Gearing up now for Thursday's live Internet broadcast... I will NOT miss a day this week. And as a result of this work, here's my take:
My God. It never ends. That's what I just said to myself when I just discovered that I'd only been working one kind of roll.
Huh? Okay, backtrack. The deal is, I have taken pride in this fabulous exercise that I've developed to refine my roll-playing on every note of the flute... vastly improving my ornamentation over the last 45 days or so. But just tonight I realized I've only been working rolls in "reel" rhythm... not jig rhythm. A whole different animal. That is, another animal.... one that requires its own habitat, feeding regime, regular care, and attention. Another thing to add to the daily routine. That hurts. And by God, I like it.
To make things more complicated, my also-fabulous exercise in long tones? Well, the last eight days or so, I just haven't done it. Did it tonight though. In the schmancy Bethesda condo, with sister in the next room doing important government recruiting business. Someone listening didn't bother me; she's not a musician and doesn't have the Princess-and-the-Pea syndrome that I do. (That is, "I hear a note. Faint, distant... maybe ten miles away. But it's a note. AND I CANNOT CONCENTRATE, DAMMIT.")
What bothered me? That those long tones hurt, too.
What also hurt? The discovery in last night's show at Cultural Center of Cape Cod that even five days straight of gigs and then a few days of short group rehearsals do not substitute for steady, every-day-in-the-basement practice sessions. Last night, I played fine, but only those who know me very very well would recognize that I didn't have the confidence onstage that playing every day brings. Practicing every day is not so much about the sound, I discover. It's about knowing that my friend the flute is feeling loved, cared for, respected, and as a result, will give back.
No, that's not it.
It's about feeling connected to the instrument and 100% sure that my intent will be manifest in what I play.
Confident that I won't *&*^ up.
No witty ending to this email. There are homemade potato chips in the kitchen made by my niece, and I am OUTTA here.