The World's Hardest Bass Clarinet Solo

Gather around children, it's time for one of Cari's favorite stories, though it has somehow never been told on this blog. It's vaguely Christmas-themed and I was reminded of it today, so it's time to end that travesty.

Once upon a time, I was a bass clarinetist who took herself far too seriously, despite my best efforts. If you can't understand that sentiment, you obviously did not go to an arts high school.

I got supremely lucky at all-state auditions when I was a freshman and was awarded first chair. After that, I was undefeated in all my auditions through my junior year (okay, okay, except all-state junior year, when I came it second, but that was to my bass clarinet guru, to whose fan club I belong, who just knows that she is the best, and I beat her soundly at honor band, so we'll call it a draw). This isn't nearly as impressive as it sounds because, let's face it, I was playing bass clarinet. Going into senior year's band camp, which determined band placement and seating, I practiced maybe three times over the summer. I still scored in the 90s, so don't judge me, folks; the music was just that easy. But wouldn't you know, a clarinetist from the year before decided to switch to bass and he spent the summer getting help on his music from a couple of top-band clarinetists. He beat me by something like a point and a half. I have never been so embarrassed.

I was so embarrassed, in fact, that when the time came for reseating a couple of months later, I completely psyched myself out and had the worst audition of my life. This time I was marginally beaten by the third person in our section. Oh the pity and the judging I endured from my friends on that one, and I couldn't blame them.

Ugh, listening to myself talk like this is making me ill. Strong work giving up organized music, me.

The time came for the Christmas concert with me dejectedly sitting second chair for the second concert in a row. Our band director, Mr. Townsend, decided a few days before the concert that our program needed a little rounding out, so he added one of his favorites from his limited, joyful Christmas repertoire, this arrangement of "Twas the Night Before Christmas."

I had played this piece with Mr. Townsend before, when I was a freshman, so I knew there was a bass clarinet solo in it. For all of you non-bass clarinetists out there, bass clarinet solos are exceedingly rare. Bass clarinets are like the underappreciated tubas of the wind section so they don't get featured much. The fact that I was sitting second chair at this juncture made me want to punch a baby in the face, not because I really wanted to play a solo, but because I was not able to play the solo that, by all rights, was mine (though, of course, it wasn't).

I got even more upset when it became clear that my current section leader could not play the solo. She played the solo much like it sounds in the above clip: silently. (Go here for a better, but still lame, rendition. My bass clarinet guru, who believed that everything should be played fffff, would not approve.) Her fingers got all messed up as she worked her way down the run, so she didn't try out of fear of embarrassment. (And who can blame her, with me apparently feigning supportive sectionmate?) This annoyed me to no end because the solo is not hard. And I could play it! Hello, over here! Next door! Suffering in shame! Mr. Townsend, who was hurriedly preparing the rest of the band to play this song, didn't notice the complete lack of important run until the day of the performance, when he looked quizzically at our section, and then moved on. It was probably a smart move: he recognized that at that point all he was going to do was embarrass my section leader, and it was just a fun filler piece anyway, so he ignored it. But it frustrated me within an inch of my seventeen-year-old sanity. Up until that point, all my friends, who of course had noticed the lack of satisfactory bass clarinet goodness, had urged me to point out the flaw to Townsend, sure he would reseat then and there, which band directors frequently do in such situations. But he didn't.

That night, the time came to play "Twas the Night Before Christmas." Mr. Townsend raised his arms, and split seconds before the opening down beat, my section leader leaned over to me and said, "I can't play the solo, you do it!" "No no no," I responded, not out of humility but out of genuine fear, not having practiced said solo alone, let alone with a group, for three years. "Do it!" she said again, and I agreed.

There are not many moments between the beginning of the song and its tribute to Tchaikovsky, and I spent all of them in a tizzy. I didn't know how loud to play the solo with this group, what about timing, what about balance, if I slurred the whole thing would it sound terrible? But then the moment was upon me, and I just let it rip, thinking that I was over it being silent and too loud would be better than that had been.

I had the benefit of knowing what was coming; my friends and Mr. Townsend did not. People's eyes got huge, my flute-playing friends Nick and Philip shamelessly turned their heads around to look at me in shock, Mr. Townsend glanced over at me directly with a twinkle in his eye and a little surprised smile on his face. The solo was blaringly loud. The next day, upon hearing the recording of the concert in band class, my then-boyfriend would kindly say, "Well, you certainly played it loudly enough." The very first thing my dad said to me post-concert was, "Stealing people's solos, are we?"

Not that I was embarrassed, because I honestly wasn't. And before Christmas break, I successfully taught the little run, which would henceforth be known as the World's Hardest Bass Clarinet Solo, to Philip in about five seconds.