In which is a sort of Montage...

ell, it's time to get this year the hell out of the way, in the (probably delusional) hope that next year cannot be worse. Now where were we? 

When last we saw our hero, he was playing an E flat tenor horn (or alto. It's a bit complicated, really.) He had bought the thing in October, and was rapidly discovering its abilities, and limitations, not to mention his own.

One thing the Cornet Player has been jonesing for since he hit The Eastern Province (besides the chance to play more cornet) is the chance to do some small-group singing. Early this year, he saw a tiny opportunity (excuse?) to assemble a small ensemble, and led them in performing a choral evensong. (First one in The Wee Town in a generation.) 

There was a Mag and Nunc by a guy named John Smith (yeah, sure!) which had the virtues of being homophonic, and tonal, fairly easy to learn, and... well, that about exhausts its catalogue of virtues. We did that, and introduced four of the six singers to the concept of Anglican  Chant. (Stick with me, kid, you see a lot of things you never imagined.) It... worked. And we're going to do another two or three next year, see if we don't.

 In June, the Cornet Player found out that there was a Brass Band School operating in The Eastern Province, and thought, "I bet that would be a cool thing to do next year. I could find out how good real players are, I could see some of the actual repertoire that this horn is meant to play, I would do a whole lot of playing in a short time, and Get Better!" 

And then he thought, "Actually, I want to do all of those things Right Now!" and enrolled this year, at the last minute. What could possibly go wrong?

Um, yeah. About that... 

The highest note that the Cornet Player had so far played in public was a (written) F sharp. Remember that bit. It comes into the story later. 

It turns out that the "Brass Band Summer School" does three rehearsals and eight performances over the course of two weeks, in a Very Large Military Show. That's besides the rehearsals and concerts that the band does on its own. "...a whole lot of playing in a short time." Yup. Got that base covered. 

Downloaded the music... It printed in landscape format. Almost as if we were going to play it from marching band lyres. (The lyre is a device that promises to hold the music where the player can see it. At least I think it's spelled that way.) How strange. I've seen brass bands on Youtube, and they play sitting down, off real music stands....  

Put the music on the stand... Turn to the first number... first note... Remember that F sharp? (I told you to remember it!) Yeah, that's where it starts. That couldn't be a sign, could it? 

So, the Cornet Player gets a ride to the Little Smoke from the Local Anglican Cleric, gets registered, and has a great time, gets a whole lot better, it's an absolutely perfect two weeks. Okay, there was a moment or two when he was inclined to bounce the horn off a concrete wall, and quit music forever...  But the Local Anglican Cleric never got a call from TCP saying, "Get me out of here, it's driving me crazy!" (or, worse, from the director of the school, saying, "Get HIM out of here, he's driving me crazy!" so we're chalking that up as a win. 

The summer continued with many travels and adventures, and a couple of gigs in different churches, but more about that later...

In which the dark side calls...

'm not sure how I ended up here. I attended the highland games this weekend, because what is the point of living here if you don't?

     It's been forty years since I attended a highland games. Some things remain constant, and comfortingly familiar: the heat is amazing, the breezes are few, dust is everywhere, and the UV index is at a level that will sear steak.There have, however been changes, which I must classify as good, or the notion of human progress is put into question, and all society's done for.

     Tiny girls danced, often with grim determination, but sometimes with every appearance of enjoying it. The dancing is much more balletic than I remember, and not just in the movements. ALL the girls have their hair in chignons, ALL the girls are in stage makeup, which is dramatic on a nineteen year old, but just silly on a six year old.

     All the competitors, including the one boy I saw, were in Serious Highland Dancing Costume. Apparently the days when a piper would walk over from the band tent, change shoes and compete in a band uniform, no makeup, and hair loose,  then walk back over to play in the band competition have been banished to the memories of old guys.

     The first step of the sword dance seems to have a two-footed landing where there used to be a right-footed landing into a pas de bas. In the opinion of one observer, the new style looks like hell; everything just suddenly stops for half a beat. The elevation in the jumps is much more than I remember, too, which is progress in the heavy events, and I suppose must be progress in dancing, too.

     In the heavy events, little has changed. Large men threw heavy things with determination and some success. The occasional competitor is far less beefy than was formerly common, but even they can still throw a light (16 lb!) hammer halfway down a football field.

     There were nervous moments; who knew that a caber had a significant sail area? The field looked comfortably large, until some of the longer runups in the caber toss. In the end, there were three successful (turned) throws, and much rejoicing. There were no casualties, although spectators around the perimeter of the field moved in a sprightly fashion from time to time.

     In piping, all the snare drummers wear a two-shoulder harness now, as seen in drum and bugle corps, instead of the diagonal shoulder belt. It's supposed to be easier on their backs, but it looks about the same weight as a small Hyundai, so I have to take that on faith. There was not a single drum major sighted over the full weekend. This may be a regional variation, or simple statistical clustering. The standard of playing seems quite variable, but on average, high.


