Harpy Holidays*

A Visit From The Loon Squad

Last week, on a particularly grey wednesday, I had a harp lesson at 4’o’clock and a gig I was going to at 8, so I decided to while away the harpless between-hours at the bookshop around the corner from Berklee, on Newbury Street.     

After three years studying Literature (with a big L) at university, I am still overwhelmed and overjoyed to be aboard the good ship ‘Choose What You Want to Read, and It Doesn’t Really Matter What You Make of It, Just Have a Jolly Time.’  (Big flag)    

I spent about half an hour pottering about the shelves, partly for aimless pleasure, and partly to put care into my selection, so as to maximise my jollity. 

My criteria for choosing a book were as follows:

• Classics that I’ve always been meaning to read but never got around to, were out, for today.  Hasta la Vista Dostoyevsky, and Buh-bye Bröntes.  And no guilt trips allowed, thank you VERY much, Mill on the Floss (if in fact that is your real name).   
• A criterion of a similar ilk: no crummy attempts at self-improvement.  One day, I may learn French, commit to memory the difference between Doric, Ionic and Corinthian columns AND discover how to make all varieties of smoothie for a happier, healthier me, but this was not the day.  Titles like ‘The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean my Closets, Fight right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun’ were DEFINITELY out. 
• I wanted fiction.  Preferably a novel.  
• And a jammy one at that.
• It had to be something new (to me, not necessarily new to the world).  

 I idled a while around my favourite authors, cozying up to familiar titles. So comfortable, these old friends! But this is my problem with [not] being well-read. I often shy away from the term ‘well-read’, not only because I consider it to be both tricksy and entirely relative term, and therefore relatively meaningless, but also because I am secretly certain that I am not well-read.  I blame this largely on my love of re-reading, which means that the books I have read, have certainly been read well (does that count? ‘Oh, she’s well read, that one!’ - if said in a Northern accent could pass for a glowing reference, in a pinch) but those that I haven’t read, well and truly, or even at all, are far greater in number.  This is obviously the case for everybody - Coleridge, I believe, was the last person who claimed to have read everything, and even then it was a bold claim - but by far greater, I mean FAR greater.  Again, I am lost in the mires of relativity.  Oh well. ‘KBO’ as Churchill would say, and as many members of the Herman Family would repeat delightedly: Keep Buggering On.

So there I was, hovering around Dave Eggers, wrestling with my impulse to sink into the blissful familiarity of his short stories, when I spotted Jennifer Egan, sitting snugly beside him.  I’d never heard of her before (shame on me. Or maybe not so much.  No guilt trips allowed, remember?) which played no small part in her appeal.  

There was also the gold ‘Winner of the Pulitzer Prize’ sticker, winking shinily at me from the front cover of ‘a visit from the goon squad’.  The title tickled me, the cover was jangling with critical acclaim, and the book was of a good girth (an underrated quality in book choosing, I feel). 

There was also something in the LA Times’ accolade ‘The smartest book you can get your hands on’, that felt almost like a challenge.  I guess the combination of  ’can’, implying permission, with the suggestion of a prize (to get your hands on something connotes a struggle, right? Or an ability, an opportunity… 

I CAN get my hands on it! Look, look LA Times! Here I am - with my hands on it! Regard my grubby little paws, they could not be more on this book if they tried!

(It’s ok, my paws were only a bit bicycle-chain-and-subway-grubby, AND I bought the book, so it’s really no biggie, LA Times.)

So without further ado, (well, there may have been a BIT more ado.  A little ado.  Dr. ado-little. Except rather than talking to animals, I was just minding my own business, and looking at books.  That said, I’m sure if this particular jaunt were to be made into a film - and what a film! - Rex Harrison or Eddie Murphy would do a fine job of playing me)  I bought the book.  

After a bit of light  back-and-forth with the lovely man at the till  (my faithful, but garish backpack is always a talking point amongst the world’s more garrulous folk) I got myself a table and ordered the biggest sandwich I could imagine (it’s called the Cape Codder, and if you’re ever in the area, I heart(attack)ily recommend it.  Can you go wrong with MASSIVE wedges of grilled Challah, turkey, cheese and bacon? No, good sir and/or madam, you cannot) and some sort of delicious fruit juice.

So anyway, there I was, nibbling away merrily on my stonker sandwich, and getting stuck into my new book. 

