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Orchestral instruments
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The stage lights cast an intense glow over my body as I made my way up to the front of the auditorium. My eyes drifted past the people-filled seats, past the world-famous horn professor patiently waiting for me, and instead focused on the deep, wavy waters of Lake Michigan filling my peripheral vision. The Chicago skyline appeared in the background creating a perfect backdrop for my masterclass with Gail Williams. I took small, distinct steps toward the stage, and with each stride the nervous butterflies rumbling in my stomach flew away. I walked swiftly up the temporary stairs attached to the edge of the stage; they creaked underneath me producing a groan that filled the small auditorium. I sat down and began to play. The notes escaped off …show more content…
I was hitting a high point in a phrase toward the end of the Franz Strauss Horn Concerto when I heard a high-pitched beeping noise projecting from the small, white box on my left arm. My heart panicked but my head remained calm. The first though that crossed my mind was, “What would Gail Williams think?” Here I was performing for one of the greatest horn players of all time, and my insulin pump was malfunctioning on the stage in front of everyone. I was mortified; I was embarrassed; I was discouraged. My initial reaction was to break “character” to give in to my medical condition: to let one small flaw in my idea of a successful performance defeat me. But something within me was telling me not to stop – I knew I needed to push through the hurdle that had fallen into my path. I was not going to let a plastic piece of equipment determine my feelings about what I love the most – sharing my love for music through the art of performing. I dug deep within me and found the courage to continue to play; I continued to do what I had feared most. The music settled and revealed a soft, melodious phrase. The steady beep of my insulin pump accompanied the dark tone of my horn and together, the horn and the insulin pump, finished out the piece as strong as
On Tuesday, October 17, 2017, I attended a musical concert. This was the first time I had ever been to a concert and did not play. The concert was not what I expected. I assumed I was going to a symphony that featured a soloist clarinet; however, upon arrival I quickly realized that my previous assumptions were false. My experience was sort of a rollercoaster. One minute I was down and almost asleep; next I was laughing; then I was up and intrigued.
What started out as a hobby transformed into a passion for an art form that allows me to use movements and expressions to tell a story. Whether I’m on stage in front of an audience of just friends and family, hundreds of strangers and a panel of judges, or the whole school, performing over thirty times, has helped me build lifelong
As I walk to the front of the classroom, time seems to slow to a crawl. I take a glance at a sea of blank faces staring back at me. You would have thought I would be use to this sensation by now. I know what to expect and have been through these motions a hundred times, but as I walk up to the stage, determined not to cower in defeat, the notecards I grasp firmly in defiance quiver slightly exposing my sense of dread. So while I often triumph over this battle, I now stood atop that classroom stage preparing to recite the merits of James Madison that I had poured myself over the past few weeks. I had the lingering thought that throughout the sea of faces there were those who were paying less attention to what I was saying and more attention to how I was saying it.
Then, with a punchy five-note line the sax player began his solo. After that phrase he stopped and waited-allowing a few bars to roll by as he felt the rhythm and absorbed the harmonies the piano player offered in response to his line. With his head bent down as if in prayer, he countered with a longer, smoother second phrase that elaborated on the first one but then confidently let his last unresolved note bang out over the audience. I felt my legs moving under me and my head bobbing slightly, and my jaw began to open and shut tightly as if to sing the next phrase. As the solo progressed, I felt I had to hold my breath, waiting for each of the horn player's thoughts to finish before I could take a full breath. The phrases began to get faster and closer together until he was rapidly firing notes out of his horn, and there was increasingly less space to breathe. The notes came in clusters and bursts of creative energy. His ideas seemed to flow from deep within the realms of the unconscious until he seemed no longer to be in control of his thoughts.
The use of Narrative in film and other forms of media is commonplace; it has become such that the media viewer has not only come to expect it but rely on it somewhat. There are two elements in narrative film today that combine in the engaging of the audience; 'story' and 'production' elements. One example in the Australian film industry of the use of production and story elements in such a way as to engage the audiences' attention is the film 'Two Hands'.
