Several minutes after the scheduled 11:27, my friend stepped out of his warm-up room, ready to be led to Performance Room 4, to play for an unknown judge. I asked permission to watch, and I followed him and his mother through the hallway. A friend of minute who had had a flute solo early that morning, and another stranger (who turned out to be the accompanist), came, too, and the small crowd entered the classroom.
The judge was typing on a laptop, a portable printer beside. The room director took the finished notes and a pink business-card shaped slip of paper, and delivered the II rating to a disappointed clarinetist. Oh, great, I thought. But more than just that was going through my mind. This judge just gave out a II. I have to play for this judge later. I hope that girl sucked, because I really don't want a hard judge. My piece is short of the two-minute minimum, and I can't play it well, despite the fact that it is so easy I could sightread it. There is no way I'm getting a I with this judge.
We took our respective seats in the desks allotted to us, and my friend warmed up. After tuning several notes to the electric piano, he began his piece. It went by quickly, but well. I took note of his strengths and weaknesses. Only his strengths showed; he was prepared. I notices that his breakth support and tone are much superior to my own and his piece selection was more difficult. I could write pages of how good it was. However, I know that I am not a trained clarinetist, so I am sure there were many things I missed. To the untrained ear, it was flawless.
The judge made a few verbal comments, noting the tupe of my friend's mouthpiece. This made me a little nervous. This friend has bragged to me that his mouthpiece cost $150, and is very high quality. Mine was $12 from Sherm's. However, $150 was not enough for this judge. Oh, no! what is he going to say about my low-quality, used, plastic clarinet with a $12 mouthpiece? He suggested my friend upgrade from an HS Star to an HS Double Star. More money, more quality, more mouthpiece.
I came out of the room shaking inside. This wasn't even my performance! He put away his instrument, and we strolled back to receive his score. Along with his music, he was given a blue slip of paper, signed by the judge. He got a I!!!! Excitement fluttered through the air. I bounced off my toes, hiding my nervousness.
We ran into several Wind Ensemble members, and had to stop to see how they did. Most got Is. A trip to the cafeteria, and his hunger was fed. My mother was still conversing with my flute-player friend's parents, who left soon after. Topics had ranged from Monk to Obama. I sat there for about half an hour. My legs were shaking. I was lucky that was a habit of mine, because someone would have noticed otherwise. I was also impatient. The lethargiv vlock was taunting me. But it was finally 1 o'clock and I could head to the warm-up room. On my way, I ran into a friend of mine who had to quit Wind Ensemble because of time commitments. We both dropped everything in our arms and wrapped each other in bear hugs, or what would have been bear hugs if either of us resembled Mr. Kovel. She came with me to see my performance, but did not accompany me to my warm-up room, which was where I was headed.
I checked in, but only one person was allowed to practice at a time. This allowed me five minutes of real practice time. My mom, and also my accompanist, did not have access to a piano to warm up on. She found a seat and resumed correcting papers, a task she had been attending to all day. I put my instrument together, and began blowing warm air through it. It was the best I could do. Mom reminded me that my piece may not have been long enough to receive a rating. She handed her watch to my friend, who timed me. He carried on polite conversation with my mom, until I was finished blowing through the piece at regular tempo. I was seconds short. Luckily, Brahms allows lots of rubato, and a slower tempo.
After timing it once more, and much more slowly, I sat back to watch my predecessor practice. His saxophone skills were uncanny for that of a high school student. There is no way my piece was as difficult as or played as well as his. The accompaniment was computer generated, and whoever recorded it was practiced and highly-skilled. THis musician's presence intimidated me. I just watched in awe. When he left to perform, I was given permission to practice. I was warmed up, but I could have used a tuner.
Arriving in the performance room for the second time that day, this time with my clarinet, the judge suddenly seemed cynical. His facial expression was that of a young college professor who, at first, was delighted to be asked to judge for a high school solo and ensemble, but as the day neared, he decided he would much rather spend all day Saturday with his wife and two young kids, instead of being cooped up in a strange teacher's windowless classroom. I tuned a few notes, attempting to guess correctly at whether I was flat or sharp, a skill I have yet to learn. When I began my piece, I plowed right though it. Dynamics, notes, rhythms, I got it all. What really screwed me over was my tone. You can't get any good sound out of a plastic clarinet. I do the best I can, and I sound okay, but there is only so much I can do.
Verbal comments consisted of noting that my throat tones are always sharp, and that I could try putting fingers down in the right hand to help lower the pitch. I didn't have the heart to tell him I already had four fingers down. I thanked him, and my posse and I left the room.
Oh boy, I thought. My thoughts continued. The moment of truth is just moments away. Okay. Deep breath. Walk forward. Turn the corner. Keep walking. Back to the warm-up room. Put your instrument away. Accept your friend's compliments gracefully. He's been nothing but nice to you; don't ruin his expectations. He's required to say I did a good job, even if I did terribly. Friends expect nothing less than the best. Okay, back to the performance room. Is there a rating up yet? No. There's a performance going on. Wait patiently. No, I can't be patient. I'm related to Grandpa. Get out here and give me my score already!!!! - Oh, hellp, lady! Are you here to give me my score? Wait, why are you turning around? Oh, you're writing my score up. Is that a blue sheet I see in your hands with my music? Smile. Turn around! Yes, it is!!!!! I got a I! I got a I! I got a I! I got a I! I got a I!
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