Saxophone Lessons
by Robin Fischer
It all started when I saw a lime green flyer tacked to my elementary school’s bulletin board. It read “JOIN JAZZ ENSAMBLE!!! Sign up and bring instrument after school Wednesdays.” The flyer conjured up images of me jamming with my fellow musicians, all wearing black and berets, cool in a packed club with smoke filling the air. The most enticing part of it was the huge text near the bottom: BEGINNERS WELCOME. The only previous experience I had with an instrument was playing the recorder in second grade, which I abandoned when faced with sheet music. Although I had a general idea of what the genre sounded like, I had never actually sat down and listened to a jazz record before in my life.
I didn’t know what instrument I wanted to play, beyond the fact that I wanted to play one. Preferably, a shiny and expensive one. I went home and announced my plans of becoming a jazz musician. It was easy to convince my mother playing music would be good for me; was happy to invest me in an activity, she drove me to a local music shop where I was to decide on my instrument. It looked like it had been years since the carpet had been paid attention to. There were no windows and every instrument was kept behind a thin sheet of glass or in the back. I was attached to the wonder and class of the trumpet, my undeniably cool older cousin played one, by mom didn’t think I could handle the trumpet. She made me try the trombone, which I hated and my small clumsy shoulders could not support its weight. I gave it a hearty blow and lost my balance. A flustered employee took back the trombone and retreated into the back room. He emerged again with an alto saxophone. It was smaller than the trombone and I could hold it up without much strain. As I inspected it the polished brass reflected my image in funhouse mirror character. I tapped my fingers on the imitation pearl pads and tried making a sound. The reed was dry and tasted of wood, which it was. It took a couple tries to create a noise. The salesman said I sounded like a dead duck.
“A dying duck,” my mother corrected, “a dead one wouldn’t make any noise.” Since I had the most success with the saxophone my mother rented it for a month. I admired the horn for the entire ride home. The black lining of the case, the caramel brass, the smooth grained reeds. It all fit together and created a promise of greatness and professionalism. How could I possibly fail, I asked myself.
When we got home I assembled the saxophone and proceeded to march around our house, puffing out uneven notes, pretending to be in a marching band. My steps were even, marching in a constant rhythm that I couldn’t seem to master when it came to making music. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror for more time than I spent practicing. I carried the smooth brown case to school and back even on days when there wasn’t ensemble, when people asked what it was I would proudly explain that I played the sax, that I was a saxophonist. A musician.
The afterschool ensemble was filled with kids like me. We took our image seriously. We didn’t care all that much about practicing or making music. My friend had brought a red plastic clarinet she found in her attic; we decorated it with Christmas tree stickers. There was a flutist, her voice matching the soft whispers of her chosen instrument. She had blonde hair and wore Capris. The only one with experience was third grader with a trumpet who liked to play fancy riffs that we didn’t realize we were capable of as well. We fourth graders were threatened by this kid who possessed the ingredients that made up the people we wanted to be. The teacher who led jazz ensemble was a tall blonde man who always seemed jolly and welcoming. He had lots of jokes, he laughed at our jokes. He let us pick songs. We liked him. He didn’t bother with silly concepts like technique or timing. Technically he played guitar, but spent most of the time attempting to recharge our enthusiasm.
I was assured that my future as a musician was set when I was offered a solo in a show for the parents. When I found out a solo had also been offered to all members of the group my ego was crushed. In an effort to rise to the top of our 4th grade hierarchy I persuaded my parents to pay for private lessons, an enterprise that continued on much further than after school band broke up due to creative differences.
My new teacher’s name was Art, and had come highly recommended by a friend from school. The first feature I noticed was his large, scabbed, and slightly hairy nose. I never really looked any farther than that nose. Art’s strategy on saving energy was to not turn on the heater and as few lights as possible. It seemed cold like a supermarket in his house, where he taught lessons. Light would push dusty beams through the windows. My mother sat on his couch and observed the lesson, trying to be discreet while peeking over a magazine or book. I came out of lessons exhausted and irritable, and she would be brimming with pride. “You did great today.”
“Cool.”
“Maybe you should practice a bit more.”
“Okay, Mom.”
I’d drag my saxophone case down the steps, banging across each one.
The first lesson from Art was scales. Lots and lots of scales. “You can do anything with the scales. Anything. To play any piece of music you must have a sturdy understanding of the scales.” I didn’t need to know the scales to play “Yellow Submarine” at school, I thought to myself. For months we went up and down and forwards and backwards over scales. I played minor scales and major scales. C G F B-flat E-flat A-flat, and so on. They took off from odd places and had uncomfortable modifications that were hard to remember.
Art was also big on posture. “Stand up straight, you’ll get better airflow. No, not like that, straight. Yes, good. Very good.” When I would forget halfway through a piece he would say “straight,” but I would just play louder, pretending I couldn’t hear him. Timing was a problem too. When it was suggested I should tap my foot to keep time the foot would take up all my attention and I would forget to play the notes. “No, no, no. Tap your foot to keep time, while playing. It helps you. All the musicians you have ever heard tap their foot. Just give it a chance.” I AM giving it a chance, I thought, either I can play or I can tap my foot. Take your pick.
