirt. Brush teeth. A check in the mirror, a check in my bag, and I was off and running. I took some time on campus to eat a bit of breakfast in the music wing with some other music majors, and then to practice. Today, you see, I was playing in a masterclass. A Russian concert pianist had agreed to honour us with a visit, a recital, and a masterclass, which a few of us were chosen to play in.
Friday, 11:00 AM
A Fabulous Performance
A small, but enthusiastic audience of music majors, music lovers, and community members gathered for an incredible recital by an incredible pianist. We were treated to music by Schumann and Chopin, along with a couple of encores. Our guest artist's technique was nothing short of stunning. We had never seen anything like it, especially up close like that. An hour passed quickly, and, hands sore from so much applauding, we trickled out to lunch.
Friday, 12:00 PM
Lunch Time
A brand-new coffee shop opened up by Ambrose recently. A lot of us are pretty ecstatic about that. I kid you not, this place serves the best white mochas I have ever tasted in my entire life, bar none. It's like heaven in a dark blue mug.
But anyway, three of us piano majors who were picked to play in the impending masterclass ducked out to grab paninis and hot drinks (I opted for the caffeine-free rooibos latte today. In my experience, caffeine does NOT contribute to a good piano performance!). We went through the usual rigamarole of agonizing over runs, octaves, and arpeggios that we had not yet perfected. But this, we followed with a healthy dose of collective encouragement for each other. And that, my friends, is one of the things I love most about studying music at a smaller school. In the bigger schools, it's all about competition, and climbing over your fellow students to make it to the top at all costs. That is an environment I know I could never survive in. I love the atmosphere of mutual edification we have here, and it's made all of us much more generous, confident, positive, and selfless musicians.
Friday, 1:30 PM
Go Time: The Masterclass
Far from being the stereotypical 'shred-fest' masterclasses are often cracked up to be, we all received encouragement, solid advice, and unique perspectives on our playing. I played my concerto, not as well as I know I can play it, but, nerves always do that to a performance. I was left with a lot to consider as I continue to work on this piece over the next several weeks.
Friday, 3:30 PM
It's the Weekend!
How does a music major wrap up a busy week? With more hours locked away from the world in a practice room? No! Peering over theoretical analyses of complicated works? No!
I, for one, went and thoroughly enjoyed seeing Avatar. Is that a stellar movie, or what??
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Conductors: Respect Them.
For a couple of minutes now, I have sat here, trying to figure out whether or not I have ever had a more terrifying musical experience than the one I had on Thursday night.
I have concluded that I have not.
As I mentioned before, I am studying advanced conducting this semester. This involves an actual conducting class, where five of us meet to discuss style, clarity, and other issues in conducting, and it also involves a practical component, where we are placed with either a choir or the orchestra for a semester, and get hands-on experience working with an ensemble. Pretty amazing opportunity, hey? (Yet again, I have to ask where else undergrads get a chance like this!) The thing was, I had NO idea what I was getting myself into by signing up to work with the orchestra this semester.
When you watch a conductor, it doesn't look terribly difficult, right? You can appreciate some of the challenges of keeping things together, but it generally looks like the musicians are doing all the work, and the conductor is just flapping his or her arms while everyone is buried in their music. After all, they're just playing what's on the page, aren't they??
Once you play or sing in an ensemble yourself, you learn otherwise. You begin to realize that the way your conductor rehearses the group, tweaks details that you never would have noticed otherwise, and handles the performance itself is something like the way a jeweler takes an uncut stone and turns it into something absolutely stunning that reflects light in a unique and brilliant way. You start to appreciate their skill in listening through layers and layers of nuance and detail, and shaping a piece of music to sound just like the ideal version they are hearing in their mind's ear. Which is all well and good, but couldn't anybody with a pointy stick and some knowledge of music do the job??
