Sunday morning, 10 am, Orchestra practice...
Percussion section, me, and three other girls.
It was great.... well, as great as it gets.
Me, playing the glockenspiel, hitting some notes every minute in a piece or so.
*** playing the snare drum, eniviously expertly.
*** playing the timpanis.
*** standing by the xylophone, standing there, counting the beats until, I guess until the piece finishes and we can all sit down.
And then there was a ginger kid. He was going to join our percussion section... great, we needed a drummer, who could play the drums. Unlike us, drummers who can't.
So the the staff told him to join us, and we would be lovely and look after him and give him parts to play.
We spoke English, he spoke English. And we know his name is Benedict. Or Benjamin. Or something else. Bashfully I admit to you, (I can't remember).
But the beautiful outcome was that he ended up eating cheese and onion pringles for the rest of the 4 hours in rehearsal. He didn't even produce one note. Wow, thats even worse than my first rehearsal. (Call me Corinne, Corinne the trianglist).
Oh, but then, I can't say much about him eating pringles, I ate chocolate digestives in a piece once where there was one note, which I couldn't even play at the right time, and choked in the pianissimo (very very quiet) part.
BUT, that wasn't even the worst part.
Cymbals,
loud,
sonorous,
distinctive.
And the exact instrument you should not entrust me with.
So, I was given the crash cymbal (a cymbal on a stand, usually part of the drum kit, hit with a mallet).
Well, once they found it they gave it to me.
It was already halfway through the piece when we set it up.
And I started hitting it, (to the correct beat, I must boast)
And, silence, a dramatic clean finish.
HA
And, silence, *crash* (everyone swivels around to look at the culprit) *nervous giggling*.
Yeah, even with the conductor waving for a sharp finish, I continued right through, hitting the crash cymbal with all my might. Being me, I died a little inside. Oh, how embarassing.
I nearly ate my scarf, trying to hide my face.
Percussion section, me, and three other girls.
It was great.... well, as great as it gets.
Me, playing the glockenspiel, hitting some notes every minute in a piece or so.
*** playing the snare drum, eniviously expertly.
*** playing the timpanis.
*** standing by the xylophone, standing there, counting the beats until, I guess until the piece finishes and we can all sit down.
And then there was a ginger kid. He was going to join our percussion section... great, we needed a drummer, who could play the drums. Unlike us, drummers who can't.
So the the staff told him to join us, and we would be lovely and look after him and give him parts to play.
We spoke English, he spoke English. And we know his name is Benedict. Or Benjamin. Or something else. Bashfully I admit to you, (I can't remember).
But the beautiful outcome was that he ended up eating cheese and onion pringles for the rest of the 4 hours in rehearsal. He didn't even produce one note. Wow, thats even worse than my first rehearsal. (Call me Corinne, Corinne the trianglist).
Oh, but then, I can't say much about him eating pringles, I ate chocolate digestives in a piece once where there was one note, which I couldn't even play at the right time, and choked in the pianissimo (very very quiet) part.
BUT, that wasn't even the worst part.
Cymbals,
loud,
sonorous,
distinctive.
And the exact instrument you should not entrust me with.
So, I was given the crash cymbal (a cymbal on a stand, usually part of the drum kit, hit with a mallet).
Well, once they found it they gave it to me.
It was already halfway through the piece when we set it up.
And I started hitting it, (to the correct beat, I must boast)
And, silence, a dramatic clean finish.
HA
And, silence, *crash* (everyone swivels around to look at the culprit) *nervous giggling*.
Yeah, even with the conductor waving for a sharp finish, I continued right through, hitting the crash cymbal with all my might. Being me, I died a little inside. Oh, how embarassing.
I nearly ate my scarf, trying to hide my face.
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