There’s nothing better than reading the first few pages of a new book and realising that you’re having a great time.  This realisation is often a little, glimmering minnow of a feeling, because it is, in my experience, more of a non-thought, than a thought.  That is, rather than thinking ‘Am I enjoying this?’ ‘How does this character make me feel?’ ‘Do I like that person?’ ‘Should I like this person?’ ‘What’s THAT metaphor all about?’ and so on, the soothing absence of the running narrative (usually panting and sweaty) usually heralds a total and immersive sense of enjoyment and engagement.   

Or so I thought.

I had decided to spend the evening taking a break from my harp-shaped life.  I wanted to spend a pocket of time eating a delicious sandwich (which came with a PICKLE! Sometimes the gods are generous) and reading a book about which I had no preconceptions, and in which I could  submerge myself, allowing thoughts, of whatever flavour, to marinate in peace.  

I had spent that morning practising the harp, the night before, practising the harp. The night before that… and so it goes. That day I had rode the subway listening to harp music in preparation for my lesson. Then, my harp lesson - very harp-related.  It was a great lesson and I left feeling buoyant and full of resolve and plans for long-term improvement and, in the shorter-term, my next practice session.  But all this could wait one evening.   

So imagine my surprise when, near the top of page seven, I read this:

…a set of goals she’d scrawled on a big sheet of newsprint and taped to the walls of her early apartments:

         Find a band to manage

         Understand the news

         Study Japanese

         Practice the harp

Wait, what?

WHAT?

I know it’s a cliché, but I think my heart really did skip a beat.

I looked again, just to check (at the book, not my heart).  

The story so far had been about a date and the therapy sessions of a lady who was also a kleptomaniac.  I felt fairly secure that I was exploring unfamiliar territory, not knowing, waiting to be told…

Then THIS! 

There was no lead up to this.

 Perhaps if the cover had been this one (below), I might have divined some intimation of music-shaped things to come.  The guitar even looks a bit like a lyre.  There’s a bit near the end about Orpheus and Euridice, so maybe that was intentional.  Maybe THAT’s the point! Hmm. But I digress, THIS is not my point, nor was it the cover I had seen.

The cover I saw was this:

Looks fun, exciting, bold, not harp-related in any way, good girth, and so on.    

And sure, it was an innocuous detail.  A throwaway designed, presumably, to add texture to the character.  (Or maybe not! see Orpheus revelation above)

But this tiny, deft touch of shading (ditto) really made me wonder if I had lost my mind.  

I looked again at the page.  

I took a mind-clearing bite of my sandwich, then allowed my eyes to drift casually back to the book.  It was a bit like playing ‘Grandmother’s Footsteps’.  You know, that very slow turn and peer?  Except instead of trying the thwart the approach of giggling children, I was turning, slowly, expecting to find full-blown insanity tapping me on the shoulder, giggling.  

This is one of the rarer situations when it’s weird to be on your own. When reading a new book, and a tiny reference to playing the harp forces you to question your sanity. In these situations, it’s handy to have a second opinion (just so you know for next time).  I considered seeking the counsel of the friendly looking man at the table near mine,  but it’s actually quite difficult to phrase ‘Hey, can you just tell me if these words on this page are, as I believe them to be, referencing someone’s need to practice the harp? Juuust checking is all.’ without sounding like someone may have spiked your sandwich. 

These are the hazards no one tells you about when you take on a multi-month intensive harp apprenticeship.  You know?? 

A few days later, when we were in the supermarket, I casually mentioned my fear of harp-madness to Jonathan. He asked to see the book and I dutifully fished it out of my bag. 

‘See? It’s weird, right? Isn’t that weird?!’

‘Um, Katya… I don’t know what to tell you, but it DOESN’T say anything about the harp.’ 

If you want to know whether this joke was well-received, I can assure you it was not.  

Existential crises aside, A Visit From the Goon Squad was utterly wonderful.  I can’t recommend it highly enough.  I finished it this afternoon and had to sit down for about an hour, just reflecting, pondering and luxuriating in the buzzing after-glow that comes with proximity to such ferocious intelligence.  

Best served with a dose of mind-melting paranoia, and a pickle. Maybe now I’ll go for the book about smoothies. 

