 The verdict is in. I have officially put in all I am willing to input for a blank to become a functioning, stage ready reed. We all have our breaking point, and sometimes the product just isn't worth the resources. For your reference, here are a few examples of ones that are "worth it" in my mind - asymmetry that responds to a single scrape (image one) - and ones that aren't - persistent sideslipping (image two) and separated blades (image three).
After another one or two sessions on each reed, adjusting according to my priorities: 1. RESPONSE 2. INTONATION 3. FLEXIBILITY 4. TONE I subjected each reed to my final checklist:  As you can see, 13/15 constitutes a passing score for me - generally suitable for other humans to hear. This is a B+ reed that is functional for the average situation. If a reed is destined for the stage, it must (MUST) score a 100% and sound beautiful. Here are the scores for the remaining blanks from each batch: Seam Aligned "Side" Wire Placement: - 13 - 10 - 8 - 7 - 2... yikes Standard Wire Placement: - 12 - 13 - 14 - and... two 15s! The bright blue wrapped, standard wire placement formed unicorn made its stage debut on my fall faculty recital, and its rainbow wrapped compatriot hopped in the mail to a student of mine to live on through the Iowa All State audition process. Hear one of theme in this teaser of the lovely second movement of Jenni Brandon's Colored Stones, then check out the full recital through the link above! Much like some reeds being potential products that are not worth the process, I find myself reflecting on methods in the same manner, and with this set of cane, in these circumstances, for these purposes I think I will be leaving my formation process just as it is. ... until the next experiment comes along.
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 After an exceptionally long covid-driven "curing period," nine* of the original blanks made to compare seam aligned wires with traditional top-bottom wire placement have made it to my practice box, and the results are fascinating. *RIP bright blue seam aligned, a hapless victim of knocking my phone off the filing cabinet. A truly senseless crime. In the interest of full disclosure, I opened all of these reeds early in the Pandemic Blankapalooza, played all of them for 30-45 minutes, then stuffed them in a box and moved them a mile into the air with my relocation from Iowa to Colorado. The good news is that all underwent the same change. The bad news is that results are also at least partially the result of clipped blank babies moving to altitude. After almost three months of timeout, all underwent my second scrape process, which looks a little something like this: After this, the blanks sat for another couple of days, each receiving a scale or two play time to help navigate last weeks snow (!!) and get us back to something that looks like the end of summer in terms of both heat and humidity. Last night, each received a basic balancing scrape based on visual assessment and crow. Then came this morning... Traditional Top-Bottom Wire Twists
Experimental Seam-Aligned Wire Twists
Pull yourself together, side wires. Look at that asymmetry! Then I played them, standard three octave C Major with triads:
While a bit stiffer than I am accustomed to with sea level fresh clips and a reasonable, non-covid amount of time between first and second scrapes, the traditional twist reeds felt predictable and fairly consistent across registers, and you can hear the similarity between options. The seam aligned wire experiments, though, varied wildly. As I anticipated from the warped apertures, they felt awfully stuffy and limited, though the wider throat, as pictured in the original post, kept the pitch very low - definitely far too low for poor Number Two of the pack. But was the collapse all in my head? The seam alignment *should* keep things open enough for higher air volume, right? Was the volume at the sacrifice of structure? To the measurements once more:
Indeed, not all in my head. The sensitivity on the lower end of the spectrum will come with final tip finishing, so I am not concerned with that. What's up with that collapsing on the upper end for all the side wires, though? Certainly not what I would hope for, but not outside the realm of adjustability. These wire placements simply prioritized opposite ends of my stability-flexibility spectrum:  !!So, the plan...
For the Traditional Top-Bottom Wire Twists:
For the Experimental Side Wire Twists:
Part Four the Final coming soon!  After much ado, I have returned to the blogosphere to document a recent reed making experiment inspired by my friends in Blankapalooza 2020 and a series of photographs by my former sectionmate and bassoon whiz, Jacob Darrow. If successful, a very minor change in blank formation could greatly reduce or (*gasp?*) potentially eliminate the need for blade imbalance corrections after the initial scrape. Too good to be true? Let's see. The Hypothesis: Uneven blade pressure, even slight, causes one blade to be more peaked than the other, which can lead to a host of issues -
The double blades of bassoon reeds are acted upon by unequal forces and torques based on the method by which we assemble blanks - first and second wires twisted in opposite directions, pulling one blade inward then counteracting with an opposing pull. This is the classic wire placement. But what if the blades were acted upon with force instead to the sides? In theory, this would create balancing forces in a lateral "shifting" manner rather than directly upon the spine in a "squishing" manner. What if we eliminated the doing and undoing of uneven blade pressure during formation? I thus hypothesized that placing wire twists along the seam of the reed as opposed to the spine can eliminate chronic side slipping, reduce asymmetry, and increase air volume through the throat.
