Fiddling Around

So far, the best part about taking violin lessons is waltzing around town carrying a violin case and looking vaguely musical. The actual "learning how to play" bit is proving to be quite a challenge.

Did I listen when the first potential teacher I called, chuckling slightly under her breath, suggested I try cello or piano instead? Was I paying attention when she confided that playing violin is actually hard physical work? That proper form must be mastered before any real music making can begin? Did I pay heed when she explained that the hands of children who start playing at a very young age actually grow differently to accommodate the various string positions? That few adults have the time and stamina to take on the commitment that is violin?

I did not. I arched my brow and did the Z-snap. "Bring it, sistah!"

And that's how I ended up on a tree-lined street with ivy clad Tudor style houses last Friday, knocking on her door for my first ever lesson, a flimsy invisible fence separating me from the two pissed off attack dogs who were obviously trained to scare the crap out of housewives turned wanna be violinists.

The first thing I learned is that the violin is a high maintenance kind of gal - there' s a lot of rosin polishing, string tightening, and chin rest adjusting before one can even begin to think about making music. And when your instrument is finally ready (*snort*), it's time to get in play position.

But don't think you can hold the bow any which way and drag it across the stings willy-nilly, readers. The violin is a demanding luv-ah, and there's a special place in hell for players who don't practice good bow hold. Of course, once your gnarled thirty-six year old digits are finally in position, you must go directly to the nearest fire station to make sure you've installed yourself correctly. Then and only then can you begin to play. One note - the "A."

But you mustn't flap your arms all over tarnation like some kind of freak show carnival fiddler. Instead, move your forearm back and forth, as though opening a door - your elbow should remain almost stationery. There! Just like that. Now make sure the horsehair hits the string at an angle, like so, otherwise it sounds like you're skinning a cat. Pretty f*cking hard, eh? Try to do all this with a "light touch," even though you're concentrating so hard that your knuckles are turning bone white and it's everything you can do to hold in that fart. Now you're ready to play.

Despite not being especially supportive of my non-traditional student status, I think my teacher is pretty cool. She drinks tea, has a dry sense of humor and a little zen rock garden in her music room. She also makes you do yoga stretches before each lesson, which seems to run counter to the attack dogs, but who am I to question the mysterious violin subculture?

My only assignment for the next week is to practice holding the bow and striking the "A" string using proper form. If I get really good at playing the "A," I'm allowed to try another note, but I must not go nuts with it. My lesson was only a few days ago, and already I'm having trouble re-enacting the bow hold and arm movements my teacher showed me. Despite watching countless instructional clips on Utube and poring over the diagrams in my Level One Suzuki book, I feel like I'm just now getting acquainted with my opposable thumb.

Readers, it looks as though I've met my match. She's fifteen inches tall and weighs about a pound.

Yo-Yo (Ra)ma*

I'm thirty-six years old, and there are a lot of things I still want to do in life. Last weekend, after hearing the Cleveland Orchestra play Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, I decided I would learn to play the violin.

I took piano lessons as a kid, but the thing that got me in the end (besides laziness and inadequate wingspan) was that pesky bass clef. It's a very busy instrument, the piano, and my left hand never fully cooperated the way it was supposed to. I always pounded out the melody, fudged the harmony, and pumped the pedals with a leaden foot.

The violin, however, is a simple, unassuming instrument with a pittance of strings. So rudimentary is the violin, that you could probably play it with your hands tied behind your back. I was fairly certain it was the perfect instrument for me, and, lo! I had an opportunity to try it when I took the V-meister to see a school friend make her debut with the childrens' orchestra.

The concert was part of the family music series, and the kids in attendance were given the chance to try different instruments before the performance began. V-meister didn't want anything to do with any of it, but I couldn't stay away from the violin table. After circling it for several minutes, I finally asked one of the orchestra volunteers if I could give it a go, and she said, "Why not? You look about twelve" (Not really, but it was implied.)

Just between you and me, I half expected that violin to play itself. And so I was rather taken aback at how awkward it felt, how cumbersome . . . how . . . how . . . downright difficult it actually was. I couldn't even figure out how to hold the bow without the docent's assistance, much less guide my paws into position on the strings. And the sound it made when I finally managed to put it all together was absolutely pitiful. I handed the violin back and ran away.

But don't think for a minute that my musical dream has been dashed. The violin is all the more enticing because of the challenge it poses. And really, I just want to learn how to hold the damn thing without poking myself in the eye with it play for my own pleasure and perhaps the P-Dawg's, who I plan to serenade by firelight (when I'm not busy hobnobbing with Franz Welser-Möst at Severance Hall, that is.)



* Cello, schmello

Play It Again

I have only a few minor regrets about the way my wedding day went down, and one of them is our choice of DJ. Because after showing up at our reception late and stoned as a wall, P@cky didn't play a single song from my Playlist of Dreams.

Creating the perfect wedding playlist was an obsessive pasttime in the weeks leading up to the P-Dawg's and my nuptuals. I spent hours selecting representative samples of the songs that P-Dawg and I wanted to hear, and I may or may not have penned a short tome describing my tastes and vision for how music could fit into our special day as an organic whole.