Soon the duet will become a trio

This is the third, and final instalment of my blog triumvirate.  The first was about a man in Lederhosen.  The second was largely about my deeply uncool, but unabashed love of The Sound of Music.  Now, as we reach Blog III, Return of the Killer Blog, it’s about my first concert in Arlington.  

September 25th was, for me, a day of many firsts.  

It was my first concert in Arlington, at the magnificent Regent Theatre.   

It was my first time performing a duet with Deborah Henson-Conant, my longtime harp-hero-now-teacher.   

It was my first time performing with a strap-on electric harp.  You can see in the top picture below, that I appear to be buckling under the weight somewhat (either that, or the stage was very windy), but then, in photo #2, I’ve readjusted, and we’re having a great time.  

It was also my first time playing an impromptu trio with Deborah Henson-Conant and an International Whistling Champion (I’ll come back to this)

AND it was the first time I saw a man juggle three garden chairs on stage.

There he is: one, two, three…

And UP THEY GO!

Isn’t that fun! Not so much for you, because you weren’t there, but as your man on the scene, I can report that it was, in fact, very fun indeed.

Now for a bit of backstory.

• The Harp

Two days before the concert:

‘One of the fun things about having a harp named after you’ Deborah tells me, as we wade into what appears to be a BIG box full of bubble wrap, ‘is that you get free stuff.’

To me, free stuff means a complimentary mint, perhaps a drink on the house, a promotional biro, an ice cream at Old Orleans that time I found plastic in my pudding (what a day!)  

But Deborah’s ‘free stuff’ is a harp, sent over from France. A DHC Blue Light, in a VERY handsome bronze finish.

‘Let’s play a blues duet!’ Deborah says, excitedly, hoisting her harp around her waist and gesturing for me to do the same with this sparkling new toy. ‘We can do it in the concert on Sunday!’ (today is Friday)

I have now been learning the blues for the best part of a week, so getting up on stage to play a duet with one of the world’s best harpists, in a style with which I am barely competent, on a harp that sways when I move, and swings away when I move my hands towards it, should be noooo problem.  

We would practise it once, and decide on the form (who would solo when and so on) in the dressing room before we went on. Yup. Noooooo problem at all.  

Deborah is a big believer in learning by doing, and I’m really coming around to it.  I think this is how she gets so much done, this fearlessness. Or rather, her way of harnessing fear into output - straw into creative gold. (Actually, we were talking about Rumplestiltskin just the other day over lunch - Deborah feels him to be a much maligned character, and put forward his case excellently and with the dazzling originality of thought that I have come to accept as typical - but this is a story for another day)   Having always been a disciple of the ‘Learn by WATCHING CAREFULLY AND NOT INTERRUPTING’ school, I found it a daunting concept at first. To put it mildly.  To put it less mildly, I was fucking TERRIFIED.  

So, over the next couple of days, I did a LOT of doing.  

Two days later, I am a lever harp pro.  Well, perhaps ‘pro’ is exaggeration.  I can, however, after MUCH practice, get the harness on:

kneel down, clip it on the side, HOIK harp over the shoulder, stand up, careful, caaareful, clip it on the bottom, clippedy-clip, and tadaa! Girl, you are WEARING that harp.

(You can’t tell, but I just had to mime putting on an air harp to write out those instructions.  Worth it though, right?)

Next step: moving.

On the day of the concert, I had a chilling realisation.  Deborah would be doing a couple of solo numbers, then I would join her onstage for our duet. This would mean my entrance would have to be speedy, sprightly and IN FRONT OF PEOPLE.

It is harder than you might imagine to shimmy onstage with the effortless grace of a musical gazelle when you have a harp strapped between your legs.  

Deborah makes it look utterly effortless - she can stride, she can dance, she could probably join a conga line if the mood so took her.  But she generously reminded me that it has taken years of practice, as I was very much at the waddling stage.  

So much of music is making the things we spend hours, days and YEARS working at, seem easy.  (This is a thought I come back to every day and will, I’m sure, return to in a future blog.)

But I didn’t have years! I had approximately four hours.  

No matter! I decided that if I took big enough steps (not figuratively, we’re talking lunges) I might just be able to make my Boston debut without looking like a I was walking with a balloon wedged between my thighs.  

That’s all one can ever ask of a debut, really isn’t it??