Well, I never thought of conducting quite that flippantly, but I did think that I was prepared to handle this task. Conducting is not new to me. I took a Fundamentals class for a semester a couple of years ago, learning about prep beats, fermatas, tempo changes, and melding. And, for goodness' sake, I've been watching the conductors I have been working under in bands, choirs, orchestras, wind ensembles, and handbell choirs for half my life! So when our orchestra director gave me my first score and my first set of instructions last week, I accepted them with very little trepidation. "Here's the conductor's score," he told me, handing me a forty-page book. "Study it. Next week, you will start working with the orchestra. But - you will not be allowed to use your hands. At all. You will be listening and making comments, but don't you dare move a muscle." Well, that seemed like a strange start to a conducting practicum, but I agreed quite gladly. After all, it would take an awful lot more guts and skill to actually have my hands involved correctly than to just stand there and make remarks, wouldn't it??
I studied my score with great enthusiasm. (The piece, I should tell you, is the Overture to the Barber of Seville. You do know it. Trust me. If you don't think you do, YouTube it. If you have listened all the way through, and honestly don't recognize a single theme, I owe you a coffee.*) I pored over it in my room, on the bus, and while I was walking (which may have been dangerous), and then I came to rehearsal, nervous, but as prepared as I could have been. What I didn't realize was the fact that absolutely nothing could have prepared me for what I faced there.
Our director worked us through two-thirds of the Overture, and then called me up. "Stop them when you hear something you don't like," he told me, and then took a seat, turning the podium and the rehearsal over to me. "Okay, let's take it from rehearsal J," I said. I gave a downbeat, the only gesture I was permitted until I cut them off, and as the orchestra took off, I was promptly slapped with the most overwhelming feeling of sensory overload I have ever experienced. The music began flying past, and I was hanging on for dear life. It was just as though I had grabbed onto the tail of a galloping stallion, and was being dragged, white-knuckled, behind it. Fourteen simultaneous lines of music began speeding by. Fourteen independent threads being woven together into an intricate whole, which I was now in charge of somehow dissecting as it all screamed past in blinding, living colour. My hands shook as I turned the pages of the thick score. With a texture fourteen lines thick, the page turns happened every few seconds. Knowing that if I got the slightest bit lost, all hope would be gone, I focused hard on the most prominent musical lines as they passed from instrument to instrument, zig-zagging up and down the pages. Entries, solos, and rich chords flooded past my overwhelmed ears, which observed their coming and going, but were utterly incapable of cutting through for any conductor-ly analysis. Bows surged up and down. Wind and brass instruments bobbed with their independent lines. Some players watched occasionally, but no meaning or communication lay behind any eye contact I frantically returned before my gaze clung to the score again.
Pages passed, and I began to realize that unless I found a good reason to stop them, and did so right away, they would play clean through to the end of the piece - which was not a good thing at this point in rehearsals. From my seat back in the woodwinds section, I could always hear other sections' trouble spots. Places where quarter notes were being played with differing lengths. Places where a great solo was being drowned out. Why was I completely unable to hear anything at all from up front?? I glanced frantically at our director, who was seated casually in a chair to my right, and issued a silent plea for help. But he merely smiled, gestured back at me and at the orchestra. "It's all yours!" he said lightly, and resumed staring into the distance thoughtfully. The orchestra surged on. Finally, a flute soloist fumbled a run, and an entry was missed somewhere shortly afterwards. That, I could catch. I called the piece to a halt, and took a moment to catch my breath as thirty musicians stopped at my command, waiting for my instructions. Orchestra etiquette dictates that you cannot point out a soloist's errors in rehearsal, for their dignity's sake. But the missed entry...where was it??
"Why did you stop them?" asked our director.
"Well, there was a missed entry...somewhere..." I said, scanning the maze of notes.
"What instrument?"
And then I found it - the bassoon had missed their cue! I realized this, unfortunately, at the exact same moment that I realized that we do not have a bassoonist in orchestra this year. I sheepishly confessed my error, and our director told me to continue.
"From where??" I asked.
"Wherever you think they should take it from."
I had no idea. And as I hesitated, I got a half dozen opinions from the orchestra.
"Can we start at rehearsal I?"
"Start at rehearsal F! The trumpets hardly have any notes after that!"
"No! We already did that part!"
I made a completely arbitrary decision, out of necessity. "We'll start at rehearsal H." Everyone settled down, and with another downbeat, they were off playing again. More agonizing stretches followed by mostly-unnecessary stops followed, and I was becoming progressively more flustered and frustrated.
"If I locked you in a room for the next thirty years with a recording of this playing, would you be satisfied with it?" the director asked me when we had reached the end of the piece.
