Notes from the Underground

The perfect snowy evening decked the streets of downtown Anchorage, and I stamped my feet a couple of extra times, ridding the snow from my shoes at the security entrance before making my way, viola in hand, past the lines of miniature leotards filing through the backstage hallways. On my left, the set for the Nutcracker glowed on stage in festive pastels. On my right, in the rehearsal hall, the other musicians were already trickling in to unpack and warm up. Unfamiliar with the new surroundings and odd acoustics, I felt a little like New Girl, taking my seat on the conductor's right. Although I've played in the Nutcracker twice before, on both the first and second violin parts, this would be my first as a violist. If all went well, I hoped to do justice to this particularly tricky score and fall in line with the rest of the section. Countless hours had already gone into learning the part and mastering the countless runs. It may be Nutcracker, but it's still Tchaikovsky, and Tchaikovsky may be many wonderful things, but one thing he is never accused of being is easy, regardless of which part you are given to learn.

As the rehearsal went underway, I began to feel more comfortable. Not only that, but I kept feeling like I was having more fun than everyone else, trying not to giggle at my stand partner's whispered jokes during breaks. The french horn players on my right egged each other on, and it was difficult not to want to join them. But no talking during rehearsal, right? Yes, we are serious. We are professional. I bit my tongue and tried to keep focused.

"Violas, you're rushing!"

I know, I know, but I'm not quite sure how it happened. The conductor, a guest with the ballet company, began #2, the opening scene, again. I admit, I practiced this movement much faster at home, the way I remembered it the last time I played it on violin six years ago. Impulsively, my bow arm moved forward, and I found myself ahead of the section again. "Violas, you're rushing--watch me!" The conductor halted again. The section leader looked back over her shoulder, concerned. Of course, I felt more determined than ever to stay with the conductor, so I fixed my eyes on his baton, ready to glue my bow arm to his beat. At this point, however, I'd become flushed with embarrassment, and I guess my discernment gets skewed when I'm nervous, because he appeared to begin at one tempo and immediately slow down. Maybe it's simply because he's new to me, and his windmill-like motions keep me from locating his ictus sometimes, or maybe some other section is leading me aurally astray, or maybe I'm just playing in a different time zone than everyone else. Whatever the reason, he stopped us again. It's all my fault.

"You're rushing."

"Sorry!" I heard my timid voice impulsively calling out, in front of the entire orchestra. Emily! You never apologize during rehearsal! No one else this evening apologized when the conductor got onto them for being out of synch--such a greenhorn, juvenile response! My scathing inner voice chastised mercilessly. As I settled back into my seat with a sigh and shaking of the head in shame, I could feel the scorn of my peers bearing down on me. I may as well have been sent to the chalkboard to practice my handwriting a hundred times over: I will not rush ahead of the section leader, I will not rush ahead of the section leader... I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

Truth be told, it really wasn't such a big deal, and most people have the grace to remember that they've been in my shoes and think nothing more of it--except the perfect people. All of the perfect people wish I was not so stupid and annoying, I thought to myself. When will I ever get my act together and calm down and play perfectly, the way I imagine in my head? If I could just get my mental act together, then maybe I'd get on Santa's good list and I'd finally get my string quartet for Christmas, for real this time.

So, of course, rather than play it cool and move on gracefully, I botched every other tricky passage of the rehearsal. The more I tried not to mess up, the more I failed. If this had been a tennis match, I would have chucked my racket to the ground and crumbled to my hands and knees on the court. Instead, I fumbled my way through the rest of the evening and braced myself for the section's post-rehearsal debriefing I knew awaited me.

What to do, what to do? I can play it all just fine at home, but it doesn't count if you play all of your notes at the wrong time. We have one more rehearsal--our first one in the pit--tonight. Then, six shows commence the day after Thanksgiving. Some of the passages I've only been through once with the conductor. I can only do so much to prepare on my own; the rest of it happens when we put our game faces on and step into character for the performance. So, take a deep breath, Emily, stay calm and...

I will not rush ahead of the section leader.
I will not rush ahead of the section leader.
I will not rush ahead of the section leader...

I have an audition today.

I love auditioning. I love the thrill that comes from performing under pressure, putting one's reputation at risk, the week of stressing out that precedes it, the bloody nail biting, the voices in the head shouting, "Don't mess up, they're all judging you!--What is that note, anyway???" Yes, the untold bottled-up anxiety that surges through my veins at just the right moment during a tricky run is such a rush. Love it, just love it. Makes me want to run off the stage and out the loading dock door, and not stop until I hit the Chugiach Range.

