Wood Shedding Sound and Story

Nancy Jorgensen on the Intersection of Music and Words

7 minutes read time.

Hal, at eighty a decade older than I am, visits twice a week. Usually, late for our 10 o’clock morning sessions, he bounces into my house with a gig bag. Before he opens the case, he tells me what’s new at the Chabad, how his native American flute business is going, and where he plans to travel (Morocco. China. Washington state.)

I slide onto my Steinway’s padded bench, hoping he gets the hint. Instead, he enthuses about his son’s wedding, a new drone, the camera lens he’s eyeing.

“What should we play today?” I say.

Finally, Hal opens his gig bag, revealing a brass trumpet and several mouthpieces.

The old-fashioned word for what I am is piano accompanist. The modern word is collaborative pianist, which more accurately describes our partnership. It reminds me of the word, co-authors, that my writing partner and I use.

Hal and I begin with a sight-reading session. To sight-read literally means to read at sight—neither of us has played the piece before. It’s a chance to experiment with ideas, explore themes, and analyze voice. We may be intrigued by a mood or message; an emotion; a bit of humour; or the way a piece could grab an audience. Much like what I search for in an essay.

The Nashville word for what happens next is woodshedding. The classical word is rehearsing, but they both mean going alone to the woodshed (or home office, basement, or living room) to practice, practice, practice. Writers know the drill: find a quiet spot and work on details, zoom in with a spyglass, zoom out with a fisheye.

I woodshed music to pick apart a phrase, learn a tricky fingering, analyze harmonic structure, and incorporate expression. Although I am not creating a composition from scratch, my choices affect the final telling. Musical notes—like written words—become nuanced with accents, pauses, a change in dynamics, or a thousand other choices. Musical phrases—like word phrases—are refined with tempo, emphasis, shaping, and space.

 In music, the composer or editor shapes their message through Italian terms, tenutos, caesuras, slurs, and staccatos. With an essay, I shape my message with section headings, commas, periods, ellipses, line breaks, and white space.

Part of my musical practice, like my literary practice, is contemplation: What is the story of this piece? What imagery works for the piano part? How will my keyboard pictures fit with Hal’s trumpet sketches? How can I play each note and articulate each phrase to present this story? 

In an essay, to evoke disgust or discontent, I insert harsh consonants like k or x. At the keyboard, I experiment with force, emphasis, and dissonance. In a poem, to evoke serenity, I use euphonious words like murmur, bliss, mellow. To conjure those feelings at the piano, I explore legato phrases and cantabile style.

***

Hal returns the next week with a new gig bag. He shrugs it off his shoulder, sets it on my antique bench, flicks the latch, and pulls out a more compact, rounder-looking instrument. “I brought my cornet today. I wanna know if you like it.”

A cornet is supposed to have a warmer tone, sometimes described as romantic or nostalgic. The quality is bestowed by its conical bore—the tubing’s diameter increases from mouthpiece to bell. By contrast, the trumpet has a cylindrical bore, the tubing diameter consistent. Trumpet and Cornet are like two favourite essays, equally loved for different reasons. Or two points of view. First-person for this story, third-person for that.

Hal lifts the cornet, pop-pop-pops the keys, stretches his lips into an embouchure, and blows. His scales, quick and agile, are athletes flying up and down stadium stairs. “Gimme a B♭?” he says and then tunes to my piano.

We run the piece, me stumbling on sixteenth notes, Hal fracking a few high notes. “Do you like the cornet? Or is the trumpet better?” he says.

I have no idea because I heard little difference. The word for how I feel is thickheaded. The word for what I am is inexperienced. As a choral educator and pianist, I haven’t heard enough trumpets and cornets to distinguish subtleties.

What should I say? When I taught high school choir, my students performed workshop-style for their peers. Those who couldn’t discern gradations of pitch or correct Italian vowels often said, “I really liked it.” I consider something like that and burp up a little imposter syndrome juice.

Then, I tell the truth. “I’m sorry, Hal. I’m not sure what I should be hearing.”

I’ve had embarrassing moments like that in writers’ workshops too. When an editor referred to a technique I didn’t know. When a writer pointed out my sloppy formatting. 

When younger, I made mistakes. I still do, and the longer I write—and play—the more I botch and blunder. 

Before we stash our scores for the day, I say, “Hal, anything you want me to play different?” He dismisses my request, and I think he might be like me. His soul feeds on trumpet history, trumpet recordings, trumpet literature. Perhaps he doesn’t know enough piano to answer my question?

***

The writing and playing twins each require solitude—to research, generate ideas, make first attempts, and perfect the final product. But my favourite projects are collaborative. As a musician, I don’t have the skills or personality to be a soloist. I prefer to partner with a talented singer or instrumentalist. To become better because of their musicianship. My strategy is the same in writing. In the middle of an essay, I send my writing partner a text. Elizabeth, can you look at this? In the middle of a book, I join a writer’s workshop. In the middle of an idea drought, I register for an online class. My ignorance may be revealed, but now, my word for that is growth.

***

Hal arrives for our next rehearsal with his wife Jean. They tell me about their latest birding excursion, paddling kayaks through Wisconsin’s Horicon Marsh. They describe plans to celebrate their 52^nd anniversary cruising the Milwaukee River on a pontoon boat, Hal in the pilot’s seat.

Jean hands me a score with three lines—one for my piano, one for Hal’s trumpet, and one for her clarinet. They assemble their instruments. We begin our individual warmups, and my living room walls ricochet a mish-mash of whole notes, dotted rhythms, scales, and arpeggios. The jazz word for this is noodling. The common word is messing around.

After a few minutes, we all stop, ready to rehearse in earnest. “Nancy,” Jean says, “can you give us an A?” I press the key and we play in unison.

Again, I’m reminded of other collaborations: the books that wouldn’t exist without a writing partnership, the essays that wouldn’t be published without a daughter who edits, the ideas that wouldn’t be born without a writers’ workshop. The word for performing or writing alone is solo. The word for performing or writing with others is ensemble or collaboration. Also success, satisfaction, smasheroo.

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