Well, it turns out that you can also ask to be joined onstage by an international whistling champion (a.k.a. my ultimate dream come true)

• Whistle While You Work

I have always considered whistling to be my only real talent.  People always laugh at me when I say that, but I don’t think the harp, or anything else I do counts as a real talent because I never sat down at the harp and was like ‘HEY I can PLAY!’ Not so. I have to work hard at it all the time, not only to improve but also just to stay in good fettle. Whistling, however, has always been fun and EASY. And I’m not bad either! It’s not a liveable on-able skill, sure (being a professional whistler would be my ultimate dream career, but sadly I don’t think there’s much call for it. Unless I become a whistling plumber), but it’s enough to amuse myself and my friends.  Also, I have discovered that whistling opera favourites and accompanying myself on the harp is the BEST way to make tips on a gig.  Not so long ago, I got £40 just for one rendition of O Mio Babbino Caro. I think it was for the novelty, as opposed to the raw whistling magic, as my current opera-whistling status is Bel Can’to,  but I’m not complaining.   

Back to the concert.

So there we were, bluesing away, when Deborah suddenly says

‘Hey Katya! Take a whistling solo!’ 

My eyes were like saucers, but I managed to lift my jaw off the floor in just enough time to purse my lips into a premium whistling position. It turns out it’s impossible to transcribe the sound of whistling into roman characters, so I can’t really give you anything about how it went, all I can tell you is that it was FUN.

THEN Deborah remembered that there just happened to be an international whistling champion in the audience (talk about getting upstaged) In the time it took us to get through an eight-bar chorus, he was up onstage and ready to go. And boy did he go! He went low, he went high, he raised that fourth like nobody’s business. 

And I got to practise my walking bass! 

I wish my real walking had been as successful.  At the end, as I went to lunge offstage, I realised my harp was still plugged in and came hurtling back. Nuts. Unplug.  Lunge away, with both harp and tail very much between my legs.  

After the show, I asked Eric how he learnt to whistle so well, and how he practises. 

‘Well, I guess it’s because I never stop.  My wife says the only time I’m not whistling is when I’m asleep!’

She quickly cut in:

‘Honey, don’t believe a word of it!  He whistles in his sleep too.’

• The Concert

So all of this came about because The Regent Theatre was celebrating its 95th Anniversary.  To mark the occasion, the theatre’s director, Leland Stein, decided to put on a variety show as a callback to the venue’s vaudeville origins.  

There was singing, there was dancing, there was juggling, jiggling, bluegrass and electric harp(s).

The final group of the night was a twelve-voice, multi-instrument extravaganza called the Ultrasonic Rock Orchestra.  They played songs by Queen, The Who, The Beatles and Led Zeppelin, all with serious gusto.  

The Regent soon after it opened in 1916

• The Result

In my previous blog, I was trying to decide whether to go and see The Lion King 3D or The Sound of Music Singalong.  Or, more specifically, which would be sadder to go to on my lonesome.   Although the general consensus has been that it is more pathetic to go solo to a singalong (thanks guys), I have decided to kiss my pride goodbye and go for it anyway. 

Not only because I know I’ll have a great time, but because The Sound of Music Singalong is taking place at the very theatre I have been telling you about.  DOUBLE BONUS! And would it not be churlish of me not to support this fine institution, this stalwart champion of the arts? It would! It would! She cries, lacing up her dirndl, pre-emptively. The wonderful people at The Regent put on FUN shows at good prices. They won’t let you take in your own food (no siree bob) but they will show you an excellent time.  So I’m going.  Best get cracking on my yodeling.  

TWO FUN THINGS:

I’m meeting up with Eric tomorrow for a whistling lesson and jam session.  I’m unbearably excited.

and Sal, who runs the Ultrasonic Rock Orchestra has asked me to play in a show with them next week! 

So, if you take a look at their videos, you will see that this story may well end in ME wearing leather shorts.  

Oh, how the mighty have fallen…

I just hope no one gapes at me on the subway.  

VFAQ

On my website (coming soon! WOW!) I have an FAQ section.  This is mainly for enquiries regarding weddings and events – you know the drill.  What I really want to put up, however, is a section of VFAQ.  

VERY frequently asked questions (in case that wasn’t obvious from the acronym)

Oh, now it looks like WOW was an acronym.  It wasn’t.  It was just the word ‘wow’.  