This week, instead of my usual Wednesday teaching routine, I have rescheduled most of my students in order to make room for a special trip to Anchorage. Then at 7:20 pm, I will be standing on the stage in Atwood Hall, before a panel of my colleagues and Meistro Randall Fleisher himself, and I will play through my prepared excerpts and concerto in an audition for the Anchorage Symphony Orchestra. The last time I auditioned for anything was back in 2006, to join the same symphony. Thankfully, they decided to use me, and I've enjoyed many happy adventures on the stage with them ever since. This time, however, I will be playing the viola in an attempt to expand my playing opportunities with them.

It's not like I'm unprepared or unqualified. It's not even a difficult audition, since I'm already in the symphony and I know everyone on the panel: the battle is completely mental at this point. Unfortunately, it's a battle I struggle to win. To help reduce the symptoms of performance anxiety, I really wanted to practice performing for people, which is a crucial part in the preparation process. But Melissa's out of town, and so is Maria, and quite honestly, it's been a while since I've had anyone over--outside of 35 students and their families, of course.

Unable to find an audience, I dug out my favorite torture device--the Video Camera of Penance--and began my Hundred Takes of Mozart, ready to purge the living bejeezus out of every last run. As I made my way back and forth across the living room to hit the delete button, I sensed that the camera was not the only pair of eyeballs fixed on my every move.



From the top of the sofa, they sat in a row, giving me their undivided attention; their faces held nothing but the most sincere interest. After forty takes, how could they still be so attentive and encouraging? Yet there they sat, with nary a criticism.

Bolstered by the stamp of approval from five onlooking friends, I played on. What a difference ears can make--now, I had something to communicate! I played my best for them, and when I messed up, they didn't even flinch. Randy may have even cracked a smile when I finished. Surely, I could trust this panel! And if I felt nervous anyway, all I had to do to fix that was pull them out of their shells, and who can be nervous about a turtle with no shell? It makes me smile just thinking about it.



What if they were all just turtles, and I was their best friend? What harm can be done in thinking so? My hands stop fidgeting, my pulse slows, and I feel peaceful and secure once more, and happier than I've been in days.

Thanks guys, I owe you one.

Would you look at that, it's after midnight. The practice room has once again become a time portal, and I've arrived at the end of the day just as soon as it began. Sleep needs some attention, but I'd rather stay up, just in case I might miss out on something. The new day will be over before it begins, it seems, and then suddenly, strange things happen, like school starts, and puppies grow up, and another year slips by.

I've been doing some thinking lately about the road I've traveled since 2004 when I first returned to my pursuit of the violin--can't believe it's been nine years already. In a lot of ways, I'd been in denial that anything has changed at all; after all, the moon is still just as far away as it was the day I was born. But in chasing it, I somehow managed to cover a lot of ground.

There came a point this summer, about six weeks into a serious practice binge consisting of six hours each day of scales, etudes, and other remedial technical drills, that a wise friend here at violinist.com, Stephen Brivati, told me I was being too diffident, that I should be playing much more difficult repertoire, and that I was more than capable. My technical purgatory had served its purpose, but I was holding myself back with it. Who is this man, who lives in Japan, who's never met me and yet assumes so much? Normally, such advice should be viewed with skepticism, especially given the context. Yet, of all the people in my life, he is probably the only person who I'd have taken seriously. Why? Because he's been my mentor from the first day I picked up my violin and stumbled across this website, and he's as close as I'll ever get to having a real teacher.

So, on a non-particular day in July, I took the advice of a wise man in Japan, and I dug out the Paganini, which had been stored in a file cabinet since I bought the dog-eared old copy at a used bookstore back in '04. Such a work seemed too sacred to even touch, but I was simply following orders, right? #16 was barely recognizable at the speed I took it, but after looking at #20 and #9, I realised that all three were completely manageable. These were what I should be practicing! I was in complete disbelief.

Then, a couple of days later, I went ahead and printed out the first movement of the Tchaikovsky concerto and, as one might indulge in a guilty pleasure when no one is looking, gave it a spin. When I heard my own fingers creating those beloved familiar phrases, I couldn't believe it. All the technique I needed to play this dream concerto was already in my possession, as though it had just been waiting to be let out. When I finished, I broke into tears: I never knew that this would be the day I would wake up and find out I was a real violinist like I'd always wanted to be. The hardest part now is accepting this fact and owning it; my unbelief is the only thing that holds me back.