"...No." I said, purely because I knew it was the right answer.
So we began again, but this time, our director slipped around behind me.
"Are the brass and strings attacking those quarter notes at the exact same time?" he asked me.
"No..." I admitted.
"Can you hear the flutes here?"
"Oh...no, I can't" I said again.
"What about these chords? Is everyone playing them the same length?"
With my focus completely wrenched from the score, my ears started to open a little more.
"Don't let them play through to the end!" he warned me as we approached it. "They'll feel like they've passed the climax, and you'll have lost their energy."
I held up my hand and called for a stop. We worked on those uneven chords, and they were better. I asked the strings to listen for the winds, and that was better, too.
We reached the end again, and thirty players stopped as my hand circled around. I would have liked to have fled the room right then, but the orchestra graciously showed me their support with big smiles and a round of applause.
I slipped back to my seat as quickly as I could, and had begun packing up my clarinet, when our director came around and sat across from me.
"Well??" he asked with a smile.
"I...I was just so overwhelmed, I didn't even know what to do!!" I blurted. "It was just so much happening so fast...I couldn't keep up or even do anything!"
He grinned knowingly and said with a little shake of his head, "Welcome to the world of conducting! No one has any idea how hard this is until they have to stand up there and do it themselves."
I exhaled hard and raked my hand through my hair shakily.
Our director cut me off before I could remark disparagingly on my efforts. "Next time," he told me, "I want you to get up there and just trust your instincts more. The last time you called a stop, you caught the error right when I did. I would have done the exact same thing. So I know you can hear it - it's just a matter of letting go and letting it happen."
Yes, I will be waiting for next Thursday with a great deal of nervousness. But all I can do is try my best, and in an environment like this, that's all anybody expects you to do. To learn through trying. What I can tell you is this: appreciate your conductors! The job they do is a job that requires so much skill, only a select few can manage it well. There's a reason why a good conductor gets paid more for a concert than the entire orchestra put together! A good conductor has to be three steps ahead of their ensemble at every moment. A good conductor has to have a more precise idea of the sound they want than any of the musicians, and they have to know exactly how to evoke that ideal sound. A good conductor has to lead their rehearsals with conviction, skill, and sensitivity. Here's hoping I can gain a sliver of these abilities through this experience. One thing's for sure - it's going to be quite the ride!
-----------------------
*While we enjoy said coffee, I will show you the Bugs Bunny version of this piece. And quite possibly help you discover some other classical pieces that are absolute gems which your life is utterly incomplete without.
I have concluded that I have not.
As I mentioned before, I am studying advanced conducting this semester. This involves an actual conducting class, where five of us meet to discuss style, clarity, and other issues in conducting, and it also involves a practical component, where we are placed with either a choir or the orchestra for a semester, and get hands-on experience working with an ensemble. Pretty amazing opportunity, hey? (Yet again, I have to ask where else undergrads get a chance like this!) The thing was, I had NO idea what I was getting myself into by signing up to work with the orchestra this semester.
When you watch a conductor, it doesn't look terribly difficult, right? You can appreciate some of the challenges of keeping things together, but it generally looks like the musicians are doing all the work, and the conductor is just flapping his or her arms while everyone is buried in their music. After all, they're just playing what's on the page, aren't they??
Once you play or sing in an ensemble yourself, you learn otherwise. You begin to realize that the way your conductor rehearses the group, tweaks details that you never would have noticed otherwise, and handles the performance itself is something like the way a jeweler takes an uncut stone and turns it into something absolutely stunning that reflects light in a unique and brilliant way. You start to appreciate their skill in listening through layers and layers of nuance and detail, and shaping a piece of music to sound just like the ideal version they are hearing in their mind's ear. Which is all well and good, but couldn't anybody with a pointy stick and some knowledge of music do the job??
