21 Aug 11

Her name is Irene, and she’s a monster.

In meteorological terms.  Though actually she’s not—at this point, she’s “only” a tropical storm, with winds of 50 miles per hour, headed west-northwest at twenty miles per hour, and with the coordinates of 17.5 and 63.8.  (We are 18.3 and 66.0.)

This data, unlike last week, I am not making up.

Schools are closed tomorrow, the government is officially not working (as opposed to functionally not working, which we’ve all come to expect), and shelters are opening across the island.  The worry is that the storm may be intensifying—has indeed intensified in a short time—and is over very warm Caribbean waters.  Conditions, therefore, are favorable for development; the National Hurricane Center will issue more information and coordinates in half an hour.

And what, you vast horde of blog readers daily awaiting my droppings, does this have to do with the cello?

Not a thing.

Oh, except that my palms are sweaty, my mouth is dry, my stomach is unsettled, and I am drinking too much coffee.

Gee, am I supposed to be doing an audition today?

‘Cause that’s how it was, all those days when I woke up and immediately thought, ‘oh shit, it’s today!’  And then went into a glacial downward spiral.  Taking the cab to the audition.  Checking in.  Seeing the other guys talking, joking, warming up. 

And waiting, endlessly waiting.  The auditions are called for ten, but first the violinists are heard, then the violists.  Cellists are next.

And the judges decide to break for lunch.  It will be two before I’m heard.

I am number four of five.  Five guys for whom I have, frankly, no respect.  I’ve heard them play, I’ve played gigs with them, I could and do play rings around them.

Not a problem, right?

Wrong.  Notice that I said five guys, above—shouldn’t that be four guys, including me?

No, because I, the fifth guy, have lost all self-respect as well, as have the other four for me. 

Because I choke.

Not that I have a word for this—choke—since, in the mid 90’s, when I was doing my auditioning, either the word hadn’t been popularized, or I was off in Puerto Rico, where internet and libraries didn’t exist.  (The libraries still don’t…)

What I thought I had was stage-fright, but that didn’t help much.

I darkly suspected it was a character flaw—a weakness in me that could be, had to be, attacked with sheer, implacable determination.  It had to be weeded out.  More practice.  Meditation.  Focus.  Concentrate on the bow, on the string, on the mechanics of playing. 

Technique!

A little silly, I would think, because I was prepared.  Jesus, was I prepared.  I had practiced the orchestral excerpts fiendishly—I had memorized the entire cello part for Don Juan—Strauss, and the sixth page is, every cellist admits, unplayable.  Nor does it really matter—since the orchestra is going wild anyway, and you could play variation of Tea for Two without anyone really noticing.

But I knew it cold.  I knew the opening movement of the Dvorak Concerto cold.  I had practiced for hours on end.

Alone.

Now, as I read the book Choke, I see where I went all wrong.

First, it’s an irony but true—the highest performers are most susceptible to choking.

Strike one.

Second, we were all victims of “icing”—being made to wait when we were psychologically ready to play.

Strike two.

Third, the last thing that a cellist, or any athlete should do is focus on technique.  I knew, intuitively, at the time that it made no sense.  How can you pinpoint the intricate, delicate working of so many minute muscles and movements without fatally stumbling over yourself?  It’s called in sports paralysis by analysis and it’s…

Strike three.

There were other things as well—a recurrent, at times fulminating, depression, which I stupidly didn’t recognize or want to treat.  (Wasn’t I an old psychiatric nurse?  Shouldn’t I have known?)  This led to constant rumination, and overall worry, which is…

Strike four.

It should be clear now, that I’m out.  What I cannot tell you, good with words that I might be, was what that “out” sounded like, there behind the curtain of the stage (the curtain  there to “eliminate” the possibility of the judges seeing us and voting preferentially for one of us.)

For it wasn’t an under-performance.  That could have been acceptable, written off to stress, nerves.  It was a sonic train wreck—scratching, poor intonation, shaky tone.  Sounds, in short, that I hadn’t made since I was a fifth grader, learning the rudiments of the instrument.

And it led to emotional devastation.

The day my mother called to say my father had died?

The day my mother herself died, as I watched by her bedside?

Those were nothing, compared to the deadening feeling of catching another cab, going home to Raf and my friends, and reporting that….

….I had failed again.