Later that the day, I went home to practice my vibrato. Instead, I just played the D major and G major scale with all the notes sounding like a dying cat. “What is that sound?” My mom asked while opening the door of my room, “It sounds so out of tune.”
Lopez, Steve. The Soloist: A Lost Dream and an Unlikely Friendship, and Redemptive Power of Music. New York: Penguin Group, 2008. Print.
As I grumbled and griped about having an honors band rehersal only hours before the concert - as i complained about the growing callus on my thumb, about the gay kid with the neckstrap who was first chair clarinet, as i lamented the fact I could NEVER play this music, that i wouldn't get any better in that small practice, so WHY bother-
In 1984 Allen was in an accident that would change his life forever. Lurking around the corner outside of his hometown of Sheffield, England the 21- year- old was involved in a serious accident on New Year’s Eve. Another person drove him off the road; it fell into Allen being thrown from his car then his arm had to be amputated (Prato). “While many of us would surly have dropped into a deep depression following such a loss, Allen renewed his faltering love affair with his drums and became determined to overcome any obstacle in his path” (Rosner). He had a hard time accepting the fact that he had one arm. After 1984 the band didn’t let him give up on drumming.
So far this year, I felt pretty satisfied with my progress this semester. I feel like I am slowly adapting to the new way papers and assignments are handled. All my college work depends solely on me now. No one is going to baby me anymore and whether I succeed or fail depends on how much effort I put into something. For the first time in my life I wrote a paper. Not just a five paragraph essay but actual pages, which is extremely challenging. It’s also been my first time studying for five hours straight so I can pass an actual test. I didn’t know I possessed this level of dedication, it’s probably because it isn’t free.
Boettcher Concert Hall is where the Colorado Symphony Orchestra calls home. It was built in a round design with the audience in mind; allowing for a close to the stage experience for the patrons. As I exited the elevator from the top level of the parking garage, I took a moment to gather my senses and check out the buildings surrounding me as well as the architecture. I was greeted at the door by a door attendant who graciously held the door for me and called me ma’am. As I walked under the glass of the archway leading to the concert hall, I came to the realization that I may have been slightly underdressed for this classy arts complex, but continued. After finding the will-call, I headed in the direction I was given to the concert hall. I really was unsure of what to expect when I entered the hall; the closest I had ever come to a so-called concert hall was the auditorium of my ol...
As I drive to Edgewood the first thing that catches my eye is how the fields are just filled with corn and that's all you see for miles. The drive their helps you just clear your head and the country music is playing and you just look around and see how peaceful it is. When you get to the town it's very small a population of about 800. Not many people live there compared to Dubuque. It is the type of place where everyone knows everyone. When you first pull in to Edgewood you notice how old and antique everything looks and the if you have never been there before you will notice how the town just smells like farm. We keep driving through the town and you just keep seeing lots of corn. Then you go a couple miles down the road and you have finally
The stage and the crowd were always filled with commotion, always having the ability to bring enthusiasm into the night. There was no time to let our attention go from the performance on the stage. The third movement, called the Dandy, was a frightening movement, filled with intense fluctuations of registers and volume. The Dandy began with loud, high-pitched vocal singing with flute playing on the background. Moreover, this third movement was filled with fast tempo of both vocal singing and instruments being played, such as the high-register flute and piano that were performed. The intensity skyrocketed in comparison to the prior second movement. The audiences and I were shocked by the movement, clueless on whether to praise and applaud for
There are many different types of events that shape who we are as writers and how we view literacy. Reading and writing is viewed as a chore among a number of people because of bad experiences they had when they were first starting to read and write. In my experience reading and writing has always been something to rejoice, not renounce, and that is because I have had positive memories about them.
The glass let in the sunlight like God’s blessing was raining down upon us low income city kids. The stage was unpolished and had its fair amount of abuse over the years, but we made the best of it. Cultural dances, controversial plays, and speeches were made on that chipping, old