So, this is my acceptance speech. Ever since that day, I've felt like giving credit to all the people who have transformed me over the years, most of whose faces I will never see, given the span of the earth and the logistics of travel. But thanks to the internet, I've established and maintained some of the best relationships in spite of the distance.

Buri, thanks for shoving me out of the nest to show me I knew how to fly. Thank you, all you who have hung around this website over the years, chatting on the discussion threads and keeping me entertained and informed. Although I may never meet you, you've been every bit as real to me as my friends who sit across from me at the coffee shop (making fun of me: are you still on that computer, Emily?). Thanks, Laurie, for keeping the website up and running, and for creating a safe and fertile environment for cultivating civil (minus shoulder rest debates!) discussion.

Thank you, Itzhak and Pinky, for letting me borrow your bowings from time to time--genius! Thank you, Lisa Marsnik and Dylana Jenson, for overhauling my setup and giving me a solid base understanding. Thank you Todd Ehle, for your thorough instructional videos, for sparking such creative teaching ideas. Thank you, Zuill Bailey, for being an icon, gracing the small communities of Alaska and stoking my conniving cello-kidnapping ways. Thank you, Arnold Steinhardt, for explaining the birds and bees of quartet playing. Thank you Cup Noodle, for keeping my tummy full while I pay for my Dominant strings. Yes, thank you, Cup Noodle.

Then there's the people physically present in my life: I want to thank my parents for broadening the scope of possibility by supporting me every way they can, morally, spiritually, and financially. Thank you George, for allowing me to practice all hours of the day and night and liking it. (At least you say you never mind!) Thank you, Michael Avagliano, for being the best mentor stand partner ever; violists rock! And my pianist, Maria, for being such an unfailing role model and collaborator. And, of course, Kevin, for being my real-life cellist, for believing in me wholeheartedly, even when I didn't believe it myself, and for teaming up with me in my race to the moon. We haven't gotten there just yet, but the journey's been sweet so far.

Thank you, thank you.

Thank you.

This year, the Kenai Summer Music Festival included a short aria, "E Lucevan Estelle", from Act 3 of Puccini's Tosca. Sung effectively, it is one of the most passionately heart-wrenching pieces of music written in all of opera. However, if you've never heard it and sit down with the viola part for a sight-read, you will see just a bunch of non-melodic nondescript quarter notes and and eighth rests. My stand partner and I had great fun trying to pronounce the unfamiliar Italian words that were printed over some of the apparently more important notes: sostendo vagamente, stentate un poco, and con slancio, for instance. "What do you think they mean?" she asked me.

"Well, like this," I said, and I clenched my fist and made an anguished face. "And like this," and I dropped my hand open in despair. "And..."

Here, let me tell you a story.

It all began last November while I was in Hawaii, attending my best friend's wedding as the maid of honor. Such a bright and happy occasion warranted much celebration, and celebrate we did... but those stories will stay in Hawaii. This is the story about what happened at home while I was away. Sunday morning after the wedding, my husband called with bad news: Ben, my dog, was not well at all, and needed to get to the vet as soon as possible, only the clinics were all closed for the day. By Monday, he was dying, and no one could see him until later that day. I waited with my cell phone in hand for the news. Finally, the phone call: his spleen had ruptured, probably due to a cancerous tumor. He'd lost a lot of blood and they didn't think that he would survive the surgery.

"You realise that if it's cancer, we have to put him down, right?" Still numb from the shock, my mind functioned with only practical problem-solving skills--not the best comfort to the person on the other end of the line, which had fallen silent. "You okay?" I asked. "NO!" came the sound of my husband's voice through his tears. In all the years I'd been married to him, I'd only witnessed him crying one other time, when a good friend of his died. The sudden comprehension of his grief moved me, and then, I was weeping, too. In a hotel lobby. In downtown Waikiki, as the slack key guitar played over the PA system and the smell of hibiscus and tourism overwhelmed me.

The other people in the wedding party wanted to go to Pearl Harbor and other sight-seeing destinations. We only had one rental car, and since I didn't want to be the emotional sandbag, I opted to stay at the hotel. "How will you get to the airport tonight?" they asked. I told them I'd take a cab, since they weren't coming back my direction.

