A Little Trumpet Music

I had taken my D trumpet to the rehearsals for the high A’s. It’s not that they were so hard on the C but I didn’t want to take the risk. Relaxation, yoga, yin and yang, whisky, beta blockers — I had tried them all. All I had left was my courage.

As I put on my tails in the band-room, I felt the giddiness come over me. And yet I had prepared my lip carefully. At the rehearsals and at home the A’s (and even the higher notes which came later), always so difficult in isolation, were like blowing bubbles. My colleagues, happy, apparently relaxed, suddenly seemed distant and unreal.

We were greeted with applause from the audience as we took our seats. I settled myself in my chair with my trumpet on my knee. The conductor, playing to the gallery, made his way through the musicians and jumped on to the podium. I said to myself, almost aloud: “Watch it. This one starts right away, as soon as he’s bowed to the audience.”

Why did Mozart write these damned A’s? If you play them right, nobody notices; if you miss them, everybody notices. My chest is bursting. I’ve put up with that tam-tam for twenty years. Every time I tell myself, “Get out of this job. It’ll be the death of you.”

The first notes were OK. Now, 58 bars to count. Relaxation. I doze and count them in tens. There’s no problem in the next entry. Routine. My lip’s good tonight. The conductor’s ignoring me. Fine! My attention wanders from the stand and I examine the audience: anonymous, attentive, concentrating. The close contact between my lips and the mouthpiece rim comforts me a little. My lip seems flexible.