Musicianship

Dear readers,

theokwek and co. have arrived at the eye of the storm of the CCTs, and he follows up with an essay (upon the urging of Jon Shin and John Lee) about musicianship. Anyway, before we go on with the essay, theokwek heard a lame joke (or a series of lame jokes) in class recently. It goes like this.

Have you heard about the constipated joke? ---- It never came out
Have you heard about the nighttime joke? ------ I'll keep you in the dark about it
Have you heard about the pencil joke?---------- It doesn't have a point

Lame right? OK here's the essay. Gd luck everyone for CCTs or SAs or whatever the school chooses to call it :)

The Examined Straight Times Editor

MUSICIANSHIP

“So, Theophilus, you do the violin?”

It was a question that I’d been asked countless times over the past ten years of my life as a musician, which has seen a growing awareness of who I am both as a person and as a violinist. Yet when my friend, a sturdy judo-ka the same age as me posed me the query a few days ago, I was taken aback.

Of course, I replied in the affirmative, but the question set me thinking. What is a violinist? What is a musician? Is he simply one who “does the violin”? Is he simply one who composes? Practices two hours a day? Joins a music CCA? Wins international competitions? Is musicianship – if there is such as word – defined by what instrument you happen to carry within that bulky black case swinging against your knees, or is it a set of values, a set of ideals, and a set of personality traits that musicians share? Is there, then, a perfect musician who possesses “all of the above”?

Glancing at my friend as I ponder this question, he seems to my untrained eye the specimen of a perfect martial arts specialist. Tall – in any case, taller than most of his peers – and with broad shoulders coupled to a perpetually smiling face, he seems to be the very personification of quiet strength, yet his eyes sparkle with a cunning and shrewdness that his grinning image is but the calm before the storm.

What about me, then, or the musician friends that I see around me? We differ greatly in physical stature because our activity is not strictly physical – agile violinists, Atlas-like double-bassists, muscular trumpeters; and the difference is equally evident in terms of character – some are effusive, some introspective, some confident, some modest. Our attempt at capturing the essence of musicianship seems futile.

But I tend to think that musicians should – ideally – possess a set of principles that are taught him by the music and through the music, that are slowly ingrained from young and manifested not just in music-making but also in daily life. One – even the musical laymen – should be able to observe a cellist for five minutes and ask with confidence: “Who’s your teacher?”

Well for starters, I think one of these aspects is a sense of order and perfection. In my study of music one of the things I’ve realized is that beauty stems from creativity in the midst of order. That’s how a conventional three-movement concerto – take Bruch’s Violin Concerto for example – using the natural scale can effect such profound awe on a listener. That’s how Bach’s Prelude and Fugues, with their complex polyphony, can still inspire despite stifling Baroque structure. Personally, this is one of the reasons why rock music, with its seeming disorder, doesn’t strike a chord with me, but then again, all musicians have their preferences. By right, this sense of order should come through in our lives with a meticulous attitude towards anything we do. So many of us musicians fail here, don’t we?

Another key characteristic of musicians is a sense of beauty and art. Whether this is inborn or from years of unwavering guidance I cannot say, but all musicians should have a taste for That which is pleasing to the ear, eye and soul. As countless great masters have exclaimed over the centuries, music is an international language. A Chinese border song, transcribed for the Italian violin, can be appreciated by listeners worldwide. Symphonies – up to a hundred and more of them – written centuries ago by a humorous bankrupt are played today by school orchestras. Whether we are from Atlantis, El Dorado or Timbuktu, we, as musicians, should be able to listen to the simplest tune and enjoy it.

Lastly, but most importantly, all musicians should enjoy music. Now this may seem redundant, but the reader would be surprised at how many who play instruments actually detest the music – I, too, used to be a firm enemy of practice and performing of any sort. Music, that gift of God to us, can only be produced to its fullest when enjoyed. The enjoyment of music has its roots in the ability to communicate with it, for only when we have mastered a language can we understand its proverbs, idioms and sayings. Similarly, when we have learnt the skills of the instrument, we should focus on enjoying it and bringing it to a higher level. Without this crucial factor, music is nothing more than a distinction on your ABRSM report card, or a performance or two at the High Scorers Concert. The music, without enjoyment, is dead.

Through the ages, I doubt that any mortal has fully achieved the above qualities of musician; in other words, there is no Hercules of music: every musician has his Achilles’ heel. Human laziness veers us from order, allows us to forget how to appreciate every piece of art, and sometimes, takes the oomph out of the music by killing our interest and love for it. But as musicians, we do our best.

Dear reader, are you a musician?