     Now, some of you know that I played bagpipes forty years ago, and may have made some surmises about my current proximity to them. Unfortunately, bagpipes are a woodwind instrument, and make the same impossible demands on my hands as other woodwinds, so there is no return to piping in my old age. But... there was a conversation with a couple of bandsmen.

      Maybe my willingness to double on any percussion instrument I could reach was where the rot got in. Maybe it was my destiny all along to go where I seem to be going. Maybe the irresistible call of  the dark side marked me as its own in my innocent youth, and has been, all these years, not defeated but waiting. Maybe we will never know why such dreadful and frightening changes occur. Whatever the reason, early this week, I will venture out and acquire a pair of drumsticks.

   

In which there are gigs.

our gigs, to be precise.

I was asked by the Local Anglican Cleric to sing the Exsultet at the Easter vigil. When other people hear me sing, I expect bad things to happen, but for her I would do anything, of course I agreed.

     First problem: no voice. Hadn't sung in some months, had to practise like a fiend, didn't want to, but got around to it eventually, voice was coming around.

     Second problem: L.A.C., hearing me practise, told me that she really, really loves the Exsultet, and wanted the full (three or four page) version, not the short version I've been doing for the last several years, in my Little Presbyterian Home in the West.. O... kay.. I can do that. Just barely.

     Third problem: on the Saturday, I went to try it in the church, because acoustics. It was pointed out that the Sursum Corda is set to different music in the Exsultet (at least the one that I had) than the Anglican church usually sings. So, I whip over to the Book of Alternative Services (Presider's Edition) to get the tone that the congregation might know. Whoever typeset the BAS decided in his wisdom to print the Sursum Corda in a different notation than the rest of the Exsultet...

     It all goes okay on the night. The church is tiny, so my voice holds out, barely, and nobody throws anything.


     Meanwhile, back in my Little Presbyterian Home in the West, a very good friend of mine gets landed with the Exsultet on Easter morning. She has stage fright. (I sympathize!) She worries about it. According to multiple witnesses, she absolutely nails it.

     The third gig is Easter morning. No organist, so hymns are played by a guitarist and the cornet player. It doesn't go too badly, although, on the last hymn, when I nail an F#, I'm so astonished that I gargle the next bar completely.

     Finally, I got an email from the guy who runs the local brass quintet. His French horn player has retired, and I have a shot (until they get a new one) at playing the part on flugel. Of course I'm going to do it.

In which are tests, and cooking, and a flailing moment of creativity

My lovely wife out of town overnight, so I'm messing with music, doing laundry like a baus, and it's time for a blog. 

     As mentioned, I went and started a workout with a VO2 max test. It was up about 3 of whatever it's measured in. That's likely due mostly to weight loss, but higher is better, however you get there. (Yay!)

     Next up that day was weights, and it's getting tedious. Dumbbell deadlifts start the day, and at 60 pounds (x10x10) would just about do to end it. It's not a lot to deadlift, but there's a pretty good range of motion with dumbbells, and I'm also lifting a lot of me.

     Still, pressing on, never say die, there are leg extensions and then either pulldowns or T-bar rows. Generally, that will fry me to a light golden brown, so sprinkle a little lemon juice on me, and put me on a plate, 'cause I'm done. 

     On days when I'm really far sighted, I hang around and do shoulder work. This is problematic, because the shoulders are problematic, and tend to clank when asked to do full-range work. The sets therefore are on the lat raise machine, at ludicrously small weights, or some subset of the Jobe exercises, at even more ludicrously small weights. Still, they're working, and I can occasionally do bench presses very carefully, with no problems. 

     The imminent return of the bench press (and its cousin, the military press) are devoutly hoped for, as I'm running out of exercises. At the moment, I'm trying to avoid isolation exercises (the one-muscle-at-a-time approach) because it's too hard to keep up intensity like that. Unfortunately, compound exercises break down into Squats, Deadlift, Pushes and Pulls. Generally, you combine squats and deadlifts at your peril, so I need the pushes back!

     On the cheerful side, it's only another week until I change up the programme again, and I may make a somewhat radical change, which will relieve the boredom a bit.

     Anyway,  you were promised some cooking, and here it is, the simplest and best breakfast ever, the Spinach and Jalapeño Omelette. 

Grab as much (washed!) spinach as any sane man would put in an omelette. Grab the same amount in the other hand. Chop it all up. 

Get about three slices of hot peppers (I've been using pickled  jalapeños) out of the jar. USE. A. FORK. because touching jalapeños is a really bad idea, don't pay attention to me, let your hangnails explain it for you. Drop them beside the spinach, and cut them up, without touching them. 