Well, I never thought of conducting quite that flippantly, but I did think that I was prepared to handle this task. Conducting is not new to me. I took a Fundamentals class for a semester a couple of years ago, learning about prep beats, fermatas, tempo changes, and melding. And, for goodness' sake, I've been watching the conductors I have been working under in bands, choirs, orchestras, wind ensembles, and handbell choirs for half my life! So when our orchestra director gave me my first score and my first set of instructions last week, I accepted them with very little trepidation. "Here's the conductor's score," he told me, handing me a forty-page book. "Study it. Next week, you will start working with the orchestra. But - you will not be allowed to use your hands. At all. You will be listening and making comments, but don't you dare move a muscle." Well, that seemed like a strange start to a conducting practicum, but I agreed quite gladly. After all, it would take an awful lot more guts and skill to actually have my hands involved correctly than to just stand there and make remarks, wouldn't it??
I studied my score with great enthusiasm. (The piece, I should tell you, is the Overture to the Barber of Seville. You do know it. Trust me. If you don't think you do, YouTube it. If you have listened all the way through, and honestly don't recognize a single theme, I owe you a coffee.*) I pored over it in my room, on the bus, and while I was walking (which may have been dangerous), and then I came to rehearsal, nervous, but as prepared as I could have been. What I didn't realize was the fact that absolutely nothing could have prepared me for what I faced there.
Our director worked us through two-thirds of the Overture, and then called me up. "Stop them when you hear something you don't like," he told me, and then took a seat, turning the podium and the rehearsal over to me. "Okay, let's take it from rehearsal J," I said. I gave a downbeat, the only gesture I was permitted until I cut them off, and as the orchestra took off, I was promptly slapped with the most overwhelming feeling of sensory overload I have ever experienced. The music began flying past, and I was hanging on for dear life. It was just as though I had grabbed onto the tail of a galloping stallion, and was being dragged, white-knuckled, behind it. Fourteen simultaneous lines of music began speeding by. Fourteen independent threads being woven together into an intricate whole, which I was now in charge of somehow dissecting as it all screamed past in blinding, living colour. My hands shook as I turned the pages of the thick score. With a texture fourteen lines thick, the page turns happened every few seconds. Knowing that if I got the slightest bit lost, all hope would be gone, I focused hard on the most prominent musical lines as they passed from instrument to instrument, zig-zagging up and down the pages. Entries, solos, and rich chords flooded past my overwhelmed ears, which observed their coming and going, but were utterly incapable of cutting through for any conductor-ly analysis. Bows surged up and down. Wind and brass instruments bobbed with their independent lines. Some players watched occasionally, but no meaning or communication lay behind any eye contact I frantically returned before my gaze clung to the score again.
Pages passed, and I began to realize that unless I found a good reason to stop them, and did so right away, they would play clean through to the end of the piece - which was not a good thing at this point in rehearsals. From my seat back in the woodwinds section, I could always hear other sections' trouble spots. Places where quarter notes were being played with differing lengths. Places where a great solo was being drowned out. Why was I completely unable to hear anything at all from up front?? I glanced frantically at our director, who was seated casually in a chair to my right, and issued a silent plea for help. But he merely smiled, gestured back at me and at the orchestra. "It's all yours!" he said lightly, and resumed staring into the distance thoughtfully. The orchestra surged on. Finally, a flute soloist fumbled a run, and an entry was missed somewhere shortly afterwards. That, I could catch. I called the piece to a halt, and took a moment to catch my breath as thirty musicians stopped at my command, waiting for my instructions. Orchestra etiquette dictates that you cannot point out a soloist's errors in rehearsal, for their dignity's sake. But the missed entry...where was it??
"Why did you stop them?" asked our director.
"Well, there was a missed entry...somewhere..." I said, scanning the maze of notes.
"What instrument?"
And then I found it - the bassoon had missed their cue! I realized this, unfortunately, at the exact same moment that I realized that we do not have a bassoonist in orchestra this year. I sheepishly confessed my error, and our director told me to continue.
"From where??" I asked.
"Wherever you think they should take it from."
I had no idea. And as I hesitated, I got a half dozen opinions from the orchestra.
"Can we start at rehearsal I?"
"Start at rehearsal F! The trumpets hardly have any notes after that!"
"No! We already did that part!"
I made a completely arbitrary decision, out of necessity. "We'll start at rehearsal H." Everyone settled down, and with another downbeat, they were off playing again. More agonizing stretches followed by mostly-unnecessary stops followed, and I was becoming progressively more flustered and frustrated.
"If I locked you in a room for the next thirty years with a recording of this playing, would you be satisfied with it?" the director asked me when we had reached the end of the piece.
