My Personal Narrative

Music Notes By Ellis Thompson

I squeezed the end of my mallet as hard as I could as I looked over at my saxophone staring at me in the corner of the stage. My other hand clenched and unclenched restlessly, eager for the entire concert to be over. My chorus teacher danced and jumped around excitedly at the front of the stage. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead and clumped up my side-bangs. The sweet aroma of baked goods filled my nose. After the concert, my mom would be in the immense crowd waiting to hand me a cookie or cupcake from the bake sale. I tried to brighten my spirits by picturing myself running up to my mom at the end of the show, but it was no use. The cold, wet feeling of nausea crept into my stomach. In my mind, I knew that the finale was approaching, and I could not find a way to get out of playing in the concert this time.

I looked down at my hands beating noisily on the base keys of the xylophone. My mallet became sticky with sweat, and I almost misplayed the chorus because of my nerves. I tried to focus on my playing, but all I could think about was the finale. My mom was extremely nervous at the beginning of the concert.

“Did you go to the bathroom?” she asked constantly.

“Yes,” was always the answer.

As we played the final verse, a warm glob of phlegm shot into my mouth. The song we were playing was one of my favorites, a jazzy freedom song with a fast, catchy tune. The song ended with a long, high F sharp. I banged my mallet on the last key, dropped it, and ran over to my sax.

My sax was a beat up instrument. Chips of metal had fallen off of it, making it look like it might give you a splinter. I had to jiggle the keys around to get them to move. The saxophone had a small flower etched onto it with the word CONN in the middle of it in gold, Arial letters. I guessed it was about fifty years old.

I slowly slipped on my strap, and fastened it safely on the golden ring on the back of my sax. The soft pad of my strap acted like a sweatband and soaked up all the sweat on my neck. I gently placed my mouth on my mouthpiece and pressed my tongue against my reed. The woody taste of my reed soothed my dry mouth. I adjusted the position of my mouth, so that I was in the right position. I wanted everything to be perfect. In the dress rehearsal, I had completely messed up. My dad had once told me that with every bad dress rehearsal comes a great show. I desperately hoped he was right.

I slurred a few notes to warm up, as I walked over to a music stand near the middle of the stage. To my surprise, I did not squeak at all. It seemed like a good sign, but I could not be so sure yet. I made sure my tongue touched my reed lightly before every note in my next warm up. I smoothed a dollop of thick, slippery cork grease onto my cork to push my mouthpiece in a little further. My knees buckled, and my heart raced, as I stood up shakily and faced the crowd.

With one trembling hand, I placed my sheet music on the stand. My feet shifted nervously underneath me. I planted them firmly on the ground, shoulder width apart, so I did not look like I needed to go to the bathroom. I began to frantically pray that I would hit the high notes and not squeak. I stuck my hand inside the end of my sax and felt the cold inside of my instrument. My chorus teacher raised her arms and inhaled loudly. The piano player started playing, and my heart leaped into my throat.

Two clarinets and a flute started to play the intro. I listened closely to see if it sounded familiar. The flute played so softly, I felt I would overwhelm her with my loud sound. I wanted to be heard, but I did not want to be the only one heard. I tried to lift up my instrument, but my fingers kept slipping off the keys. I tightened my strap on my neck to hoist it up.

“Okay...and, Ellis!” My chorus teacher shouted.

I started. I kept going over the notes in the first system over and over again in my head: “A, A, E, B, B, B, E, B, B, E, E, E, E, A.”

“Samba Chill, Samba Brazil, Samba Chill, Samba Brazil!” the chorus sang. My fingers felt stiff and swift as I progressed in the piece. I could feel at least one hundred eyes on me. I started to sway with the music to help my mind identify the rhythm. I focused eagerly on my part and my part alone. There was no other sax near me for me to watch and follow. This time, I was on my own, and I felt like everybody was depending on me.

“Yikes!” I thought. “Here come the eighth notes!” With my body swaying and my knees bent, I progressed to the next system. My fingers looked like line dancers moving quickly together in a line, kicking their legs up and down.

“Rio de Janeiro, dancing all the night! Rio de Janeiro, celebrate it right!” the chorus chanted. I concentrated on the melody as hard as I could. I played the notes “forte” despite my urge to play “piano.”

By the time I reached the high notes, a smile had spread across my face, and I was rockin’ out with the chorus! Without warning, my feet started tapping to the beat. My shoulders began to move up and down with every note. Once in a while, I would shut my eyes and lean back, like I was stretching for a marathon. I just thought the pitch before I played it, and it came out perfectly. Now, I no longer wished I were anywhere but on the stage. Now, I wanted to keep playing until the end of the night.