Beat two eggs, (or three, if you're living large) with salt and pepper and tabasco sauce. 
Get a slightly oily pan rilly, rilly hot, and in rapid succession: 

• Pour in the eggs.
• Shake the pan to move them around a bit, so the liquid stuff flows under the cooked stuff.
• Sprinkle the spinach around
• Scrape the jalapeños into the eggs with the knife. 
• Just before the eggs are all cooked, roll the whole thing onto a plate. 

Some people will think it's boring to eat the same breakfast every day. If it's boring, you're not using enough jalapeños. 

And the weird burst of creativity: The Local Anglican Cleric has asked me to do musical stuff at Easter, as the organist will be away.  There's little stuff written for solo brass, and little of that little is practical at the current level of technique. 

     The Bach cello suites have been arranged for trumpet... just not this trumpet. Lightning midnight raids on the historical treasury of plainchant have produced the beginning of a little suite of Easter music, but it's not going to be ready. There really was nothing happening until: 

     About 10PM last night, Lasst Uns Erfreuen started running through my head... as a slip jig. Now, that's one variation... There are a couple of other possiblities... and it was done. The theme, plus three variations, without resorting to diminutions, which I can't play any. Composed entirely in the lilypond text editor. Set for any solo instrument in the treble clef, or my old buddy Andrew on trombone. (Available as a PDF upon request.) It's a kind of rudimentary thing, but it works. The L.A.C. likes it. We have a prelude. 

     Postlude.... hmm.. Something's trying to occur to me, but it's not here yet.

      Finally, the kind-of-good news. I hit the weight loss plateau about three weeks ago. It seems to have come to an end. Onward and downward!

In which the Strangeness and Contrariness of Life faithfully manifest themselves.

ith the machinery of weight loss running smoothly, the appearance of a monkey wrench was inevitable. In response to  the call of its ancestral destiny, a monkey wrench duly showed up. And the manner of its arrival was thus. 

     Assorted studies have revealed that one the necessary conditions for catching a cold (perhaps the only truly essential one) is dehydration. Your common mucous membrane is quite happy with its job of slipping the occasional stray rhino-virus on its way, as long as it is sufficiently hydrated. (The membrane, not the virus. I don't know if viruses are happier when hydrated, and face it, nobody cares, because nobody loves a rhino-virus. The way that they reproduce should make it clear that rhino-viruses are not even attractive to other rhino-viruses, and I'm not surprised in the least. But I digress.) One of the problems of the training programme I've been on, is that you sweat. A lot. There is a fix for that, which oddly enough consists of drinking water by the gallon. Still for various reasons, (the taste of the local water is one) a couple of weeks ago, I got nicely dried out, which the local rhino-viruses took as an excuse to roll up and start squatting in my sinuses, writing graffiti on the walls, throwing all night raves, and never cleaning the bathtub. Overall, not good tenants. 

     "Okay," said I, "I'll just carry on as I was." Which I did... until late last week. At that point between exhaustion, bad sleep, and lack of food, things took a turn for the worse. By Thursday, the viruses had started to file badly written court documents asserting adverse possession of the sinuses on the left side of my head, and I wound up mostly in bed for about three days. 

     Good news: I live in a civilized country, where one can purchase codeine over the counter. This greatly relieves the, ahem, discomfort associated with raving viruses in one's sinuses. 

     Bad news: I can't take ephedra based decongestants. Which would have helped, a lot.

     Good news: Doctor Who is on Netflix. Which helps, more than I would have imagined. 

     By Monday, I was back in the gym. I did about half a workout, and found myself looking for reasons not to go to sleep on the floor, beside the squat rack. This was taken as a sign that it was time to go home. I finally got a really good night's sleep, which also helps. 

     Today, in celebration of the temporary and anomalous lack of blizzards, I went for a walk. Allow, y'r o'b't correspondent, at this point, a small divergence to rave about one of the greatest websites in the world: http://gmap-pedometer.com/ This is a development on top of Google maps, which allows you to track the distance you walk (or drive or run, or bike, or whatever.)  It will give you a number of details of your walk, including the elevation changes and, a calorie counter! So, even in the absence of The Cardio Machines, there is impartial evidence of a 750 calorie workout.

     Based on this, y'r o'b't correspondent can be pronounced "Back to normal," for vaguely defined values of normal. The weather is also back to normal (for here.) When I click on the weather network, it just says, "Honestly, now, do you really want to know?"

     The inability to work out did not put any weight back on me, I'm happy to see. 

     While it's good to be working out again, and will be better when I can drop the intensity below "Kamikaze pilot on three-day meth binge," my musical situation is really strange. There's no band to play in. I still practise, and might arguably be getting better, but even so, there's a strange feeling of, "and then?" I miss the Trafalgar Players more than I can say.  

     The same malaise, (aggravated by the pernicious interference of gravity) affects the realignment of the studio. I've just about figured how to make it all work, but question keeps coming up, "and then?" 

     More dispatches to come, on the road to finding out.