When the lessons started I liked unpacking the horn. It had class. It was fun to put the pieces together. Reed, mouthpiece, neck, body, neck strap. When it came time to play I was stumped. At first I practiced for a few minutes a few times a week. Then my practicing dwindled to once a week. By the sixth week of private lessons I gave up practicing and I only unpacked my sax during lessons or band. My music binder acquired masses of sheet music I could only pretend to play. I breezed over riffs and guessed at high notes. I couldn’t master changing octaves and developed a chronic headache whenever I heard jazz. I couldn’t bare to put the black, damp reed in my mouth but I was to lazy to buy new ones. I imagined the food I ate last week that lurked on the thin slice of wood, waiting to infect me. I forgot about cleaning the mouthpiece or main horn. They gathered grease, dust and saliva. The pieces didn’t come apart smoothly like they used to. Filthy and neglected, it looked like an abused animal.
I found little ways to excuse myself from lessons. When I took my customary trip to the bathroom I took refuge there for as long as possible. I looked through the cabinet under the sink. I examined toiletries, candles, cleaning materials and shampoo. I sampled all the soaps and lotions I could find. Peach Vanilla was my favorite. I smelled all the varieties of toothpaste. I retied my shoes. If I was careful I could chop off a hefty 15 minutes of lesson. After, when I went back downstairs, I’d discover that Art had made coffee.
It never went well when I built up the courage to return to the sheet music. My mouth stumbled and my lack of practicing was obvious. My fingers couldn’t reach around the saxophone’s anatomy. Eventually Art stopped being disappointed in my lack of ambition.
As I entered middle school I realized that the instrument I once saw as mysterious and cool was bumbling, awkward and unfeminine. It was not hot to play the saxophone. It was not cool or pretty or anything I wanted to be (this was before I found out that David Bowie played it). I took one look at the people who played horns at my new middle school. They wore sweatpants. They weren’t popular. They were all guys. I already had enough points against me; I didn’t want any part of this band.
My parents failed to see the direness of my situation. “We paid for your lessons, we paid to rent your sax, you’re going to at least try out for band.”
“But--” arguing was no use.
Somehow I got into band. I failed the audition, but my knowledge of scales impressed the teacher, which was enough to make up for the poor timing, utter lack of confidence and no enthusiasm to speak of. I was the worst member of the band. There was another alto sax player and instead of playing I tapped my fingers over the buttons, not blowing out any air and let him deal with the trouble of playing notes. Everyone knew, I didn’t make any effort to conceal it. Teachers and parents compared me to Lisa Simpson because they couldn’t think of another girl who played the sax. I spited them. I skipped out on performances and backed down from solos. There was nothing scarier than a solo. I didn’t actively try to get kicked out of band- but I wished it would happen.
One day during private lessons with Art I broke down. I was supposed to be playing some classical piece. When he played it the song sounded like it had been composed specially for Marie Antoinette. “You’re timing’s off.”
“Tap your foot.”
I kept playing and ignored him. He exaggerated tapping his own foot to demonstrate.
“You’re supposed to tongue this next part.”
I couldn’t, though I halfway tried.
He sighed loudly. “Don’t puff out your cheeks.”
I missed a high note. I fell over a triplet. Art pointed to where I was supposed to be even though I knew. “Stand up straight.”
I forced my back up.
“Press down on the buttons more, they’re not sealed.”
How am I supposed to do it right if you won’t shut up? The song got worse. I was tripping over every note now. I couldn’t support the mouthpiece because my jaw began to shake. Art barked out demands and specifications. I got more and more upset. Eventually my eyes got watery. The song hiccupped and little drips puttered out of my eyes. I finished the piece to show I could. Art saw the drips on my cheeks and stopped, he picked out an easy piece to play next. The rest of the lesson was finished in silence and I wrenched my horn apart more angrily than usual.
Lessons went on for a few more weeks. I quietly arrived, quietly played and then quietly left. My parents offered to get the saxophone polished, thinking that the shine might re-attract my attention. It didn’t. Everyone could see the saxophone era was spiraling down to its end. When my mom finally asked if I wanted to keep doing lessons it was my chance to put down the horn for good, and I did. My mom told Art I was taking a break. He was relieved. There is still evidence of the saxophone around my house, my binder of sheet music lies under a pile of outgrown clothes that were supposed to go to Goodwill four years ago, there is still a box of reeds in my sock drawer.
Since the saxophone I have experimented with other instruments, eventually getting bored or discouraged or distracted. I dabbled with my dad’s worn guitar, but the strings made blisters on my fingers. The drums were next, but I hadn’t learned to keep time any better than when playing the sax. Next in line was the keyboard; my dad received one for Christmas a few years earlier and it usually resided in the garage. I rescued it but after five hours of serious practice I decided it was physically impossible to master playing any Pulp. When my friends casually started pulling guitars out of cases while hanging out I bought myself a tambourine in order to play along, but got bored quickly from the lack of functions it would perform. One day I found a ukulele in a dumpster, abandoned by a college student moving back home from the summer. I customized it, painted it and named it. I practiced unorganized strumming and wrote songs that were forgotten hours after. When one of the strings broke I made no effort to replace it. My grandpa gave me a pennywhistle but the book for it was boring and musty. After becoming obsessed with jug bands and busking I took up the washboard, but with no real idea of where to start.
I was ready to give up the idea of becoming a musician, surrendering to being titled only as “Artist,” and letting my fantasy slide past, just like ice skating and space exploring had. I had almost accepted that I wasn’t, in fact, all that capable of playing music when a few months ago I came across a harmonica. I was recharged. I was a musician again. At first I played it everyday. It was my companion, it lived in my pocket. I played it when I walked anywhere. I learned Woodie Guthrie and “Oh My Darlin’ Clementine”. I was proud, but I began playing less and less. I forgot it at home, I lent it out to friends. Instead of playing it every spare chance I played it once a day. Then once a week. Then lost track of it. I’m not quite sure where it is now; I think one of my friends pocketed it after a party. I should get it back one of these days.