Failure

Dear readers,

Contrary to expectations, theokwek stuns all with this introspective and regretful piece - failure. Inspired too by a very true story of himself.

The Straight Times Editor

FAILURE

Weariness. Exhaustion. Shock. Regret.

A maelstrom of emotions flooded his empty heart as he stood, stock still, in the centre of the competition hall. Shoulders hunched, bow arm drooping to a side, violin swinging listlessly in the careless grip of his other hand.

His mind was anything but still as he replayed every action of the past ten minutes. He saw, clear as day, the brilliant introductory passage that had quelled the audience and stifled astonished gasps. He saw his fingers tapping the ebony in such pristine accuracy that he once imagined even the great master Heifetz would be proud of. He saw his bow flickering precisely across the strings, sending waves of sound and emotion scurrying across those lifeless metal wires.

But then, something had happened. He wasn’t sure what. Maybe his thousand-dollar carbon-fiber bow had skipped a crucial beat. Maybe his weathered, leathery fingers had slipped on the sweaty wood, flinging that climatic high G into oblivion. Maybe the lucky chain he wore around his neck had lost its power and sent his skill down the drain, into the realms of the unfortunate.

Whichever it was, he had made a mistake. And the selfish perfectionist that he had built himself up to be over the past three months revealed its ugly side, biting down on that accidental glitch with the vehemence of a double-crossed python.

How could he forgive himself, for after those months of sweat, work and tears he was giving up his one chance at glory by making a hitch in what he had dreamt was to be a flawless recital. Anger, hate and malevolent revenge spilled out through his fingers and flew from his relentless fingers like pebbles from David’s slingshot, wounding both the audience’s auditory faculties and his own self-image with a flurry of harsh tones.

Now, even as he stood in the stunned silence of the hall, in front of an audience that didn’t know whether to marvel at his technique or to despise his hot-tempered rendition of the most delicate piece in the history of violin repertoire, those angry sounds that he had made himself haunted him, inflicting on his already throbbing heart the pain and tears of failure, of loss and of tragedy.

The footsteps of his accompanist echoed flatly in the hall as the older man paced austerely off the stage. He recoiled inwardly at the last words that the angered pianist had hissed: “You didn’t play to your full potential. Totally. All that hard work. Gone with the wind.” Those bitter, bitter words; words that sliced deep wounds in his bleeding heart, words that whittled away the last miserable shreds of his self-esteem.

The remnants of his broken heart fell a thousand miles, flung downwards through the valley of depression and longing, and left behind a trembling violinist on-stage, cursing himself for his inability to forgive a very special person for the tiniest of mistakes.

Himself.

If my eyesight were to fail me

Dear Readers.
Poignantly inspired by a true story (himself), theokwek sends us a sad poem after a visit to the optician. you can ask him for the eye test result if you want - but i personally think it's clear enough in the poem below.
"I once was blind, but now I see"
The Sad Straight Times Editor

If my eyesight were to fail me

If my eyesight were to fail me,
Which it might, someday,
Then I wouldn’t be able to

Stay up late in my cozy room
Watching the starry skies
Or give my very best friends
All their deserved high fives

If my eyesight were to fail me,
Which it could, actually,
Then I wouldn’t be able to

Read those magnanimous words
That stem from creativity’s abode
Or interpret those jots on the five-lined staves
Into the tunes they really encode

If my eyesight were to fail me,
Which it can, any moment,
Then I wouldn’t be able to

Plunge deep in the seven rainbow oceans
Peeking at the coral display
Or hike to catch the sun rising
And feel her every ray

If my eyesight were to fail me,
Which it will, soon enough,
Then I wouldn’t be able to

Laugh with the joy I had before of
Seeing a day’s hard work
Or weep with the agony I can already feel of
Seeing only the shadows’ lurk

Not the Best Man

Dear readers,

here is a poem, in addition to the essay below (please read this), that theokwek has sent to make up for his prolonged silence when he was AWOL on holiday. he sent this poem in for a competition, but was underaged and couldn't take part even though the judge said he had 'great talent'. well here it is anyway.