PART ONE - FORMING The Method: For this experiment, I used 14 pieces of cane from the same tube batch order; gouged, shaped, and profiled with the same instruments on the same day; dried and soaked matching times in the same humidor and water container, respectively; and formed in the same one hour sitting with the same tools and measurements. For my formation process, check out the "Resources" and "Documents" tabs in the menu above. I was surprised in the initial formation that the seam-aligned approach saved me time, roughly four seconds per blank. This makes sense in hindsight, as it takes an extra tug or two for the slack in the standard placement method to make sure the full wire is flush with the newly rounded tube, rather than when pulling parallel to the oblong throat. This seems small, but a few seconds per blank adds up before long.
The Observations: Forming with my traditional method felt more comfortable but, as seen above, was a hair slower. As you take a look through the comparison photos below, you'll see a few observations: 1. Contrary to my hypothesis, it was easier to over-tighten the seam-aligned wires. I affectionately call these my muffin top reeds.
2. My hypothesis appears incorrect yet again in the constriction of the throat. The extra tug to round the tube fully via the second wire during forming appears to have consistently maintained the inner volume of the throat that fits so well with my beefy 201 and general approach to all things musical.
3. Since I like the vibrant and live-wire experience of a brand new reed, I have no qualms about opening them immediately. You can see a continuation of the throat volume into a wider tip aperture. Score one for the seam-aligned, though, the blanks are more symmetrical across all four tip quadrants than my wild child standard tips. This is the only part of my hypothesis projecting accuracy.
PART TWO - SCRAPING The Method: All 14 blanks were dried overnight again, per my usual process, then I put in the thumbnail and tip, blending uniformly through the channels across the full batch. Regardless of experimentation, I complete identical first scrapes to all reeds, with the goal to be to define the front third of the reed and scrape the tip to within 0.1mm of my final goal thickness. With the profiler settings I use, this requires only a single scrape session and involves taking off less than 50% of the profiled tip thickness. After the "stock" tip and blending, I rested the blanks overnight in a humidor then gave what I referred to as a "good faith scrape" to tend to what each reed needed to fundamentally clear basic response and intonation variables before setting them aside to dedicate a specialized finishing scrape session to each. The Observations: All this began with a crow...
As you might imagine, the flatter shape of the seam-aligned wires yielded an initially low crow and easy response, while my first sounds on the standard-wired system sounded all too familiar. In conclusion, however, both crowed in the realm of acceptable. Sidebar - it is important for us to not allow either hope for a new method or comfort in an old one to guide our tests. Don't play better on the ones you want to sound good. This is true for reeds you wrap really pretty, too More on that later, I am sure, but the purpose of that note here is to acknowledge that I dig the idea of something new and immediately responsive helping both my students and myself, so I inserted a few "blind" crows, where I crowed the reed without looking at or touching the wires to have an expectation for their performance. Aside from poking myself on fresh wire clippings, nothing surprising happened, and they performed similarly down the rack and received the same tips. After two days' rest - happy weekend, everyone - I soaked and only made minor aperture adjustments to test the playability via a few stolen guitar waltzes, and what interesting surprises awaited me...
Yikes. The two racks now perform... opposite? The standard wire placement reeds have brightened and retained a large portion of their flexibility, and the seam-aligned reeds have completely seized. You can hear that both from the left column are bright, flat, and loud, the typical traits of a less aggressively tapered system that *should* have been set up moreso by the oblong second wires of the seam-aligned process. The right columned reeds are stuffy, sharp, and causing all sorts of neck veins to pop out as I play, which is not only glamorous but also, honestly, very unexpected. A twist! A cliffhanger! Perhaps all three facets of my hypothesis are wrong! Stay tuned for the next round, coming soon... PART THREE - FINISHING Thoughtful holiday gifts for bassoonists can be tricky! How do you best support your bassoon-crazed loved one and give them a gift they actually want? As much as I have a soft spot in my heart for gifts such as these...
... here is a quick shopping guide for items that your favorite bassoonist would be truly excited to receive. Happy shopping! On a budget? |
 | Physical: Complete at least one Olympic distance triathlon, tentatively scheduled for Des Moines Triathlon (September) with a possible early bird Accel Triathlon (July). |
 | Intellectual: Read the following ten books:
|
 | Professional: Blog monthly. Thanks for reading January's! |
 | Musical: Listen to one new artist or composition every week, not required to be classical or instrumental. (As I write, I am listening to Martinu's Nonette, though… cool stuff!) |
And yes, I will try to practice my scales, too.
