Confession of a Clarinetist

I'm a clarinetist. Clarinetist, being interpreted one who plays the clarinet as often as her Dad makes her. That's right. I'm a teen. A teen with attitude and clarinet. Watch out, World.

Ever since I learned to squeak on the thing, I've wanted to play flute. But, somehow my Dad managed to force me to keep playing, and, yes, $2000 and a brand new Selmer clarinet later, I am still bitter.

I used to love band. A time to gather with other clarinetists, and silently think I was better than them. Now, I merely march up to my room, carefully throw the parts together, and turn on the classical station - in raw hope that I will hear a fellow musical prodigy like myself.

In order to get that clear, rich tone that I know so intimately, I must have a crisp, moist, functioning reed that is not cracked even a little bit. Even then, the tone of the reed depends on the quality of wood, and rarely will you find the perfect reed in a box of 10. Thus, was why whenever I did find a 'perfect reed', I didn't want to use it, because I wanted to save it for that once in a life-time performance when I would be a Prima-Donna clarinetist in front of some first grade class.

There's an art to putting a reed onto your mouth piece. You have to be very balanced and coordinated to do it. Perhaps that is why so much of my money has gone to buying reeds, but for the most part, my reed-wrecking has come to a slow stop, and I think I have discovered the secret to mastering reed assembly. Don't play.

Now, for those of you who love the clarinet, I have to add - it's a fine instrument. Beautiful really, with shiny keys and lush dark wood providing you clean it. My Dad has always said, "Take good care of your instrument and it will take good care of you." Heh. My first clarinet was an old trooper. Rust on the keys, a bit of greenish tint to the mouth-wash soaked reed (correction: reeds plural), and a nice healthy shine to the scratched plastic body. That was before.

Now my new clarinet and I get along quite well, and take care of each other nicely. We are like those pen-pals who pretend to like to write and have nice lives; very distant, but passionate in between the exclamation points (I.e. squeaks).

If you are a musical sojourner, such as myself, my only warning is that you get the instrument that's right for you. And if your older sister has a major in college in clarinet performance, DON'T play clarinet. She will try to give you lessons.

Playing an instrument can be a very valued thing. It can relax you when you've had a hard day doing complicated things (such as locking out complaining neighbors, or assuring the notified police that no one is dieing). It can minister to others. Nursing homes are grateful for anything. They may be mostly deaf, but those who aren't will still gasp and cry like it touched them. Another benefit I have found to learning the clarinet, is that you can pass it down to others. Now, I don't have any children yet, but I can't wait until I do. I want them to have so many more opportunities than I had the best clarinet I can afford and the best teacher I don't have to afford (me).

O Joy, someday, amid practicing offspring and cries of passionate bliss, I will write a little Ode to my clarinet, and admit in that Ode, a wee confession. I secretly like my clarinet.

Learn more about this author, Andrea Sanford.
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