P.S. theokwek welcomes requests for essays and poems under the category of music

The Straight Times Editor

Not the Best Man

At the conductor’s cue
The thin tendrils
Of Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony
Curled towards the ceiling

Second violinist

He glanced up
At the glaring spotlights
That cast eerie shadows
Working their music
All over the waxed
Floor

He glanced
Further
Into the darkened hall
Beyond
It was dark
Save
For one face

He glimpsed
Right in the centre
Of the thronging crowd
That familiar face

It was a female face,
Petite, pleasing, pretty
Framed with curls
And adorned
With chocolate-drop eyes
That brought strange
Emotion
And
Excitement
To the symphony

A face
He’d seen before
Whenever the orchestra played
She was there
Listening intently to rehearsals
That crept deep into the night
Cheering wildly at performances
That charmed the hearts of many
Stopping in her tracks
When they busked for leisure
And dropping that rare dollar-bill
Into empty violin-cases

He looked at that face
That familiar face
Curls, cherry-red lips
And all

But then
As his heart
Trembled
At the sight

He looked up again

The conductor
Struck a majestic pose
Baton upraised

The concertmaster
Led with violin poised
Gifted to the core

Last of all
He looked into his heart
Cold, forsaken, humblest of souls

And the realized
In that split-second
Of love
And
Of depression

That he
Was not
Could never be

The Best Man

The Violinist

Headline news: yesterday, theKwek sent another mysterious letter to the postbox of The Straits Times. Editors were pleasantly surprised to find an essay about a strange wooden instrument with four wires and a bow. This may provide valuable insight to theKwek's pastime...

