I’ve now done two live-streams in a row. There’s a lot of things that have to go on in the background before each concert, but Ben (aka long-suffering-husband and all-round tech whizz) and I have kinda got a system going. I’ve lost count of all the concerts we’ve streamed now.

There are checks and double-checks of things like email addresses, and sending out links and programs. (Actually, probably knowing Ben, there are triple-checks – but I only know of the doubled ones…)

And we get these emails more than I’d like… “I’ve not got the link yet. Send again.” or “This happened last time – no email from you.” There’s no please, or thanks when it’s sent. Nearly every time, we find there’s a wrong email address put in – some kind of typo. Here’s the thing – it’s not a typo we’ve done. 

Now, both Ben and I are really happy to help. But just sometimes, it’d be nice to get someone maybe thinking it could be a problem their end. Or even just a ‘please’. In fact, I’d even take a thank you afterwards.

So – here’s my little plea. If this happens to you, with anything – any small business, if you are polite, or even perhaps a little self-deprecating, it’s so much more pleasant for the other person to help you.

And please, check your email address.

A few years ago I was going to do a concert that I had to cancel. And in the concert was a 4-cello arrangement of Bach’s ‘Chaconne’. (Most string players just call it ‘the chaconne’ – for most of us, it doesn’t need to have a composer, or a BWV number. It’s like the holy grail, in a way. But for those of you who mightn’t know it, it’s from Bach’s Partita no. 2 for solo violin. ) I’d learned my part, and listened to it, and fell in love with the piece all over again. I mean, I loved this piece. I’d listened to it countless times. I’d marvelled at it. But it is a violin piece, and I was learning the Bach suites for cello, and so although I loved it, I didn’t really study it. But this time, I really dived into it. And it was like seeing an art work you’d forgotten about in beautiful lighting and in a beautiful space. I remembered just how fabulous it was. So not only was a disappointed about the concert, I was disappointed about not being able to play this piece. Not really because of the time I’d put into it, because nothing is wasted. But because I didn’t get to play it.

And last week as I was gardening, I was wondering about the repertoire for the upcoming two-cello concert. And I remembered the chaconne. And as I was planting out tiny weeny seedlings, I wondered if there was a two-cello version of this. I figured it’d be hard. But if anyone would agree to walk this dangerous path with me, it’d be David Pereira. Because I knew he loved this piece as much as I did (maybe even more?), and it was him who taught me to challenge myself whenever I could. (‘Always say yes to stuff’, he told me in my final year of study with him.)

I found an arrangement of it. And by jingo, it’s hard. SO hard. And I was right, David is totally up for it. So I am starting to learn this version. It’s nothing like the other arrangement. I mean, it is in that it’s the same music, in the same key, but no – there’s no parts like the other cello part I learned.

But I am SO excited by it. I am dreaming about it. I am thinking about it as I drive. I am wondering about what fingerings will work where. And it makes me so happy that still, after umpteen years of programming, and playing, that this happens. It doesn’t surprise me that it’s J.S.B.’s music.

And now, if you’ll excuse me. I’m off to practise some more.

 

I’ve been playing concerts for as long as I can remember. As a professional, there’s a saying that you are only as good as your last concert. It also serves as a reminder (at least to me) that every time you perform your career is actually on the line. Because word will get out if it’s a disaster….!

Now, this isn’t as scary as it might seem. Because that why we, as performers, practise. Or at least, that’s why I do. I practise to get it right. And it it’s not right, then it’s nearly right. And if it’s not right, I can recover as quickly as I can.

Last weekend I was playing two solo concerts. Here’s what interested me….. It’s just me, so there’s no other player to draw energy from, or respond to. It’s just my sound going to everyone’s ears – and possibly, my mistakes. But then, I can control everything. I’d played everything before, at some point. I’d done lots of practise. The concert wasn’t to loads of people. It was in a very kind acoustic. And you know what? I was NERVOUS on the day. I was edgy. Butterflies were in my tummy all day.

I said to (long-suffering-husband) Ben, “You’d think, by now, after all these times, all these performances, I’d be used to this, wouldn’t you?”