In between bouts of crippling anxiety over which color ink to choose for the invitations, I'd painstakingly write out song selections on the (useless) form the DJ had given us to complete.

Rimarama: "Hey P-Dawg, which do you prefer: Forever Young by Alphaville, or New Order, Bizzare Love Triangle?

P-Dawg: "Weird Al Yankovic, Like a Surgeon."

On the big day, I got a bad feeling in my stomach when the DJ finally pulled up behind our reception hall in a rusted out van with faded reggae stickers plastered all over it and ambled quite unapologetically into the room where a musicless cocktail hour was already in progress. This feeling was validated by the selections - which did not much resemble the Playlist of Dreams - that he played throughout the evening, and the fact that he hadn't even remembered what we'd requested for our first dance (Louis Armstrong's What a Wonderful World, which he eventually did play).

Yesterday morning I was driving down the very same stretch of road where my car was ambushed by that construction barrel last week, and who should I notice bumping along in a beater van with faded reggae stickers, but Wacky Tabacky P@cky himself. I always thought that if I ever saw him again, I'd at least give him the stink eye, but it seems that time softens even the most hardened of bridezillas.

I edged him off a cliff kept right on driving.

Seconds after our paths diverged, as I was fondly recalling what ended up being one of the best days of my life despite its less than perfect soundtrack, What a Wonderful World came on the radio.

Coinkydink? I think not.

Now, I know you have a more interesting wedding disaster story than mine, so spill it!!!

Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily

Happy New Year!

(Pretend it's yesterday.)

We spent New Year's Eve drinking cocktails and eating eight astounding appetizer courses (beef satay with peanut sauce, cocktail shrimp in tomato vodka sauce, potato cakes with creme fraiche and smoked salmon, spring rolls, spare ribs, roasted red pepper soup with risotto balls, scallops with papaya and coconut sauce, and tiramisu for dessert) prepared by our chef friend, V, in between rounds of karaoke in the basement-turned-cabaret of our good friends, Rima and Derek.

(I have a friend name Rima. She doesn't live inside my head, but about a half hour away. "Rima" is kind of like "Jennifer" if you're Lithuanian.)


My Friend Rima

Derek was the star of the show, playing several original songs, plus this nostalgic little number on guitar as the assembled thirtysomethings danced like it was 1991.

If it weren't for the occasional bleep on the baby monitor propped next to a beer bottle, you would have thought you were in a real club, what with the recessed stage, disco ball, cavernous lighting, and cabaret tables positioned just so around the dance floor.

I had my first run in with a karaoke machine.

It was not a smashing success, as you might be inclined to believe.

While I do still consider myself a supah-stah, there were several forces, (my song selection, a lack of understanding of basic karaoke rules, tone deafness) working against me.

Luckily, my friend V bailed me out as I was standing helplessly with microphone in hand, staring at the lyrics on the monitor, wondering when Whitney was going to kick in with "I Wanna Dance With Somebody."

But all in all, the evening was a hit.



Derek Clapton


My Friend V and Me


The Newly Engaged Couple


The German Visitors

I don't speeken zee German. I used this website for my German captions, so apologies if I've called you a donut or a hamburger.

Glückliches Neues Jahr!

Weekend Update

The choir concert went off with nary a hitch this weekend.

I say "nary" because at one point, I almost came to blows with the soprano to my left, who failed in her duty to lead the first row of singers into the circle formation in which we were to sing an a capella number around the periphery of the church.

I had to step in and save the day by leading our row out in the opposite direction. The entire encounter, during which I can be seen wildly gesticulating, then throwing my arms up in resignation before exiting stage right was recorded for posterity, and if I ever get a hold of the footage, I'll be sure to post it here.

I was also apprehended by the Fashion Police for wearing gold lame (la-may) and a polyester cape. (The photo above does not do this outfit justice.)

I must have skipped practice the day we voted on uniforms.

But I am happy to report that illness was successfully thwarted and I was able to sing with passion and gusto. After the show, several fans approached me not to complement my lark-like singing voice, but to mention how entertaining it was to watch me.

I took it as a complement.

In all seriousness, the concert was lovely. An extraordinary group of musicians accompanied us on strings for several pieces, including the Mozart Mass, and there were several phenomenal soloists from our own choir ranks, whose performances were all the more impressive because most of them are not professional singers.

We sang several pieces a capella (without accompaniment), one of which was a Gregorian Ave Maria chant and the other a haunting "Our Father" arrangement. Since we began as a church choir (we now also sing secular music by modern Lithuanian composers, as well as traditional folk pieces), this particular concert featured only religious music by mostly Lithuanian composers. Some pieces were sung in Latin, others in Lithuanian.

Unfortunately, none of the photos the P-dog took from the back of the darkened church came out. The group shot I'm posting here was taken a few weeks before the concert. I'm in the first row left, next to the choir director (looking not a day older than sixteen, I might add).

If I ever figure out how to post sound files, I'll post some of our recorded pieces.