"...No." I said, purely because I knew it was the right answer.
So we began again, but this time, our director slipped around behind me.
"Are the brass and strings attacking those quarter notes at the exact same time?" he asked me.
"No..." I admitted.
"Can you hear the flutes here?"
"Oh...no, I can't" I said again.
"What about these chords? Is everyone playing them the same length?"
With my focus completely wrenched from the score, my ears started to open a little more.
"Don't let them play through to the end!" he warned me as we approached it. "They'll feel like they've passed the climax, and you'll have lost their energy."
I held up my hand and called for a stop. We worked on those uneven chords, and they were better. I asked the strings to listen for the winds, and that was better, too.
We reached the end again, and thirty players stopped as my hand circled around. I would have liked to have fled the room right then, but the orchestra graciously showed me their support with big smiles and a round of applause.
I slipped back to my seat as quickly as I could, and had begun packing up my clarinet, when our director came around and sat across from me.
"Well??" he asked with a smile.
"I...I was just so overwhelmed, I didn't even know what to do!!" I blurted. "It was just so much happening so fast...I couldn't keep up or even do anything!"
He grinned knowingly and said with a little shake of his head, "Welcome to the world of conducting! No one has any idea how hard this is until they have to stand up there and do it themselves."
I exhaled hard and raked my hand through my hair shakily.
Our director cut me off before I could remark disparagingly on my efforts. "Next time," he told me, "I want you to get up there and just trust your instincts more. The last time you called a stop, you caught the error right when I did. I would have done the exact same thing. So I know you can hear it - it's just a matter of letting go and letting it happen."
Yes, I will be waiting for next Thursday with a great deal of nervousness. But all I can do is try my best, and in an environment like this, that's all anybody expects you to do. To learn through trying. What I can tell you is this: appreciate your conductors! The job they do is a job that requires so much skill, only a select few can manage it well. There's a reason why a good conductor gets paid more for a concert than the entire orchestra put together! A good conductor has to be three steps ahead of their ensemble at every moment. A good conductor has to have a more precise idea of the sound they want than any of the musicians, and they have to know exactly how to evoke that ideal sound. A good conductor has to lead their rehearsals with conviction, skill, and sensitivity. Here's hoping I can gain a sliver of these abilities through this experience. One thing's for sure - it's going to be quite the ride!
-----------------------
*While we enjoy said coffee, I will show you the Bugs Bunny version of this piece. And quite possibly help you discover some other classical pieces that are absolute gems which your life is utterly incomplete without.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Two Thousand and...Ten??
The Music of Chopin & Liszt! Conducting! A piano concerto! Those are just a few of the highlights of my upcoming semester here. The first two are classes, of course, but...a piano concerto??
One of the most incredible opportunities an Ambrose music student can have is the opportunity to perform as a soloist in a full-blown concerto with orchestra. Once a year, we hold a Concerto Concert, and those who have prepared a concerto may get the chance to have theirs on the program. I have been working on the Grieg Concerto in A Minor for almost a year now, and had the honour of being picked to play in this year's performance. Let me tell you, it's thrilling, terrifying, and mind-blowing all at the same time. In what other university does an undergrad student ever have a chance to solo with an orchestra?? Basically, none. It's incredibly special, and something I will remember for my entire life.
But in the meantime, preparing a concerto is far, far, far more work than most people ever realize. A normal piano performance is challenging enough. But let me tell you a secret - rarely, if ever, does any performer come through a concert or recital with absolutely no mistakes. Out of necessity, we all just become experts at hiding our errors. Because, as every good musician knows, if your expression doesn't give you away, and if you keep playing, almost nobody will ever know you missed a note...a measure...a page...honestly!! I will personally confess to having done that, even in my end-of-semester jury. (Don't tell my profs!) But here's the thing with concertos: you CANNOT skip, skimp, or stretch any passages, nor can you stumble, pause, and take another try. The orchestra will just keep sailing right along without you! So there is no room for forgiveness or second tries at 'that lovely bit right there.' Preparing a concerto consists of a lot more guts and a lot less glory than you'd think. Hours alone in the practice room. Hard work with little immediate gain. Frustration, panic, and exasperation. There are tough lessons, too. I had one yesterday. My teacher spent a solid hour drilling apart all my weakest areas, and systematically deconstructing places I thought I was confident in. It was hard, but those kind of lessons are necessary once in a while, especially when the concert date creeps this close. The best thing you can do is check your pride and excuses at the door, humbly accept the criticism, take away all the value you can, and work on it for another week, knowing you will be a better musician for it.