But it seems, no. It shows me it matters. It matters to me a great deal. Maybe I should be more worried when those feelings stop. Maybe then it doesn’t matter any more….

 

So this week I had to teach the National Anthem to some kids. (Actually, I did this last week too…) It’s a really good version, with an excellent backing track – a local Elder has written a version in Dharawal and Dharug, and then we sing the song in English.

Last week was really special. The Uncle who wrote the first verse came in to talk to the kids, to speak about the words he’d chosen, and his inspiration. It was really lovely – everyone was engaged, and respectful. And boy, did they sing!

This week wasn’t so special. Well, the start was. We sang the verse we’d learned last week. Again, fabulous singing. And then I started teaching the English version. And things started to get uncomfortable. Kids stopped singing. Lots of people looked at the floor. It all got really uncomfortable. A few little people got upset. We – me, the teachers and aides in the room, and the kids – stopped singing and started talking. About how it was okay not to sing. It was not okay to be disrespectful, but it was okay to not sing these words. The choice is yours.

I know this is not going to change. Well, not soon. And that makes me sad. Because this song divides people. It makes people uncomfortable. It makes children have to make decisions they shouldn’t have to in a music lesson. (I also know that the fabulous teachers I work with then continued this discussion after music – so that all these little people could know all they could about this issue. How’s that for excellent teaching, ‘eh?)

I know there will be people that say to me ‘Oh, it doesn’t hurt anyone.’ Or, ‘We’ve sung it for years, so why change?’ But the same used to be said for smoking. And if it doesn’t hurt anyone, then why can’t we change it?

So, after our discussion, we tried the whole song. We stood to sing. The first verse of the song is outstanding. And then most of these beautiful kids made their choice. They stood, and were respectfully silent. And for the final line of the song, in Dharawal and Dharug, they sang again.

Now, I am overworked at the moment, and practising a lot. My emotions are close to the surface. I found these little people hugely inspiring. And those kids showed me a few things. That many young people don’t like these words. That they will choose to do something about it. And that when our country is in their hands, I it’ll be changed.

In my opinion, it can’t be done soon enough.

Someone once said to me that if I taught adults, then I should also be learning something too. So that when I challenged them, or took them out of their comfort zone, I knew exactly what it was like. It’s incredibly good advice, you know.

Over a year ago I was diagnosed with high eye pressure. Who even knew that was a thing, right? But I had it. Most likely down to stress. (It’s nearly always stress, isn’t it?) And I needed to lower it, otherwise I would lose my sight, slowly. Alarm bells rang. Some re-thinking happened.

It was the end of me doing headstands for a while. Sad. I love turning myself upside-down. (Don’t knock it till you try it…) I went onto Google, and did LOADS of reading. And one of the best ways I could reduce eye pressure, along with less stress in general, was to run.

Now, I am NOT a runner. I am not sporty. I hated sport at school, and did everything I could to get out of it. Everything trick in the book possible. But I knew I had to do something. I didn’t want to go on medication until the end of time. So I learned to run. I followed a free running program brought out by the NHS in England called ‘Couch to 5K’, and I followed it. It took me twice as long as it said. But by the end of 18 weeks, I ran 5K.

I learned how to run. How to keep going. What to do when I felt awful. How to not worry about running fast. How to pace myself. I learned – just like my adult students. I was frustrated at times. I ran not-so-well. I ran better some days. I didn’t look glamerous. But I did it.

And then a friend (who is a runner) convinced me I should run 10K with him. And I’d had too many wines, and so agreed. So I followed another training plan – this one harder. And again, I learned. I learned about interval training. I learned how to deal with humidity, and wind. I learned about what I could do, even when I thought perhaps I couldn’t.

Last weekend, I ran 10K with this friend. He encouraged me every step. Literally every step. For those who know Sydney, we ran over the harbour bridge. And through Barangaroo. And wound up at Hyde Park, and then finished at the Opera House. It was amazing. In one big sort-of-circle.

So, my adult students, I know what you go through. I admire you. I think what you do is incredible.

And yes, my eye pressure is back to normal. I did it. No meds. And a gold star from the optom!