I feel like the VFAQ might save me a lot of time, but I also worry that it might make me come across as a bit hostile and unaccepting of the world’s more curious peoples.  Which is far from the case.  I love curiosity in its many forms; it’s just that my least favourite form is when the curiosity beam is directed at someone pushing a large, heavy thing, and who, judging by her speed and sweat levels, is evidently running late. 

So here they are! My VFAQ! WOW! 

• What kind of harp do you play? A full-size pedal harp – a Lyon & Healy Style 23, in ebony and gold.  I fell in love with this model when I saw one belonging to a very kind man called David, who works at Holywell Music, a harp shop in London.  He named his harp Margo, after the character on The Good Life, because ‘she thinks she’s a bit posh.’ I just love that.  My harp was made in Chicago, and arrived in a box bigger than my bedroom.   I haven’t given it a name, because I wanted to name it after Harpo Marx, who I love, but Harpo seemed a silly name for a harp, so then I was going to use his real name, but that was Adolph, so I decided against it.  
• How do you get that thing around?? I lay it flat in the back of a large car.  For this reason, my mother wants me to drive a hearse – ‘SO practical! And you’d never have any trouble with road rage!’ - But I don’t think I’d much like people nodding at me, solemnly, wherever I go.  Although I wouldn’t mind the occasional salute…
• OR I push it along in a trolley with pneumatic tires.  I have walked with my harp for up to an hour and a half, through crowded streets, and over cobbles and hills – to which my biceps are testament.  If only.  ’Knots on a piece of string’, as my gym teacher used to say (not letting that one go, it seems).  It’s my poor back that takes the heat.  And my thighs, but the less about that, the better.
• How much does it weigh? 81 lbs (37 Kg) 
• How much do you weigh? Not relevant. Next!
• What’s that? It’s a harp!
• Is that a piano? No, it’s a harp.
• Is that a cello? No.
• Is that a guitar? …Yes.
• That’s a big guitar! That’s not a question.  Get out of this section!
• Do you ever wish you played the piccolo?  Hey, thanks for asking! Every day. Is how often I get asked that question.  Never, is how often I wish I played the piccolo.  I wish it NEVER.  
• What made you choose the harp?  The ‘truest’ answer is that I’m not sure.  I remember desperately wanting to play it as a child, but the whys and wherefores elude me.  It was probably for as simple a reason as my coveting its beauty.  This is a feeling that hasn’t gone away.  Sometimes I think of my harp as an inanimate thing – be it a big heavy burden or a masterpiece of human craftsmanship.  Sometimes I think of it as a friend, sometimes, an enemy.  But I don’t think I have ever looked at my harp without marveling, for the tiniest of moments, at its beauty, and the incredible fact that I am allowed to touch it.  My harp and I need to get a room. A PRACTICE room (jeez louise!)  Anyway, I think this feeling of awe can be pinpointed to a particular moment in my childhood…

[Sweeping, Misty Recollection Music (that doubles up as dream sequence music, and that ideal-scenario music you sometimes get in American sitcoms – more bang for your buck!) played on a harp, obviously. But not by me.  What? Am I expected to star in AND accompany my own flashbacks now? I know I just said ‘more bang for your buck’ but Come On!]  

When I was about eight, my mum took me to see the London Symphony Orchestra play at the Barbican, in London.  They were doing a special concert for children, and during the interval, they announced that you could go up and have a go on your instrument of choice.  No contest.  Screw you, Tuba! Off I toggled to get my little paws on that harp.  However, I had not accounted for the fact that the harp might be a popular choice, and during the looooong time it took to queue up, I started feeling a bit unwell.  Maybe it wasn’t even that long, eight year olds have quite short attention spans, as I recall.  But I persevered.  Must… touch… harp…! THEN, just as I was in clutching distance of the strings, my mitts had formed a harp-touching claw and —- I fainted.  Out cold on the floor.  (The harpist was probably pleased to have this little Grabbing Gollum carried away, unconscious, by a security guard.) Was it excitement that made me faint? Nerves? Boring old Dehydration?  To this day I have no idea. BUT I do know that I had the last laugh, (if you can call carting a harp around for the rest of my life ‘having the last laugh’) because I think it had a little to do with my parents finally giving in and saying that, yes, I could have harp lessons.  

CUE MONTAAAAAAGE! [What? I have to make my own montage?? Ah, forget it.]

