Reedmaking is an unnatural act. If God had intended cane to vibrate, he would have created it gouged .58 mm center.
There is an unwritten rule that, when you get down to that last exquisite scrape that will turn an unprepossessing hunk of' cane into the best reed ever made, the telephone will ring and it will be a survey asking for your preference of underarm deodorants.
Never try to make reeds after paying the monthly telephone bill if you have a 16-year-old kid.
Never try to make reeds after explaining to your wife that the young thing you took to lunch last week was a former student interested only in your thoughts on the A-sharp/B trill fingering.
Never make reeds while listening to your oboe record collection. Coming from John DeLancie to the sound you are going to make on your new reed, is going to be like stepping from the Palace of Versailles into your own garage.
Only make reeds after 1.) you have received an unexpected tax refund, 2.) your wife has told you that you are working too hard, 3.) your stand partner has just compared you to Tabuteau. This will cut down on your reed making, but pay off in peace of mind.
I would advise all reedmakers to take up cursing - preferably in French, which sounds better.
When you are absolutely certain that you know what you are doing,
have a perfect piece of cane, and have fashioned a reed that looks
like a Sprenkle-Ledet illustration, you will surely wind up with
something that sounds like a small boy playing on a comb.
Why is it that reedmakers will spend hundreds of dollars on mandrels, knives, shapers and the like, but will keep the same water in their reed soaking bottle that they had in 1971?
Some of my best friends are oboe players, but I wouldn't want my daughter to marry one.
People who really LIKE to make reeds also like to fool around with whips and chains, wear leather underwear, and go to strange movies in North Beach.
Some people think that "just one more scrape" on a pretty good reed is going to turn it into a great reed. Some people think that children come from pumpkins, and that betting on that 50 to I nag at Bay Meadows Racetrack is the path to instant riches.
Telling a conductor that you "blew" a passage because of reed problems is a bit like explaining to a woman that she would look better if she lost a few pounds probably truthful, but unhealthful.
If I were a con man I'd try to work up a list of reedmakers. Anybody who believes that copying Duste's shape and buying Lifschey's old cutting block is going to turn him into the next Tabuteau, will no doubt buy the Golden Gate Bridge without batting an eye.
People who claim that they always make good reeds are born liars. They are the same people who will tell you that they knew Brooke Shields before she developed thick eyebrows.
There is no such thing as a good reed. There are only bad reeds, very bad reeds, horrible reeds, and a few that you can barely stand on alternate Tuesdays when the wind blows in the right direction.
I have noticed that space shuttle crews include no oboe players. There is a reason for this. They'd spend so much time complaining about the effect of the altitude on the tip openings, or the acoustics in the cabin, that they would have no time left for space walking.
Why is it that there are no oboe player sex symbols, like Jean Pierre Rampal for instance - a name that brings to mind soft nights and fooling around with young ladies in moonlit gardens? "Richard Woodhams" sounds like a stock broker, "Ray Still" could be your friendly local bootlegger, and "Heinz Holliger" makes me think of some guy in a white apron selling pork chops.
About the writer...
Ernie Douglas is an oboe player and band director at Albany (California) High School. I am submitting his random thoughts with his permission. They reflect the frustrations of a lifetime, and remind me of the utterances I encounter from other double reed players every day. Lest the above make him appear to be a cynic, let me assure you that despite his many experiences, Ernie is a wonderful guy, laid back and easy going - really atypical for an oboist.
Peter Klatt