Tonight, the orchestra starts rehearsing their parts. In a few weeks, I will be rehearsing with them. And the big day itself is March 12. 7:30 PM at First Church of the Nazarene, incidentally, if you are interested in showing up to hear what will be a fabulous performance - provided I can work my part up to being worthy of the incredible music we will be playing!
One of the most incredible opportunities an Ambrose music student can have is the opportunity to perform as a soloist in a full-blown concerto with orchestra. Once a year, we hold a Concerto Concert, and those who have prepared a concerto may get the chance to have theirs on the program. I have been working on the Grieg Concerto in A Minor for almost a year now, and had the honour of being picked to play in this year's performance. Let me tell you, it's thrilling, terrifying, and mind-blowing all at the same time. In what other university does an undergrad student ever have a chance to solo with an orchestra?? Basically, none. It's incredibly special, and something I will remember for my entire life.
But in the meantime, preparing a concerto is far, far, far more work than most people ever realize. A normal piano performance is challenging enough. But let me tell you a secret - rarely, if ever, does any performer come through a concert or recital with absolutely no mistakes. Out of necessity, we all just become experts at hiding our errors. Because, as every good musician knows, if your expression doesn't give you away, and if you keep playing, almost nobody will ever know you missed a note...a measure...a page...honestly!! I will personally confess to having done that, even in my end-of-semester jury. (Don't tell my profs!) But here's the thing with concertos: you CANNOT skip, skimp, or stretch any passages, nor can you stumble, pause, and take another try. The orchestra will just keep sailing right along without you! So there is no room for forgiveness or second tries at 'that lovely bit right there.' Preparing a concerto consists of a lot more guts and a lot less glory than you'd think. Hours alone in the practice room. Hard work with little immediate gain. Frustration, panic, and exasperation. There are tough lessons, too. I had one yesterday. My teacher spent a solid hour drilling apart all my weakest areas, and systematically deconstructing places I thought I was confident in. It was hard, but those kind of lessons are necessary once in a while, especially when the concert date creeps this close. The best thing you can do is check your pride and excuses at the door, humbly accept the criticism, take away all the value you can, and work on it for another week, knowing you will be a better musician for it.
Tonight, the orchestra starts rehearsing their parts. In a few weeks, I will be rehearsing with them. And the big day itself is March 12. 7:30 PM at First Church of the Nazarene, incidentally, if you are interested in showing up to hear what will be a fabulous performance - provided I can work my part up to being worthy of the incredible music we will be playing!
Friday, November 20, 2009
Of Singing
Have you ever been to a live opera? If not, I highly recommend it!
Last night, the music department gave us the opportunity to go and see the dress rehearsal of Calgary Opera’s production of Manon. We all really enjoyed the outing, and talked excitedly during the intermission and afterwards about the amazing sets, costumes, effects, acting, and, of course, the out-of-this-world singing!
Ambrose’s annual Christmas concert is coming very soon! Each of the three choirs, as well as the orchestra, and a few small ensembles are going to be contributing and collaborating for this performance, and we’re all working hard on our music. This year’s program is going to be a great blend of the serious and sacred alongside the light-hearted and humourous. And hey – if you’re interested in coming, performance night is Dec. 4th at 7:30 here on campus!
Last night, the music department gave us the opportunity to go and see the dress rehearsal of Calgary Opera’s production of Manon. We all really enjoyed the outing, and talked excitedly during the intermission and afterwards about the amazing sets, costumes, effects, acting, and, of course, the out-of-this-world singing!
Ambrose’s annual Christmas concert is coming very soon! Each of the three choirs, as well as the orchestra, and a few small ensembles are going to be contributing and collaborating for this performance, and we’re all working hard on our music. This year’s program is going to be a great blend of the serious and sacred alongside the light-hearted and humourous. And hey – if you’re interested in coming, performance night is Dec. 4th at 7:30 here on campus!
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