Sincere Compliments: The Easiest Way to Terrorize a Trumpet Player

by Drew Holmes

Bowne Theatre at Drew University was originally a gymnasium, not a performance venue. The upper level of the rectangular, two-story auditorium was ringed with what had been an oval shaped running track. This former track was used for audience balcony seating and the portion extending above the stage served as the pit for performances of musicals.

The layout was quirky from a production standpoint, but the true danger was the lack of guard rail on the upper level. When the pit was dark during performances, the only thing separating a musician from a second story fall to the stage below was a dotted line of glow-in-the-dark tape on the edge of the floor and the good sense to stay on the correct side of it.

Sophomore year I was playing the trumpet book for the musical Baby and found myself seated up in the pit just to the safe side of the dotted line. I had a fantastic view of the stage, but self-preservation was on my mind as much as musicianship.

The overture of the show features a deceptively challenging trumpet part, a fully exposed octave spanning bottom line to top space E. I had not given this part much thought, as other portions of the book were a greater challenge. Opening night, I nailed the part as usual and after the final curtain the director approached me with her daily notes.

“Drew,” she said, “I want to say what a great job you do on that opening octave! It’s probably the most important trumpet part in the whole show and I just want to thank you for always getting it right!”

“Thanks.” I weakly replied, the mask of a forced smile on my face. I now had a problem: she inadvertently got into my head and shook my confidence, guaranteeing that part would be a challenge for the remaining performances.

Why was a sincere compliment such a problem?

Brass playing is as much a mental as a physical activity, developed through extensive ear training and muscle memory. Hearing a note in your head and having the confidence to physically reproduce that sound is crucial. Any doubt in the ability to combine these mental and physical skills can have devastating consequences.

Thinking it would be a breeze I had not given the opening of the musical proper respect. Now, during the run of the show, I had my confidence shattered by the one person whose opinion mattered most. The next night my worst fears were realized. I did my best to nail the entrance as I always had, but the extra importance assigned to it by my director got the better of me.

In common parlance, I chumped it big time.

I’ve heard it said that an amateur practices until they get it right, a professional until they cannot get it wrong. I had underprepared my part by underestimating the difficulty of a seemingly innocuous entrance. Years later I would have an even more difficult entrance in a show.

Higher, more exposed, and directly following a quiet vocal solo I saw the pitfalls the moment I got my part. I practiced it in good conditions, bad conditions, and everything in between. Having learned my lesson from Baby, I practiced past the point of getting it right and assured I could not get it wrong.

That show went off without a hitch.

Music is as much a mental game as a physical activity. Controlling what we can and preparing for what we cannot is the surest way to success. Especially when you are preoccupied with avoiding a second story fall to the stage below.