Falling in Love Again

She asked if I wanted to play. I thought it would be fun. So I said yes. And that's what brought me back.

When it arrived I opened it tentatively, and ran my finger across the now dulled nickel, and wondered if I had polished it often, would it shine like it did when it was new. I pulled each part out to inspect the wood, and its familiarity came back. It had been a while but I remember how my fingers were to sit on it. Apprehensively, I remembered the hours and hours adjusting tone, and embouchure, and fine tuning positions. I popped a reed in some water, and after some soaking, put it on the bocal. The sound was horrendous! I don't remember this. I tinkered and pulled and twisted, and looked down the bore, wondering if anything was hindering the sound. I did this for two days, and my spirits quickly plummeted. Was this what I was going to be playing in almost two weeks? The embarrassment alone would kill me! I tinkered some more. Finally I searched online and ordered some new reeds. Different choices, some were supposed to be the best manufactured, blah blah blah. They all say the same thing.

I ran into an obscure website. Not as professional as some, but it made an interesting claim. Additionally, this reed was hand-made. I ordered it up, along with some accessories, and hit the order button, hoping it would get here, not in time for the concert, but for me to get adjusted to it. I recalled breaking reeds in after about 2-3 sessions of 2 hrs rehearsals. The other pro reeds arrived in their snazzy padded cases, and I popped one after another on and still the sound just didn't have it. Juvenile squawk! Some thing out of a pre-beginning band. What was going on!! Weren't these $15 dollar reeds? My mouth felt somewhat familiar on the cane, and my lips went where they were supposed to, but the sound was just so ... mediocre. I dreaded the thought of plowing through several hours of rehearsing with THIS! Argh!

I had almost given up hope, and temporarily distracted by work. But that morning, one of the secretary's called the office with the announcement, you've got a package in the Augusta office ... from England. Simple, matter of fact. Hmmm. How surprising that it had gotten here so soon ... oh, yeah, we're on the East Coast now! 3100 miles from California!

But to look at this unassuming piece of cardboard was somewhat unusual. It was packed simply in a paper towel and taped together! Odd indeed. Completely home made! Amused, but not knowing what to think, I read the included slip. In it were instructions as if I had gotten a new puppy. Dr. Downing really took this seriously, you could tell the care placed on this mouthpiece. I looked closely at the thread and design, and it looked beautiful. The colors were, though not quite garish, still outspoken, not really brilliant, but completely different than any other reeds I had used. She had put together the reed by hand and the care was apparent: one reed at a time. There was a little special artistic charm in its appearance. If the other reeds were black suits with white shirts and spiffy ties, (especially the Heckel, which is synonymous with quality in terms of this instrument) then this reed from England was like a flamboyant sundress in the middle of a black tie event! At least it looked pretty.

But the image belied its value. After soaking it for 5 minutes as instructed, I firmly placed it on the bocal. Without any fanfare or pretense, the sound that came from that bassoon was so magical and warm and heavenly. It was just like I was twelve years old again, hearing the bassoon for the first time in an old run-down music room. The tone was full and husky, with languorous deep tones of the lower register, and the hypnotic singing tenor in the upper register. Without any effort, it was as if it was a new bassoon all together. What days before seemed as labored and tiring was now effortless and inviting. I played and played and played and time seemed to stop the way it does when a furtive glance catches the eye of a muse, and I wondered how this bassoon could have been left unused. I fell in love with its sound all over again. Not the kind of appreciation that is learned from something introduced by your parents or friends or advertised on TV. See, when I fell in love with the bassoon decades ago, I didn't even know its name, and I felt like I was the sole discoverer of this beautiful, magical, sound. No one else around knew what it was. And here I was, hearing it just like that first time and I was captured under it's spell all over again.