• That last one was perhaps a longer A than the Q warranted, but there you have it. My VFAQ! 

              (I think that acronym might just catch on, you guys!)

Some words on the ever elusive art of practising

For those of you thinking ‘When the #*$% is Katya going to write a blog about her new practice techniques?!’ – you can now relax.

I am working with some new practice methods, and I’m going to tell you all about them! [the crowd goes wild]

Credit where credit’s due, these are not my inventions, but have been given to me as practice gifts by my teacher, and harp-goddess Deborah Henson-Conant.   

URGENT DISCLAIMER: my computer keeps auto-correcting my use of practice/practise. If any incorrect usage occurs hereafter, you can assume that it is my dick-computer-dictionary making grievous grammatical errors, to try and make me look like an IDIOT.

WARNING (who knew there’d be so much pressing admin to get out of the way before nestling down for a good practice blog?!): This blog contains slightly more niche material than the universally appealing issues of adult cycling and skunk problems addressed previously. 

and by ‘niche’ I mean this-is-really-my-life-don’t-judge-me—but-actually-I-don’t-mind-if-you-do-because-I-LOVE-my-new-practice-methods

but really, do get stuck in if you want the SERIOUS inside scoop on practice scheduling.  Don’t pretend you’re not brain-freezingly curious. 

Wow, I think I just wrote brain-freezingly because I’m drinking a delicious icy coffee as I write this.  No need to thank me for keeping you in the loop. 

For the sake of brevity, I’ll offer up my new systems in delicious mini-blog instalments.  (Hahaha ‘mini-blog’ makes me think of those delicious little chocolate swiss-roll things. I think it’s the ‘mini’ and ‘log’ elements… Mm, I could really go for one of those right now. What was I saying? Oh right, BREVITY!) 

Method #1 THE TEN COIN SYSTEM  

(I know.  Try to stay calm.)

Sooo the system is relatively self-explanatory.  But that would be a very short and boring blog if I left it there, so I’ll power on and walk you through it.  

• Put 10 coins on a chair (or, say, a table) in your practice area.  In my case, that means a tall stool, within easy reaching distance from my harp.  
• Easy reachability is crucial, and I’ll come back to the experiments that led me to this conclusion.  
• Do a bite size section of the thing that you’re working on.   
• If it goes wrong, weep uncontrollably.
• If it goes wrong, try again.  S L O W E R.  And perhaps take a smaller chunk.  
• If it goes well, sliiiiide 1 coin away from its minted friends.
• Repeat until all 10 coins have done the victory slide.
• For the hardcore (i.e. Me. … Sometimes) if the thing you’re working on goes wrong, even as far along in the game as coin #7, #8 (or even #9!!) slide em all back and start over.  Frustrating though this can be, I find it helps me to be more careful, and to take things at the pace where I can really do my best.  At the moment, I’m braving all kinds of co-ordination challenges (and those of you who know me well may remember that co-ordination is not my dearest friend) like rhythmic comping in Bossa/Swing/Bebop styles in one hand, with melodic improv in the other, singing and playing, speaking and playing (even harder! why??) and other such delights.  I’m finding these supposedly straight forward things fist-shakingly difficult (I might even stomp on my bicycle helmet just for good measure) so it makes a world of difference to go gingerly & break things down to a manageable size rather than trying to jump ahead and impress myself.  Seriously, that’s a thing.  
• A confession: I use a mixed selection of English and American coins, and I slide them along in order of size, largest to smallest.  I know this is ridiculous, but at the beginning, when I need some extra motivational oomph, sliding a big coin (50p coins go first, then 2ps, and so forth) makes my progress seem all the more satisfying.  THEN by the time I’m starting to flag, I’ve reached the little coins – this makes me feel like ‘Pah! I only have those TINY coins left! They wouldn’t even look that comical being rolled along by a Borrower! This can’t be so hard!’
• I’m just saying that’s what works for me.
• Oh, and the things I experimented with in terms of coins locations were as follows:
• Near = very good
• Far away, so that I have to do some kind of physical exercise in between each go, either something to amuse myself like a hop, or something beneficial, like a stretch, star jump or a tiny little jog = Less good.  It tickled me at first, but it makes everything that much more laborious.  And in terms of motivation and effective time-management, labour intensity is NOT the name of the game (it is The Ten Coin System – in case you have suffered a boredom induced stroke and lost track of what we’re talking about. And apparently it is a Motivation and Effective Time-Management Game.  The best kind.  Except for Guess Who.  I fucking love that game.)