I needed to grieve unnoticed, so I slapped on some sunscreen and started walking. It's easy to disappear in Honolulu, and no one noticed anything behind my sunglasses. I walked to Chinatown, and when it began to rain torrentially, I used my last bit of cash to buy an umbrella. And since I didn't have enough cash to hail a cab, I kept walking. In the rain. In Chinatown, as the sun began to set, and the skies cleared, and I made my way, mile by mile, in the dusky twilight toward the airport, hoping not to get stuck in Chinatown after dark. After six miles, I had enough change to hail a cab for the last three (where I discovered that most cabs take credit card, of course). Then, as I waited for the plane, and waited for time to tell what would become of my dog, I pulled out my friend's i-pod and browsed his musical selection. In the album "Classical Heartbreakers," I stumbled upon Puccini's tragic aria, and listened to it on a short little loop probably at least thirty times, just so I could feel the grief one more time.

Not that he was singing about a dog with a cancerous spleen, or about crying in the rain in Chinatown. The point of my story is, he was singing about his personal grief in a way that matched my own. Yes, the words were Italian--I believe he'd been betrayed by his lover and was fixing to endure the firing squad for it--and I don't speak a lick of the Romantic languages, and I'm pretty sure they don't do firing squads in Alaska, but I connected intimately with the lamenting lover, and it was comforting to my sorry soul.

A grammar teacher once told me, "Usage determines meaning." Meaning, the word in question draws its meaning from whatever the context provides for definition. So, it is not the words themselves that carry meaning, so much as how we use the words. Music has this way of being able to convey something ever so much more specific than a word could ever express, yet allows room for both the performer's and the listener's own personal experience to connect with the meaning.

It's true: I admit, I never did look up the definitions for sostendo vagamente, stentate un poco, and con slancio; I already knew exactly how to play those quarter notes and eighth rests--and then some--because I knew what I wanted to communicate with the music. And it's so much more than words.

It's about crying over a dog that's dying from a ruptured cancerous spleen. While walking through Chinatown in downtown Honolulu. In the rain...

(Side note: my dog is alive and well today, and one of two dogs in the vet clinic's history that has survived a ruptured cancerous spleen removal more than three months. Not only that, he fathered nine puppies in May, one of which belongs to me now.)

It began sometime in the spring, after watching the movie A Late Quartet and becoming curious about Beethoven's opus 131. At that time, I didn't even know that Beethoven's quartets were divided into periods (totally didn't get the title of the movie even), and I don't suppose I'd ever listened to a single recording of one before, maybe one or two performances, but that's it. Basically, I was entering completely fresh musical territory. I guessed most people listen through the entire 16-piece cycle, dutifully, like a parent who makes sure not to spend too much time with one kid or another. The idea of listening through all of them has never appealed to me at all. Okay, it did, in a wholesome, multivitamin flavored sort of way: good for you, beneficial, but glad more at the thought of having done it already than actually going through with it. The only time I can really sit still long enough to listen through a several-movement work is if I'm at a live performance (knitting handy, just in case...), or if I can listen while doing something else. It didn't feel quite reverent though, putting Beethoven in the background while paying taxes or cleaning the house, because after all, Beethoven always has something important to say. So, one late evening after midnight, I downloaded the first full recording of opus 131 that I came across, a performance by the Lindsay quartet, into my headphones, and went to bed to listen in the dark stillness. In that sweet, open-minded space of time before the conscious is overtaken by the subconscious, the tale began to unfold.

Death's icy cold breath crept up the back of my neck. Someone uttered a eulogy, hushed and devoted, as an unseen audience mourned. Then came the ghosts. First came the Ghost of Christmas Past to pay a visit, and all the happy visions of my life passed before me, meadows of flowers all gauzy and golden-tinged. I don't remember the next part because at that point, I sailed off into a happy slumber. Would've made an excellent night of it, too, except that the seventh movement awoke me with a start, an angry ghost who had some unfinished business to attend to: Christmas Future. Groggily, I shut off the music and waited until the next day, where I entertained my curious puppy with the frightful finale of opus 131. Christmas Present, which I assumed must be lurking in the middle movements, could wait until the next evening. Only, I never could make it to the middle movements. Each night, I fell asleep to the ghost of Christmas Past and woke up to Christmas Future. This must have gone on for three weeks before I finally sat down during the day and finished the middle. Finally fulfilled, I broke away from the dynamic Lindsay quartet and took a peek at 130 with the Alban Berg quartet.

