I last picked up my trombone around December 1 or so, sometime before we left for Oklahoma to go get our baby girl Melia, so it had been about sixty days since I even touched the instrument. I took it to school with me during reading week, but for the first three-and-a-half weeks back, it sat forlornly in my office. I really need a reason to play the thing other than “I went to conservatory and feel guilty every day that I don’t practice now.”
But, today, I got in forty minutes on the trombone, and it went something like this.
“I guess I will need the Super-Slick today after all.”
“Is this the right mouthpiece?”
“That note shouldn’t sound like that.”
“Did my lips get skinnier?”
“Hey, that note was in tune!”
“I used to have bigger lungs than this.”
“Ooh… that note was *not* in tune.”
“How does that warm-up routine go?”
“That felt better than I remember it.”
“That didn’t.”
“High notes don’t feel so bad.”
“Yes, they do!”
“That felt like that old guy I used to play with in high school that made me think I’ll never let my tone sound like that.”
“Definitely need to do this more often.”
“Maybe a couple of heads from the Real Book would be a good idea.”
“All the heads in the Real Book are in bad keys and emphasize the tubby range of the instrument, but don’t go low enough for me to take them up an octave. It’s a saxophonist conspiracy.”
“My left arm is tired.”
“My right arm is tired.”
“That was a passable attempt at Bitsch etude number 4.”
“Is that my spit valve cork coming loose?”
“No.”
“I still can’t play pedal tones like Chad Arnow.”
“Gotta get more gigs and have a reason to practice.”
“Time to go home.”