And there you have it! This may seem like a paltry choice for a topic (not worth writing home about, LET ALONE blogging about) but I really have found it to be a very interesting and beneficial process.  

An invaluable piece of advice that Deborah has given me:

Make your practice program as mindless as possible (this applies to technical work, as opposed to musical decisions, before you all go nuts and burn her at the stake for practice heresy) so you can just GET ON WITH WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO without ANYTHING getting in the way.  If you’re not constantly having to make decisions about what to do next, how many times to do it & so on, you alleviate a huge amount of mental pressure, and efficient ways of learning can become automatic and easy.  

COMING SOON: 

- More AMAZING practice plans, including my adventures with a really old metronome which I now love like a brother.  

- Tales from my first show with Deborah: a national whistling champion, an acoustic rock orchestra and a man juggling lawn chairs were involved.  

- And much, MUCH more!

p.s. If I seem extra enthusiastic today, it might be because I went to the cinema last night and got way overexcited by American movie trailers that make everything look SO INCREDIBLE.  Also, it’s just my natural zest for life.

My 3-Month Jazz Intensive with Deborah Henson-Conant

 Here’s the information on a need-to-know basis:

• My name is Katya, and I’m at the beginning of a 3 month Jazz-Intensive-Study-Program with Deborah Henson-Conant, the world’s foremost electric harpist.
• She was described by the Boston Globe as ’A combination of Leonard Bernstein, Steven Tyler and Xena, the Warrior Princess.’
• This description is disturbingly accurate.
• A few years ago, I never thought I’d get the opportunity to MEET her, and yet somehow…
• I’m living in her house.
• Over 3000 miles from home
• (which is London)
• in Arlington, Massachusetts.
• I’m learning a completely new way of playing
• and I couldn’t be more excited.
• (I’m actually writing this a week in — I’ll level with you, I’ve been putting off starting this blog all week because I knew there was no way for me to avoid sounding like a real dinkus, but such is life! So I’m ploughing on.)

Stay Tuned.

(see what I mean about the dinkus?)

my new room, complete with bunkbed and harp.

Learning to Ride a Bicycle as a Grown-Up

Before I came to Arlington, I was a non-cyclist. 

Not that I never tried to learn.  I learnt as a child, and refuting the saying, like a shit elephant, I FORGOT. 

Inexplicably, every boyfriend I have ever had has tried to teach me.  Tumbles were met with stomped-on helmets and fist shaking.  One such fool - generous and patient - tried to teach me how to turn by laying his jacket on the ground:

‘So when you get to the jacket, turn left! Don’t worry, you won’t go over it!’

I went over it.

Next obstacle: a carton of juice.

‘So when you get to the carton, turn LEFT! Nono, you won’t go over it this time.’

Juice EVERYWHERE.

In want of a better obstacle, the jacket again.

Sticky, juicy, wheely jacket.

Anyway.

There’s no way to avoid the embarrassment of having to admit that you can’t ride a bike.  

However, rather than be presented as cycle-incompetent, I consider myself to be a champion of perambulation.  I can go at a fair old lick when needs be, but nothing beats a good amble.  Ambling ranks among the greatest pleasures in life.  Keeping tremendous company with Pottering and Poking About.  These activities are united by their shared emphasis on leisure-curiosity (there should be a word for this — there probably is one in German) and their mutual demand for a gentler pace than that afforded to us by our two-wheeled friend. That said,   this is really my ideal mode of transportation.  So noble.  

Slow and steady wins the race.

This doesn’t apply in your traditional race format, if said race is between someone on foot and someone on a bike.  BUT if the race is a contest to see who can listen to the most uplifting songs/instructional tapes on their iPod, have the best catch-up phone calls with family members, or scare the bejeezus out of the least drivers, then pedestrians, kiss your guns, take a bow and do a victory lap at a walking pace.

It may also be worth noting, that when on foot, there are very few happenings that can place me in physical jeopardy.  On a bicycle, however, I am subject to the whim of the elements (and the less whim-related, but no less arbitrarily cruel, bumps on the road) AND my fellow creatures of the road, in a way that makes me profoundly uncomfortable. Toddlers and dogs, though you’re the least likely to be reading this blog, you are the main culprits, so take note.