I don't recommend 130 late at night if you want to sleep well. The beginning fools you into relaxing a bit, but constantly tickles you back to alertness with a flurry of glorious runs, the plot line is way too involved, and the fugue at the end argues with you like a sour stomache at two in the morning. I found this composition, however, to be every bit as transcendental to time as 131; I probably listened to it in bits and pieces nonstop over the course of three weeks, settling into the Guarneri quartet's cavatina eventually, certain that nothing greater has been written for string quartet.

Finally, I let go of the cavatina and moved on to 132, this time already prepared for something absolutely spectacular. Beethoven, master of the universe, you never let me down! This time a dark, romantic stranger lured me to sleep each night with wine and chocolate. However, if you manage to stay awake to the Andante, it is nearly twenty minutes of one big bookend. (Please never try to listen to this movement on your way out the door, because it contains a series of false summits.) I thought for sure, Beethoven was a goner this time, the way he repeatedly knocks at death's door, but he pulls through with a lighthearted skip into the next movement, cheating death one more time. The final waltz leaves just enough room for a sequel: maybe next time, death!

Some say Beethoven heralded the romantic period with these late quartets, but how can you ascribe something so narrow as a musical period to the gateway of the subconscious universe? He became a medium to something infinitely more expressive of the human soul, the magical stuff upon which dreams feed. But then, that's the way I feel about all of his works. They are best enjoyed from the window of the imagination. Whatever, exactly, you experience, let your subconscious decide.

The late night sessions continue. At this rate of progression, I should finish the entire cycle in about a year. Opus 18 quartets, here I come. This time, Quartetto Italiano. I dream of birds and giggles and pink candies...

Hello, my name is Emily Grossman, and I'm an addict.

As I type, I'm sitting at the local coffee shop in Soldotna Alaska, with a fresh toasted blueberry bagel and a triple-shot americano, in the tradition of my favorite morning ritual. I am a coffee drinker. I would have moved away from this sleepy little fishing town a long time ago had it not been for this incredible drink that sits on my table, which has yet to be beaten by any other coffee shop in all my travels of the earth. The day they take away my coffee is the day I no longer call myself a Soldotna-ite. Soldotnan? Soldotnatonian? Whatever they call these people here, I am, a local.

The tourist season is finally drawing to a close. During the summer, the population swells disproportionately, like the daylight hours, maddening everyone with nonstop bustle. Most people come to flip their rods at the river in a fiendish frenzy, hoping, like a slot machine junkie in a casino, to hit the jackpot and head home with a cache of bright sockeye salmon. Normally, you would find me right in the thick of the combat, dodging maverick hooks and split shot shrapnel, but not this summer. What happened; why the change? you ask. Did I finally admit I had a problem and start attending the local chapter of AA (Anglers Anonymous)?

Haha, well, not exactly... It's not just the fishing addiction: I'm addicted to checking my email. I'm addicted to facebook. I'm addicted to knitting turtles. An addict is an addict; one habit can only be cured by replacing it with another equally compelling habit. The key is to look for wholesome habits, I think. But now I'm sitting here scratching my head (I'm addicted to scratching my head), thinking about all the habits I thought to be wholesome that somehow overtook my life in a menacing, compulsive fashion.

For instance, I wanted to be healthy, so I took up running once. What began as a walk/jog down the highway a couple of miles and back grew over the years into an extreme love/hate relationship with a sport in which I was never genetically predisposed to excel, yet compelled me to ever greater accomplishments. For years, I lived by the stopwatch and the scale, trying to beat the shadow of a former self to the finish line, worried about the day when that would no longer be possible. My fastest 5K? My best marathon? My longest run? Does it even matter? (Fifty miles, through a mountain pass, one of the craziest things I've ever done...) No one else really cared but me. Gradually, fear overcame my joy, and every race date gave me anxiety attacks in the days that preceded it. Combine that with a bum knee that only grew worse as the years accumulated, and the "rock bottom" of this addiction was inevitable. Last summer, after surviving a sketchy mountain race that left two people critically injured and one missing in action (never to be found again), I finally hung up my running shoes and broke free from the compulsion. Now, I only run when I feel like it. I don't carry a watch. I try not to add up the mileage. Though tempted to count calories and carbs, I try not to look at labels and simply eat when I'm hungry. Stop when I'm full. I keep telling myself that maybe one day I'll go back to training with a healthier attitude and finally achieve this thing they talk about, this thing they call "balance."

