I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.
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Tuesday, August 30
OLDER, INSENSITIVE MEN LOVE MY HANDS
Last Friday, auditions were held at The Ol' College for pianists, drummers, bass players, and guitarists to be placed in jazz groups. Last year, I made it into one group -- it was phenomenal. I learned so much. I couldn't have imagined what it would be like to be in two groups.
Well, this year I can. I made it into two groups. That is quite a big step for me. I'm in a small combo, and now added this year, a big band. I haven't played with a big band since high school. It brought back such weird memories.
Though I must say that the universal syllabus for all the performance classes struck me as, well, "very" sensitive.
Under all the guidelines was the final rule.
"NO ABSENCES -- EXCUSED ABSENCES ARE LIMITED TO ILLNESS OR DEATH IN THE IMMEDIATE FAMILY."
Okay -- really now, only my immediate family?
"Yo, Dr. Jewell, I can't make it to rehearsal today."
"My uncle died, man. I'm really bummed out."
"WELL, DOES HE LIVE UNDER YOUR ROOF?"
"TOO BAD. REHEARSAL AT 2. *CLICK*"
Honestly, immediate family?
I bet a drummer wrote the damn thing.*
* This is an inside-joke between ALL musicians all over the world. I will now explain it to you non-musicians out there: Since drummers have only the task of beating a stick, we musicians find this act as, well, primitive. This applies to all percussionists because in most cases percussionists are the dumbest people you'll ever meet. They couldn't tell the difference from an image of a dime to carpet fiber. Now you all know why I had put "I bet a drummer wrote the damn thing." Thank you for your time.