The Violinist

His gelled-to-perfection, jet-black hair stood firm against the persistent gusts of moist wind that threatened to sweep it into disorder as he stepped lightly off the sleek sedan, violin case in hand. Memories avalanched before his eyes as he remembered another rainy day fifteen years ago, when as a boy of nine he’d given his first solo recital, right here in this hall.
Striding down the hallway with escorts tailing behind him, wisps of his own words came back to him: “When will I be playing?” “Can I take off this jacket now?” “This hall is bigger than our house!” Words… those same words that he had blurted as a child, those naïve snippets of conversations that had taken place under this very roof, a blend of childhood ignorance and the thrill of the stage.
His medley of thoughts continued as ushers respectfully whisked him towards the concert hall, footsteps falling in sync with the rhythmic pitter-patter of raindrops on the corridor’s stained glass bay windows. What irony, he reflected, to be invited to a stage that he had grown up on. As a child, teenager and youth he had explored the mysterious backstage, toyed with the lighting effects and experimented with the acoustics. In all the years of his life in music this was his school and second home, welcoming him to spread the joys and pangs of a boy’s growing-up years to the loftiest rafters of the hall through his evocative music.
In one lucid motion he unzipped the violin case – an action by now practiced to perfection – and lifted his Stradivarius out from its velvet blankets. Fondly, he plucked at the strings and clipped on a top-quality shoulder rest. This was his one and only true friend, with whom he had gone on countless long dialogues, he supplying the skill and the instrument supplying the sound. Never was there a friend more trustworthy or an advisor who provided better counsel. His violin was his all.
Cradling his violin, he stepped onto the stage, noting in his last moments backstage the humdrum tapping of the rain upon the skylights. From the dimly-lit steps he burst into the full glare of the stage lights, his well-rehearsed entry accompanied by a burst of ground-shaking applause from the appreciative audience. He winked at the conductor, an old family friend, who grinned and signaled to the orchestra members. The orchestra then lifted their instruments and the conductor his baton, ready to fulfill the violinist’s musical demands.
He, too, lifted his violin, met the eyes of the audience with a soul-searching look and leapt into the music.
The music poured from his fingers, perfectly in time with his orchestral backdrop, and instantly he was at home. His eyes flitted about the hall – those pillars, reminiscent of Greek architecture; that specially built roof, which reflected every single note of his to the ears of the audience; those stage steps, over which, as a boy he had tripped countless times. He could feel the hall coming alive in his music, the hearts of the audience beating as one with his, the very same emotions the composer felt when he penned the magnum opus resonating in the silence of the night.
He knew, he saw explicitly, the clarity of life abounding from his playing. It was different – different from all the times he had performed here as a child, all the times that with childish pride he had exercised his fingers to wow the crowds, all the times that he had had the orchestra at his beck and call, or received the bouquets from the stage girls. Then, the music was missing its essence – the life in the music was absent. He knew the notes well, yes, he had memorized every jot and titter on the score, yes, but all he had done was to flaunt his skills to judges, critics and fans. Those had earned him diplomas, scholarships, prizes and trophies, but failed to deliver his spirit. Now, though, he could sense the music living in him, and spilling from him, pounding with relentless rhythm, at times heartbroken, at times ecstatic, but forever captivating.
Still, his heart felt it was lacking in something. The life was there, tunefully illustrating the melodies that the notes sketched out, but something else, elusive and vague, was missing. What… what was it? What was that missing element, without which his music was still incomplete?
Slowly, though, the music gripped him once more, smothering the unsolved mystery under the blankets of the dynamic, contrasting and colorful buildup towards the peak of the masterpiece. Running notes, marvelous ascending sequences, accelerating tempo, and widening bow strokes signaled his approach to a climactic end. By now sweat flew from his brow, his fingers ached from arching and sliding over each accurately shaped note, and a few strands of the horsehair on his bow had given way to his rapturous playing, yet he pressed on. Five bars to the end… Four bars… Now three… Then two…
The last fortissimo notes erupted from his violin; reverberating and powerful, illuminating the stunned awe of the audience. Silence surrendered to waves of tumultuous applause; applause so addictive and thirst-quenching, his hard-earned reward.
Yet, defying custom, his mind dwelt not upon the ovation. It was as if those last notes had triggered once more the long-forgotten synapses in dark memory banks, jettisoning him from the clapping of the present, further and further backwards through the maze-like paths of time….
He saw himself, yes, himself, as a slender schoolboy of five, pouting obstinately on the lavishly carpeted floor outside his mother’s classroom. His mother was the renowned virtuoso Li Qingyun, widely acclaimed throughout the musical world as devoted instructor, highly-experienced violinist and doting mother. His future seemed bright, but somehow, Mother’s multiple roles didn’t quite seem to click.
Those same quavering last notes, as if played back through the years, floated through the mahogany double doors to the child outside. The violinist of nineteen years later furiously racked his brains, seeking a clue to his childhood agony and perhaps the solution to the mystery of what element of his music was lacking. Was it a lack of skill? Or was it a lack of strength?
The magical inspiration of those special notes, soldered with anguished frustration and a child’s pure, innocuous perspective, created a rare window of understanding for him to glimpse, for once, his heart’s genuine desire – a mother’s love and attention. Since his tender childhood, while others sampled the joys of home-cooked delicacies, he received a hotel chef’s fare. While others were being piggybacked outdoors by market-going mothers to meet new friends, he was grounded daily by a foreign nanny. While others heard nightly dosages of fascinating bedtime stories, he could only envision such fantasies in listless daydreams.
Suddenly, he saw as well something that clicked in his heart – the real reason behind all these years of his musical pursuits. That child that was him all those years ago knew there was only one avenue to fulfill his heart-rending longing. How else could the boy earn a fraction of his world-famous mother’s time, unless he embarked on a musical quest to regain that quality time which had been robbed from him?
While reveling in the prolonged applause in his half-bowed poise on stage, he followed earnestly his own tuneless journey of pride and fame; holding tightly that spark of music that recreated those bittersweet childhood scenes.
He saw how he began intensive lessons with his mother from that immature age, and how his violin, only quarter-sized at that time, grew to become his sole pastime, heartlessly depriving him of both meals and sleep. His mission impossible was aimed at the goal of equaling and exceeding Mother’s superhuman results, to excel in the only realm that she could ever show passion in, and to leap, at long last, into her rewarding embrace.
To fight with heart, soul, mind and strength in order to have a true, loving Mother.
In those nineteen years since that fateful day listening intently to his mother’s lessons, his well-honed talents have crowned him with international trophies, bagged him numerous qualifications, scored countless distinctions and made him the object of strife between rival musical factions, who so wished to be able to show off for themselves such a promising, musically-inclined youth.
But alas! The quality time that he craved with his mother continued to elude him, as he garnered the painful realization that there was forever someone who outdid him, crushing his hopes to be, for once, the apple of his mother’s eye. His childhood dreams – to enjoy unbreakable mother-son bonds – were dashed upon the cruel boulders of his mother’s maniacal schedule and expectations.
Slowly he withdrew from those point-blank rebuttals to his search for love and acceptance, cocooning himself within the emotional depths of his outstanding virtuosity. Whatever Mother failed to deliver in her unceasing obsession with her music, he would compensate for it with the temporary pleasure from the appreciation and applause for his own life-infused melodies. Layer after layer of resilience had soothed his open wound, but with such a piercing memory, his heart throbbed, his vision blurred and on that prestigious stage, the great musician’s frame shook ever so slightly with inconsolable sobs.
Melting back into the jubilant present, shaking away all his unwanted, poignant memories, he looked fully into the glaring cameras, standing audience, and lusty cheers. Sweat, mingled with tears, trickled down his cheeks and splotched on his spotless tuxedo, a confirmation of his exhaustive performance. The exuberance of the moment, borne on the wings of a satisfying ovation, reached once more deep into his heart, as it did after every performance, and cast aside his depraved and sorrowful spirit.
He lived for this moment.
(1,627 words)