When I’m cruising in the foot-mobile, if someone cuts in front of me, I barely need to break my stroll.  On a bicycle, however, it’s a whole world of panic-braking and deals with god.  You might not guess it from my triumphant riding gait, but beneath my cool helmet & knee-elbow-ankle-wrist-padded exterior, I’m still a little anxious about the whole business. 

HOWEVER

Though this blog may seem part pathetic memoir/part diatribe, I really started it in order to recount how I actually LEARNT to ride.  So I’m going to change gear (for want of a less shaming ‘turnaround’ term) and tell you about that as well. 

 It’s easy to be a pedestrian in London, but everyone knows that America favours the driver.  Boston is pretty good in this respect – there is a great public transport setup, but I’ve yet to meet anyone like myself, who can’t drive.  And there are times when the old Strolls Royce just doesn’t cut it in this town.

The house where I’m living is slap bang on a bike path.  It couldn’t be closer, and it can take you all around town, even to the next town over. So with my pride tucked into my knee-pads, I booked myself a lesson at the Bicycle Riding School in the neighbouring town of Somerville.

The lesson was wonderful, but also quite peculiar.  It was one on one, with a really nice lady, called Susan, who used to be very rich, but spent all her money travelling to Africa over the years to work fighting female circumcision, and on peaceful protesting (it’s strange that I even know that, given the context of our encounter).  Every time I set off on the bike, she said:

 ‘Look ahead! Look towards the glorious future!’ 

 This I liked a LOT.

 Susan lives in an all vegetarian commune, in a huge house in Somerville, and I was asking her about it at the end of the lesson, and she started off by saying how great it was (they all cook each other dinners and so on), but then she started reflecting on the problems they have - dish washing, someone having a carnivore boyfriend (!) who wanted to cook SIX hamburgers (!!!) one person had a troubled childhood, so didn’t want to do communal eating, because of bad associations with mealtimes… standard bike lesson chitchat.. and then, most unexpectedly, she told me that her mother said, when she (susan) was about 35 that she’d spent all her energy on this household, instead of having a family of her own.  Yowza. Did she think it was worth it? She did not know.  Did I? I sagely pointed out that she probably wouldn’t have been able to do all her good work in Africa if she’d had a family in tow. It’s hard to say anything sagely when only your eyes aren’t protectively clothed.  But she seemed to accept this and we parted on good terms.  A successful bicycle lesson all round.   

Next: BICYCLE SCHOOL GRADUATION!

Sadly, there was no hi-vis gown or mortarboard helmet BUT there was a brilliant picnic, and a 40-minute ride with eight other beginner cyclists.  During this epic odyssey-on-wheels, I really felt like part of a group of very brave, intrepid people.  I was rolling along with people who were willing to do something a bit embarrassing, and a bit scary – maybe for fun, or for someone they loved (two people in my group were joined for the graduation ride by their partners, who couldn’t have been more excited and proud to be going on their first cycle together - seriously heart warming stuff) or just to prove something to themselves.  

Oh and I also got a certificate!

I do stand by my love of walking – I will amble the good amble again and again – but I am thrilled to have done it, to have really challenged myself, with a fantastic result (five year olds the world over probably are sharing my elation at this very moment).

 p.s.

This is an extract from an email I sent a few days ago:

 I just got back from my second TRIUMPHANT (sort of) cycle ride.  By which I mean, I cycled for about 10 minutes up and down the cycle path, but am too scared to overtake anyone so I have to stop every time I get near anyone.  So it’s a slow process, but a surprisingly satisfying one.  I don’t know whether this is a Boston thing, or a cycling thing, but when cyclists overtake, they shout ‘on your left!’ so you know they’re there.  Which I find more frightening than the approach itself. AND they don’t all do it, so it’s a flawed system in many ways.  

 HA Katya-from-the-past!  How little you knew then!

This just in: Deborah bought me a really great headlamp so now I can cycle at NIGHT!

This REALLY just in: Nighttime cycling is very scary - not only was it pitch black (apart from my headlamp, which evidently made me seem very sexy to moths everywhere) but I had to be on the look out for wandering skunks! Did I sing Funkytown to myself to the word Skunkytown? Yes, yes I did.