December Demons

This complaint is two-pronged, and really silly. I suspect it is born out of a little-self confidence issue that comes from not being formally trained in my current occupation, along with a tendency in some to find fault easily and in others to find sources of amazement easily.

I recently have been writing an arrangement for a saxophone ensemble (and three, two, one, snicker at a volume of your choosing). As I began, I thought carefully about the key in which I would write considering the range of the melody versus that of the instruments for which I was writing, the intonation tendencies of the family into which those instruments belong, and the form of the arrangement (which in this case would include a significant modulation). Without too much effort, I chose the key of F Major - a key that any decent wind arranger will use on a frequent basis.

As I began writing, I began thinking about the key of F. And it occurred to me that even "F" wasn't a great choice, as the notes F and C are terrible notes on the E-flat and the B-flat horns respectively. On the other hand, the notes A and E are wonderful notes on the same instruments, and they would play key functions (no pun intended) in the arrangement because of its jazz style and the frequent occurrence of major-seventh chords therein. Thus I began looking for another key that would fit the guidelines that I set forth at the beginning, including the presence of a nice key a minor third above the tonic for the modulation.

In this quest, what I found was that there isn't any great key. I could find a significant amount of problems in every key I considered. That brought me back to the spring in which I was writing for a grade six high school band, and the director wanted to rid the arrangement of the two B-naturals in the tuba part (I almost always write them up when I encounter them) which where not at huge moments in the show. And as I thought about this, I grew even more frustrated at the complications of the horribly imperfect tonal system that we have, and began to be convinced that I simply didn't know what I was doing.

Last evening, I was in a discussion with an undergraduate student who studies music at a university within my region of the country whose Director of Bands is an arranger of note (again, no pun intended) and someone whose work I have admired since I was in middle school. The student was talking about taking the arranging and orchestration course with this professor, and I became pleasantly jealous of the opportunity has we was receiving.

As this student continued to rave, he was using large words - strong words like "unbelievable," "amazing," and "mind-blowing." As he did so, my jealousy began to fade just a bit. I can count on two hands the "amazing" musical or academic experiences I have ever had. And short of the discovery of new buttons on an instrument or a groundbreaking-ly effective system of making students able to implement the complexities of interesting tonality in a simple manner, I found it very hard to believe that the course was that amazing.

And then, the Midwest Demons crept in. And they began to tell me what they tell me every year at about this time. You have no idea what you're doing. There is a world of information that everyone but you possesses, and you can not have it. You're a fraud.

It happens every year. And I hate it.

At the end of the day, I know it isn't true. There are handshakes and pieces of paper that lend instant credibility to some, whether they actually warrant it or not. Though I realize this, I often find myself unable to stop thinking about how some components of my professional life might be different now if I had focused more diligently or chosen a selected mentorship or two more carefully.

It happens every year and I am far too young, even still, to be asking questions like this.