It doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter how many all-state winners you have, or how many concerto competition hopefuls, or even how many students who actually enjoy (well, tolerate) scales. It doesn't even matter that your pride and joy always has her contest piece thoroughly memorized ten days ahead of schedule.
It just doesn't matter. There will be those days. The days when, despite your best efforts at motivational psychology, no one has practiced. Or you spend entire lessons with the screwdriver instead of the Barret book. Or your students either burp and bleat on tongue depressors or poot and peep on collapsed paper straws with half of the tip bitten off and the rest of it threatening to go. Or after weeks of successful embouchure therapy, they suddenly revert to playing at the string again, or with no lip at all. But the best part is the excuses they give.
I've been teaching oboe now for five years, and I am willing to swear on a stack of excerpt books that every one of the following excuses is a true-life example that I have heard myself, personally, with my very own ears. My students have ranged in age from nine to twentyone; in talent from aesthetically gifted to musically impaired. And when it comes to excusegiving, there have been some real feats of ingenuity, as well as the predictable crises of reeds, the instrument, and that universal complaint, practicing. But enough talk; let's get down to the cold, hard facts.
Practicing
Figuring out how to avoid practicing must be the universal bond among music students. Who among us has not, at one time or another, promised ourselves that we would have a lot more time to practice in college, in graduate school, when we're out of school, after the wedding, after dinner, in the morning, during the holidays, after the holidays, etc. etc. What a cruel twist of fate that now, in the golden adult years of really wanting to practice, you have to take time out to fix dinner, do the wash, get the car inspected, and similar plebeian chores.
Just try and tell this to a student, though. I think the real reason they invented sightreading was so kids could learn to fake their way through music lessons. Reed-making, too, is a graceful dodge, and a constructive one at that. But the younger student has no recourse other than excuse-making. I've heard the usual burnt offerings of book reports and science projects, orthodontic adjustments, basketball games, and marching band, but how about:
"I couldn't practice this week because I had to decorate the gym last night for the dance."
Or this one:
"My parents figured up how much time I have each week outside of school and how much time I should devote to each activity, and they say I can only practice oboe thirty minutes a day. "
It's interesting, too, when the parents get into the act. If they themselves have never played an instrument, it comes as quite a revelation when they begin to suspect that maybe their young Tabuteau is supposed to do something with the oboe other than plop it on the bed, as in:
"We hope you can stimulate ________ to the point that she'll want to pick up the oboe at home from time to time."
And, from the parent who's explaining why they aren't "pushing" their little darling to practice:
"We want music to be enjoyable for ___________"
The Instrument
Being an esoteric specimen inherently hostile to all but the hardiest of band directors and gentlest of students, the oboe itself yields a rich lode of subterfuges for missed and delayed lessons. You can talk forever about temperature control, humidity, careful warming up, gentle handling, and keeping the instrument away from the other seventh -graders, as well as the morality of instrument maintenance, but the minute your back is turned:
"I can't come to my lesson because my oboe's cracked because I stood for an hour in subfreezing temperatures waiting for the bus" [and, with youthful impetuosity, played on it cold right away during first-hour band].
Or, when it takes fifteen minutes of a thirty minute lesson just getting the instrument warm enough to play:
"I left it in the car for an hour while we went shopping before my lesson."
Crass Materialism
Then there's the born klutz - the kid with the adorable grin who, nonetheless, takes two
months to realize that reeds don't kill reeds, teeth and music stands kill reeds, and who always manages to rest the oboe key-side down in his empty chair. Or, better yet, on the floor (until you yelp with pain for the thirty-fourth time and he suddenly remembers to pick it up). Nonetheless, this is the kid whose parents are absolutely thrilled to death that he has chosen the oboe, and who have laid down their hardearned dough on a fancy new instrument. One month later, after a honeymoon of instant response, undreamed-of intonation, and amazing tone quality, you suddenly discover that the instrument doesn't play. And why??
"Uhh, my new oboe sort of rolled off my lap and fell on the floor during band. You won't tell my mom, will you?"
Then there's the standard escape clause:
"I left my instrument [music/reeds] at school," to which I cheerfully retort, "Oh, that's okay; we'll work on reeds/play duets/I have a spare you can use.
Reeds: The High G of Excuses
Reeds, by their very fragility, give every oboe student a built-in safety valve (not to mention scapegoat for musical indiscretion of all kinds). Who among us had not yawned through the obvious and prevalent:
"The flute player next to me turned and clobbered my reed with her knee."
But several weeks ago I heard a really unique version of the no-reeds story:
"The dog chewed up my reed box, so we have to get some more."