The following post is dedicated to delayed reactions, repeated efforts, and times of percolation.
After a concentrated experiment to kick off the new semester, this return from my blog hiatus also marks a confident return to a practice routine. I was first introduced to the Pomodoro Technique by my colleague Dr. Brent Weber during our time together at the University of Georgia, and since then I have wrestled with an approach that made logical sense but never seemed to work for me.
In summary, the Pomodoro Technique works as follows:
After a concentrated experiment to kick off the new semester, this return from my blog hiatus also marks a confident return to a practice routine. I was first introduced to the Pomodoro Technique by my colleague Dr. Brent Weber during our time together at the University of Georgia, and since then I have wrestled with an approach that made logical sense but never seemed to work for me.
In summary, the Pomodoro Technique works as follows:
Video and more information available at pomodorotechnique.com.
You have a project or series of tasks, you divide them into digestible units, you work for a set amount of time on each unit, you break up the monotony with strategic short and long breaks, and you win. Makes sense, right?
For years of my on-again-off-again relationship with pomodoros, however, we could just never see eye to eye.
For years of my on-again-off-again relationship with pomodoros, however, we could just never see eye to eye.
Until 2015 Cayla: "Pomodoros - good in theory, terrible in practice."
I encountered a series of difficulties that may seem familiar for anyone attempting to create successful practice result and time goals:
My growing experience in pedagogy helped solve the first two, and delving into mindfulness and psychology research helped with the second two, but the last one still eluded me. I was terribly bored. All the time.
So what if I tried techniques from other things that used to bore me? I turned to running, one of my favorite mind-numbingly-boring physical exercises, and the epiphany I had been seeking for years hit me square in the face. When I started getting bored running, I found ways to change my scenery more frequently. What if, instead of one passage for 25% of a practice session, I did one measure at a time for 5-10%?
One week ago, I attacked this with gusto. I photocopied all of the music I needed to perform in ten days' time and literally cut it into chunks - one measure chunks, to be exact - and I shortened my time restriction to ten minutes - shorter periods than I had used since before college. The result was magical.
I began to access a flow state multiple times per practice session. Hours slipped by without anguish. Technical tempo barriers increased exponentially and without tension. Endurance was a nonissue. I felt unstoppable.
- Setting unspecific performance goals.
- Misjudging appropriate goal complexity for time allotted.
- Practicing angrily.
- Prioritizing practicing fast over practicing right.
- Feeling trapped by excessive boredom and restrictive timelines.
My growing experience in pedagogy helped solve the first two, and delving into mindfulness and psychology research helped with the second two, but the last one still eluded me. I was terribly bored. All the time.
So what if I tried techniques from other things that used to bore me? I turned to running, one of my favorite mind-numbingly-boring physical exercises, and the epiphany I had been seeking for years hit me square in the face. When I started getting bored running, I found ways to change my scenery more frequently. What if, instead of one passage for 25% of a practice session, I did one measure at a time for 5-10%?
One week ago, I attacked this with gusto. I photocopied all of the music I needed to perform in ten days' time and literally cut it into chunks - one measure chunks, to be exact - and I shortened my time restriction to ten minutes - shorter periods than I had used since before college. The result was magical.
I began to access a flow state multiple times per practice session. Hours slipped by without anguish. Technical tempo barriers increased exponentially and without tension. Endurance was a nonissue. I felt unstoppable.
One measure, at my mercy.
I attribute this entirely to finding my own personal cocktail for experiencing as many flow triggers as possible in a short period of time. Of the 17 different accepted triggers (many of which are social and not applicable to individual study), this shortened and more focused pomodoro design allowed me to relate to all of the following:
The shift in excerpt length required me to change my concept of goals from larger skills (response in the low register) to specific instances (low B overblown, but only at louder than mezzo forte and if staccato). The shift in timing increased adrenaline and anxiety (then again, so did using a giant, constantly visible timer). The best part, though, is that the process freed me from mandating perfection - when the timer goes off, work is done, if only for now.
After years of skepticism with this particular technique, I am actually shocked to finally find a permutation of duration, goals, and preparation situation that works for me, and that has sparked a great deal of curiosity. If any of you try this approach, please share... What timer duration is best for you? What types of goals? Where in your recital/audition/jury preparation cycle is this best?
With that, my writing timer is going off, and it is time for a short break. Happy (and efficient) practicing!