But what happens when you don't have a "full" button? Some pursuits have a clear end to them, like the end of fishing season, or a marathon finish line tape. But others are more open-ended, beckoning like a horizon line, ever-receding as we approach. Practicing the violin, for instance, is one of those things. Seriously, can even a simple scale ever be good enough? Let's say someone wants to call themselves a real violinist. How do they know when they've arrived? Do they log their hours and get a sticker when they reach the fabled 10,000-hour mastery level? If not, then is it the day they finally join the Paganini Club? The Tchaikovsky Concerto Club? The Bach Fugue Club? What? How does one get there?

Becoming a practice addict is relatively painless and simple. It begins when a person realizes they can't play unaccompanied Bach the way they imagine it should sound. At this point, two options exist: 1.) Throw up one's hands in despair and shut the case; walk away and cover your ears to silence the siren-song that follows you as you exit the room. 2.) Recognize the fact that just a little focused attention to the instrument will grant even just a tiny improvement, and if there's hope in a tiny improvement, then a stack of tiny improvements may add up to a big one, and perhaps just a few big improvements away lies the Bach you've always dreamed of.

And that pretty much sums up the past nine years of my life. The addiction came on so subtly, so naturally, that I almost didn't notice by the time I'd worked up to six hours a day (more hours than I sleep at night), that this isn't really what you call "normal" or "balanced." (Whatever that is...) Other things have fallen by the wayside: my house, unkempt, my cupboards bare, my bills and checks piling up in a cluttered mess on the counter. I don't even fish anymore. I am a practice addict, and I've been completely consumed. Every hour disappears in a soothing, organized fashion. In the practice room, I escape into a special sanctuary: emotional strife no longer exists, people and their contribution or lack thereof in my life become irrelevant. Whining dogs cannot reach me. Sleep? Coffee fixes that.

I practice because I can. I practice because I can't. I practice to prepare for performances, and to nail auditions. I practice because I don't want to let down the others in my ensembles. I practice for the approval of my muse, for the nod of Beethoven, for the accolades of composers and performers that went before me. I practice for spite, when doors have been shut and people abandon me. But when all is said and done, I practice for myself, for Areté, the goddess of virtue, and for the apostle Paul, who once said if anything was excellent or praiseworthy, to think on these things. To make a joyful noise to God, simply put. I hope to take flight and soar in the realm of the eternal, up with the mountain goats and eagles, and all those majestic wild Alaskan animals that grace the peaks of the unobtainable.

I'm better for it, I think. Have I arrived? Hell no. (I smugly bagged 138 for the presto in the B minor partita, only to witness my stand partner Michael Avagliano play the Allemande with such grace and melodic fluidity as to put my chords to shame.) It's a beautiful trail, though. I'll try to keep a camera close by and share bits and pieces with you all as it unfolds.

My name is Emily Grossman, and as I reach for another sip of coffee, I give a mental toast, to all addicts: "Hear hear!"

Really, I'm just fine; I can quit any time.

The journalist came Saturday and took photos for the Peninsula Clarion. I was happy to wake up this morning to a well-written front page feature article--and with nicely done photos, to boot. The first photo was the feature photo. The second one, unpublished, was sent to Maria, who couldn't stop giggling as she forwarded it to me. I'm glad they didn't put that one in...



I was looking at Kevin. Randomly, just to break our concentration, he said, in his usual prim and proper voice, "I'm wearing new socks," and proceeded to show me. Everything fell apart from there; I could not stop laughing.



Here is the article:

http://peninsulaclarion.com/news/2013-03-05/musica-borealis-alaskan-musicians-bring-chamber-music-to-soldotna#.UTeAfKQF8Td.facebook

Hello management,

Our Kaladi Brothers on Kobuk put a sign out this week saying they were bringing back live music and looking for ensembles for open mic nite. While I think this is a great idea for amateurs who want to have their first go at performing, asking musicians in general to book an audience to turn a profit for your business while not offering them any payment is a disservice to the music community. I am a professional violinist who desires to bring classical music to the community. On December 8th, I joined with Anchorage Symphony cellist Kevin Charlestream and played an hour's worth of classical duos at Kaladi's on Kobuk. The night was snowy and your shop had been empty to the point that the manager considered closing early, until she remembered we were coming to play. By the time I showed up, the place was packed. At least fifty people bought drinks while we played.