Then there are those irksome parents who insist on maintaining a sense of household economy:
"My mom said I could only have one new reed each month,"
and its corollary,
"She said I have to use up this reed no matter what it's like,"
and, of course, it's the one she bought at Klutzo's Mewzic Shoppe with the circular opening obviously made from 5 mm. tube cane. Sometimes life is just a bowl of cherries.
The Hard-Core Stuff: Playing
There comes a time, though, when we finally get the reed, the instrument, and the player all together in one place. This is where the creativity really starts to surge, where you get down to gut level. Such as from the over-achiever who believes everything he or she is told:
"But Mr. ______said that oboe players are supposed to make a tight smile and grip the reed real hard to keep the pitch up" [and up, and up ... ].
And from the under-achiever, the "special student" of the oboe:
[whined] "I caaannt" [put enough energy into the instrument to produce a recognizable pitch].
There's the skeptic:
"I don't much like this song,"
and the insecure:
"How does the tune go?"
But always, from the one whose sound most resembles the primal scream, you hear,
"My band director wants me to learn vy-brato."
Attitudes Toward Music and Musicians
Ultimately there comes a day when, armed with several years of loving tutelage, your prize darlings really begin to assess the meaning of life, music, and the world around them, This is when your best student's mother tells you,
"____________ is trying to decide between oboe and Eagle Scouts."
Or, classically iterated by a budding young techno-nerd, and most potent when uttered by a young male techno-nerd of chauvinistic extraction to a female oboe teacher of the artsy-literary persuasion:
"My father doesn't want me to be a professional musician. "
So, whose does these days? But better still is:
"I would never want to be a musician. They don't make enough money."
This is unfailingly stated at moments of intense vulnerability - such as when you've just scraped together the week's accumulation of teaching checks to pay for the new second-hand brake drums on your twenty-year-old car, or, just after you've announced some hard-won musical honor, your father-in-law callously inquires: (1) Does it pay? and (2) When are you going to go out and get a "real job"?
Sometimes you really can't win.
Contractors and Other So-called Professionals In the tacky remarks department, though, nothing can compare with the insensitivity of some of our own musical colleagues.
What English hornist has not thrilled to the sound of:
"We don't really have to hire a third oboe; the English horn player can double [on a program to include the Dvorak Scherzo Capriccioso, Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet, and the Franck D Minor Symphony. And/or Debussy's La Mer].
Then there's the unsolicited explanation why the contractor didn't hire you:
"So-and-so's playing is real clean and accurate, even if his solos don't project too well, and he gets kinda nervous, but he's been in town longer than anyone else. "
And, of course, this other thrilling piece of insight:
"I like to hire So-and-so to play with the Symphony because he's so versatile - plays real nice tenor sax."
In every professional life there comes a time when we begin to make peace with ourselves and what we are doing, or maybe to extend ourselves a bit farther. So, just as you're about to put your lips on the line with a little long-distance playing, the local personnel manager, who forgot about the meaning of Art years ago, opens:
"I don't put much stock in recital playing; it's more demanding to play in an orchestra day after day. "
Or, equal but opposite, and equally idiotic,
"Recital playing and solos is where it's at; anyone can grind out the notes in an orchestra" [traditionally pontificated by some jerk who couldn't blend poster paints with a dip stick].
But there is one classic statement that is my all-time true favorite, the real classic of excuses guaranteed to point out who your friends aren't:
"I can't come to the performance [because I have to do my taxes/talk to my divorce lawyer/bathe the dog], but I'd sure like to hear the tape."
We all probably have "friends" like these - the ones who then show up at the dress rehearsal when everything that can go wrong does. Such is life, I guess.
Fans, Flowers, And Other Warm Fuzzies
Fortunately not everyone is a jerk, nor do all students come excuse-laden to their lessons. There's real thrill when one of your young proteges brings her mother, father, little brother, sister, and grandmother to see you play extra with the local orchestra, or gives you flowers after a recital. Christmas bonus checks from thoughtful parents are nice, too. Spontaneous phrasing, dynamics, and good intonation have a way of making you feel like you're doing something right, and "I made two reeds this week, and I've played on them both" is the most welcome of news.
One of these days, though, I'm going to rebel. I'll tell my students that I can't come to their lessons because I want to stay home and practice. I'll miss a rehearsal to study some esoteric piece no one else can stand, for the pleasure of experiencing music as art, not craft. And I'll say something insensitive to an uncultured computer jock somewhere. And will I offer excuses? You bet. Two can play this game.
About the writer...
Carol Padgham Albrecht is a free-lance musician, oboe teacher,
writer, and social critic in Kansas City, Missouri. This article
is a preview of her projected memoirs, Confessions of a SecondRate
Oboist, which she promises not to write until the year 2025.