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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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- A Blog Supreme
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Monday, January 18   >>


"Hey, man, come check out our booth so you can see HOW MANY NOTES I CAN PLAY IN LESS THAN, LIKE, 30 SECONDS!!!"

It's been nearly 8 years since AES has been in LA. I think it's time AES comes back again.


Seriously, what the fuck is up with douchers and the quantity of notes? Noodling is for fags.


And now: A brief moment in my musical history.

Oh, how I can relate.

About 10 years ago I was billed on one of the state's biggest competitions/festivals celebrating the music of Bach. The later you're on the bill, the more "advanced" you are, which just means a raised level of expectation and pressure.

It took me by surprise that I was second to last, playing the third movement to Bach's Italian Concerto. It took me over a (-n incredibly suffered, excruciatingly painful and mentally taxing) year to complete this piece. It is a beast. It's like running a marathon on keyboard and hoping your brain doesn't implode from not being able to catch up with the sheer physicality of it all.

(Looking at that link, I'm, like, holy shit, I actually attempted and, at one point in my life, even finished it. Depressing.)

Anyway, I was looking around the performance hall and all I saw were AZNs and Jews: Man, that AZN kid is good. So is that Jew. So is this Jew coming up. So is that AZN. Fuuu--

When my turn came, I instantly freaked out. My suit felt all too heavy, my palms were sweating, the luxuriousness of the bench I was sitting on tripped me out and all those AZN and Jew eyes on me just murdered my spirit. I started off way too fast and, in the final measures of the piece, (which is at about 3:25 in the linked video) I just ...stopped. Abruptly.

And I heard the most frightening silence ever.

And then I got up and went to my seat where my family were waiting and I started crying as the waves of pity applause kept growing.

And I knew those claps. They weren't, "Aww... poor kid" claps. They were, "FUCK YEAH, MY DAUGHTER'S ACTUALLY GOT A CHANCE NOW!" claps. Assholes.

I'd like to say it was the last competition I ever played just for the sake of this little moment being somewhat operatic, but it wasn't. I later learned playing competitions where you got paid were way more incentive to practice more and play better than competitions awarding bragging rights and bronzed plastic statuettes.

Then I learned competitions in art are for people who don't really understand art, and then I realized that I'm on the right track. THANKS FOR NOTHING, MOM AND DAD.