It's Not Over 'Till the Fat Guy Wakes Up

Where do party animals such as the P-dog and myself go of a Saturday night?

Why, to the symphony, of course.

We saw a magnificent performance of Mahler's Second, The Resurrection, this past weekend.

I was especially riveted by the two sopranos who chimed in to accompany the orchestra at one point, though I must admit to seething a little in my plush concert hall chair, just thinking about how the fulfillment of my greatest wish would be nothing less than to stand up on that stage and belt out an aria or two myself.

Although convinced that I could have easily one-upped the mezzo who subscribed to the Miss Piggy school of operatic theatrics, I remained a model patron of the arts, sitting with head tilted and nylon-clad legs crossed, a thoughtful smile playing upon my lips as I immersed myself in the music.

Until my hyper-vigilant sense of hearing began to pick up the unmistakable, rhythmic, and utterly intolerable sound of snoring.

Dude behind me was out like a light.

As you might imagine, it took every ounce of self-restraint I had not to swivel around and fix the offender with my patented Stare of Damnation, but even I recognized the futility of this measure, considering the fact that he was asleep.

I briefly contemplated whipping out the Snickers bar the P-dog always makes sure I have stashed in my purse in case of a hunger induced freakout scenario and loudly crackling the wrapper directly in front of the snorer's face.

Oh, who am I kidding? I wanted to use that Snicker's bar as a projectile weapon.

But I decided against it, concluding that the action might only serve to draw more attention to me than to the crisis at hand.

There was a lady in the row in front of me who did turn completely around in her seat and scowled mightily at my neighbor for a very commendable minute or two. This was, of course, to no avail.

I gave her the look of solidarity that is recognizable to all PAPSSS (People Against Public Snoring, Snorting and Snuffling).

The snoring was nearly drowned out during the louder parts of the performance, but irritatingly consistent in rhythm and meter during the more subdued portions. And, of course, the occasional Holy frijoles, was I asleep? snort that would only briefly jolt my enemy from slumber practically sent me through the roof every single time it occurred.

I did manage to enjoy the concert when I wasn't busy counting to ten in my head, biting my tongue, and jamming the stiletto heel of my right shoe into the tender flesh of the top of my left foot, a measure I often take to prevent myself from speaking out of turn or generally going berserk.

As soon as the finale concluded, the audience rose in one great wave for a standing ovation.

Guess who was practically falling over with the zealousness of his applause? Repeatedly shouting BRAVO! until he turned blue in the face, and generally acting like the exact opposite of a person who just spent the last hour and a half drooling on his own collar?

Mr. Sleepypants himself.

Even the P-dog noted, "What is that guy so excited about? He was asleep for the whole damn show."

I gave him the Death Stare on my way out, but he was quite unaffected.

Cripes.

Thank You, Erasure

Dear Andy Bell and Vince Clarke,

Thank you for producing your latest album, Light at The End of the World. This specimen of musical genius, which I had the pleasure of sampling live at the House of Blues Wednesday night, has prompted me to purchase my first new album in ten years!

I noted on the cover's promo sticker that Light at the End of the World is a return to the synthpop style that carried you to the heights of glory back in the day. I take it this means your last album (I'm sorry to say I haven't been as loyal a fan as I once was, guys, since buying the house in the 'burbs and birthing the kids, etc., etc.) was a departure from this mode? Tisk, tisk, dearies. You should stick to that happy beat that compels us former alternakids to prance around shaking our thirtysomething booties and do the ziz-zag snap.

Anyhoo, back to the thank-you note. Andy, Vince, I had an absolute BLAST at your concert! Do you know I drank three pints of Guiness? I haven't consumed that much alcohol since the night my husband and I . . . Heck, I must say I'm even tempted to pull out the babydoll dresses and Doc Marten boots. (But that would be a little too "Depeche Mode," don't you think?)

Andy, kudos to you, my friend - you still got it! I'm talking about those awe-inspiring moves: the "shimmy twirl," the "ass-slap strut," the "cowboy lasso" - classic! My three-year old and I were practicing them all day yesterday and she's got a new version of "the sprinkler" your backup girls might be interested in.

It was truly refreshing, BTW, to be at a concert where it was perfectly acceptable to be wearing chunky shoes and not be surrounded by a bunch of girls who weigh 85 pounds and shop at Abercrombie, KWIM? I counted probably a dozen or so balding queens with spare tires. Dammit, you GO, girls!

All in all, the show was completely worth the $93 I shelled out for the dinner/show package which ensured me a stool on which to park my bum. (I don't stay out past ten much anymore and, boy, was I feeling the pinch at the end of the night!).

So thanks again, gentlemen. I'll be looking forward to your next album.

P.S. I am totally available if you ever need a new backup singer/dancer. I couldn't help but notice those three chicks you currently tour with are a little, shall we say, lackluster? And I have credentials, too, having once helped choreograph AND perform an updated version of a popular Lithuanian folk dance that loosely translates to "Let Us Dance In a Circle." Call me.

P.P.S. Attached is a pic of the two of us posing together. Definitely one for the scrapbook, don't you think?