The song ended with a long, loud C sharp. I pressed my fingers tightly on the keys until the note was over. A feeling of fast relief spread over me. I had a sense that everything would be all right. I looked down at my hands only to find them wet and sticky with sweat. My teacher gave me a “thumbs up,” and everybody in the crowd clapped and cheered. I ran up to my case and quickly jammed everything inside. I ran up to my parents and hugged them tightly.

“I guess you were right!” I exclaimed. “With every bad rehearsal, comes a great performance! I just focused on the music notes and everything came out fine!”

Summer.......................Almost

Do you ever feel like you have to do more things in the Summer than you did in the school year. I mean, Yesterday I had to do math, read, clean my room, clean the bathroom, and go to an orthodontist appointment. Sure, it is probably easier than school, but to me, it seems more complicated. Schooldays were just school, homework, exercise. I think that Summer should be made up of almost all exercise and free time.

Also, have you ever noticed how slow the Summer goes by? It is the end of the first week of Summer, and I do not remember what school feels like. I could barely get through one week without having a nervous breakdown, so how am I going to get through a whole Summer!!!!

Perdido

"Perdido" is a fast moving, swinging jazz/Latin tune originally recorded by Duke Ellington and his orchestra. It is a song that I am currently working on. It is moderately easy, but I am torn at whether to play the song fast or slow. The sheet music I have of it only says to swing it. It has no marking to show the speed of the song.

My saxophone teacher told me to play the piece at 112, but I am curious to know the real tempo of the piece. I was so curious that I looked up "Perdido" on Youtube. The piece was a lot faster than 112. It also seemed a lot smoother than the sheet music I had.

I was having more trouble with the second part of the piece than the first. The second part was about twenty trails of swift moving, swung eighth notes. I found out from the recording that those were actually a written version of a saxophone solo.

It is hard to think that I was having trouble with the piece before when I will have to make the piece harder.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIRzgWmbtKs

Bloody Books

I am reading the Iliad. The Iliad is primarily about the Trojan War. If you know anything about war, you know how many people get killed in one. Well, your idea of a war is probably a little different from the Trojan War. In the Trojan War, there were some strange war tactics.

The Greeks seemed to be obsessed with the idea of killing. When a soldier was killed in the Trojan War, this is what most of the other soldiers thought, "Who Cares? CHARGE!" That's right, who could care about your friend getting killed when there are still Trojans that were alive. The book fails to mention how bloody the scene would be. Can you imagine stepping over dead bodies just to make more dead bodies? Nobody even moves the bodies out of the way!

Also, the Greeks think it is necessary to declare everything in long speeches. It is not exactly a great idea to tell someone that you are about to kill them or give your opponent a long speech. First of all, while a soldier was talking, another soldier could have just swooped behind him and killed him.

Finally, their armor did not seem as strong as it was described. The armor was primarily made out of bronze and was usually described as brilliant. The soldier seemed fully protected, but oh no, an arrow came out of nowhere and went clean through the armor and the shield. What is the point of having armor if it does not work?

I know the Iliad is a fictional book because it talks about Greek gods helping the soldiers, but it is based on facts. Could our army now be better than the Greek armies?

Pretty Good

This is a poem that my sixth grade ELA teacher showed me:

Pretty Good

by Charles Osgood
from the Osgood File, 1986

There once was a pretty good student
Who sat in a pretty good class
And was taught by a pretty good teacher
Who always let pretty good pass.
He wasn’t terrific at reading,
He wasn’t a whiz-bang at math,
But for him, education was leading
Straight down a pretty good path.
He didn’t find school too exciting,
But he wanted to do pretty well,
And he did have some trouble with writing
Since nobody taught him to spell.
When doing arithmetic problems,
Pretty good was regarded as fine.
5+5 needn’t always add up to be 10;
A pretty good answer was 9.
The pretty good class that he sat in
Was part of a pretty good school,
And the student was not an exception:
On the contrary, he was the rule.
The pretty good school that he went to
Was there in a pretty good town,
And nobody there seemed to notice
He could not tell a verb from a noun.
The pretty good student in fact was
Part of a pretty good mob.
And the first time he knew what he lacked was
When he looked for a pretty good job.
It was then, when he sought a position,
He discovered that life could be tough,
And he soon had a sneaking suspicion
Pretty good might not be good enough.
The pretty good town in our story
Was part of a pretty good state
Which had pretty good aspirations
And prayed for a pretty good fate.
There once was a pretty good nation
Pretty proud of the greatness it had,
Which learned much too late,
If you want to be great,
Pretty good is, in fact, pretty bad.

This poem defines my life! I usually do not like to settle for even a B. This blog is a summary of my life and struggles as a student, and by student, I mean a great one.