While I love the pure notion of enlightening the world with classical music, I have to admit that a great amount of time and effort goes into what we do, and it's nice to have a little cash to show for our hard work. I understand that you cannot pay just anyone to come play, especially if the music is bad and people leave. But for the sake of improving your musical venues and bringing greater profit to your business, might I propose you offer some of your profit to professional musicians like my duo? I would be more likely to consider booking future gigs with Kaladi Brothers if we could find a mutually beneficial gain from it. What a great way to be a catalyst for the community!

What do you say? Would you be interested in a flat fee, or a percentage of the profit? I'm negotiable.

Thanks for your consideration,
Emily Grossman
violinist, Anchorage Symphony

You can't always get what you want; that's basically how I would sum up the story line for Puccini's opera, Tosca. And, I have to confess, it wasn't just the beautiful music, the free ticket, and the fact that I would be getting to look down on my fellow Anchorage symphony friends from the Mezzanine. (Bravo, by the way!) No, I chose Tosca to be my first live opera experience because once I looked it up on the internet, I became riveted by the tragic plot, in which two lovers almost live happily ever after but (spoiler alert!) end up dying violently instead at the last minute, to some of the most ironic music ever written.

Something about a good tragedy really appeals to my dark, cynical side. I don't know, is it too many long winters in Alaska? Or am I just a realist? After all, does anyone really truly live happily ever after? (I'm thinking long and hard between writing sentences.) Even from a spiritual stand point, I've been told not to put too much stock in what this life has to offer, that the soul was meant for Heaven, and could only look forward to being reunited with its real home some day.

So, I'd gotten used to disappointment somewhere along the way. I've become so accustomed to chasing the moon in vain that I guess I forgot to stop and ask myself what I'd ever do with myself if one day...

I'm happy. I confess. I haven't wanted to write about it, though, under this notion that it's all just too good to be true. In a frightfully unstable economy where no future seems certain--especially where musicians and careers are concerned--everything seems to have magically fallen into place. I'm not rich and famous by any means (yet!), but I have what I need. I practice five hours a day, and that still isn't enough to cover all my musical venues, what with the symphony, the string quartet, and my upcoming chamber music concert in March. I'm squeezing rehearsals in left and right, all while dreaming even more about what amazing musical adventure I can take next.

Why is it, that when faced with the fiscal cliff, I chose to take a running start and dive headlong with the purchase of my dream violin? Was the sensation of flying that I craved, the sheer pleasure of feeling weightless for a spell? Perhaps I was hoping there's nothing at the bottom of the cliff, and I'll just get to float on forever.

I don't know how this particular story will end, but given a choice between stability and dream chasing, I will always choose music, forgoing other luxuries and securities to be with my passion. I feel that only by jumping in with all I have can I escape a fate worse than death. (You only need to peruse my dark entries from last spring to understand this.) Regardless of what's at the bottom of this, I already know I will be happiest if I'm following my God-given passion. After all, creating is a survival need, right up there with eating. It is the signature of the human soul, and identifies us with our Creator. Even in the most impoverished countries, people still play music; it's been this way since the beginning.

No you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you may find...

Hey.

Did I tell you what I got for Christmas? It was the best present ever, even better than a pony. I've asked for years now, and though most people thought I was joking, a few took me seriously, and finally someone took some steps to make it happen.

I got a string quartet! Kevin shopped long and hard around Anchorage in search for just the right violinist and violist to complete the set. After all, finding four people with similar skills and ideas, amiable personalities, well-balanced group dynamics, like-minded goals, and work schedules with the same free time is about like... well, let's just say, if I wasn't before, I'm a firm believer in Christmas miracles. We met for the first time last Monday, and I can already tell that I like them. We move fast, too. After opening our first session with Shostakovich's 8th string quartet--talk about ice breaker!--we sight-read the Borodin nocturne, closing the rehearsal with the first movement of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, and promptly proceeded to book our first wedding gig in February. I'm getting up extra early tomorrow to make the drive through the mountain pass to Anchorage for our second rehearsal to sight-read a couple of wedding anthologies and sketch out possibile repertoire for a summer concert.

My very own string quartet... Best Christmas present ever. It's like, if the ship sinks, I at least know I'll have a quartet to keep me company on the way down now. After all, nothing beats playing good music with good friends.