- intensely focused attention
- clear goals
- challenge/skills ratio balance
- familiarity
- sense of control
- close listening
- creativity
The shift in excerpt length required me to change my concept of goals from larger skills (response in the low register) to specific instances (low B overblown, but only at louder than mezzo forte and if staccato). The shift in timing increased adrenaline and anxiety (then again, so did using a giant, constantly visible timer). The best part, though, is that the process freed me from mandating perfection - when the timer goes off, work is done, if only for now.
After years of skepticism with this particular technique, I am actually shocked to finally find a permutation of duration, goals, and preparation situation that works for me, and that has sparked a great deal of curiosity. If any of you try this approach, please share... What timer duration is best for you? What types of goals? Where in your recital/audition/jury preparation cycle is this best?
With that, my writing timer is going off, and it is time for a short break. Happy (and efficient) practicing!
"I could never do that."
*blink*
We have all said this at some point, but I'm not convinced we know how much. In only the last 24 hours (and only in the arts), I have heard the following:
These grow and branch out, one by one, to become a tree of impossibilities looming over our careers.
- "I could never double tongue like that."
- "We just can't make that kind of sound."
- "I had the heart of a dancer, but never the feet."
- "Even if I practiced for 80 years, I'd never be able to play that."
These grow and branch out, one by one, to become a tree of impossibilities looming over our careers.
I call this one "Boy and Beethoven 4"
Fairly recently, I've become more specific with what I call my "Impossible Bucket List," and I challenge you to, as well. This bucket list would include repertoire and techniques that at one point (maybe even now) you labeled as impossible, something you would never have the fundamental capacity to manage. Then, pick something and check it off.
Please don't misunderstand. Checking off does not mean perfecting something you deem impossible. Checking off means giving it a real shot. The rolling up your sleeves, 110%, elbow grease kind of trying. For me, this has been via double tonguing (2011), the doctoral audition process (2012), and the Gubaidulina Duo (2014) and Maslanka (two days ago) Sonatas.
I hear you. "Yeah, yeah, Cayla. Stop bragging. Anything is possible. Whatever."
Nope. You know what? They were all nearly-laughable hot messes of experiences. But you know what else? I don't think any of them are impossible anymore.
My point is not to say that everything is possible right now with focus and hard work. You're tired of hearing that. My goal is not to encourage you to focus on perfecting something inappropriate for your development level. That would be irresponsible.
My point is that no one knows if something is truly impossible for you, and my goal is for you to challenge your own definition of possibility.
Power up.
Just try.
Make a few messes.
It might be awesome.
Please don't misunderstand. Checking off does not mean perfecting something you deem impossible. Checking off means giving it a real shot. The rolling up your sleeves, 110%, elbow grease kind of trying. For me, this has been via double tonguing (2011), the doctoral audition process (2012), and the Gubaidulina Duo (2014) and Maslanka (two days ago) Sonatas.
I hear you. "Yeah, yeah, Cayla. Stop bragging. Anything is possible. Whatever."
Nope. You know what? They were all nearly-laughable hot messes of experiences. But you know what else? I don't think any of them are impossible anymore.
My point is not to say that everything is possible right now with focus and hard work. You're tired of hearing that. My goal is not to encourage you to focus on perfecting something inappropriate for your development level. That would be irresponsible.
My point is that no one knows if something is truly impossible for you, and my goal is for you to challenge your own definition of possibility.
Power up.
Just try.
Make a few messes.
It might be awesome.
Do you remember the first time you thought your instrument was awesome?
I was a freshman at the University of Georgia, and a doctoral student performed Andre Previn's Sonata for Bassoon and Piano, and I am pretty sure my mouth actually dropped open. I was so nerdishly giggly and head over heels in love. I swore that I would play it "when I was ready" (whatever that meant to 18-year-old Cayla). I didn't even listen to it again for a long time, purely out of fear that in the harsh light of a second listening I would fall out of love.
I was a freshman at the University of Georgia, and a doctoral student performed Andre Previn's Sonata for Bassoon and Piano, and I am pretty sure my mouth actually dropped open. I was so nerdishly giggly and head over heels in love. I swore that I would play it "when I was ready" (whatever that meant to 18-year-old Cayla). I didn't even listen to it again for a long time, purely out of fear that in the harsh light of a second listening I would fall out of love.
I did in fact play it later (see a clip from my first doctoral recital here) and will again this coming spring.
It has not been until years later, though, that I realize what actually happened in that moment. I thought the bassoon and its music were awesome. After that performance, I started hearing the potential for awesome in everything. There was a good bit in Saint-Saens, there was some in Mozart, there was a lot in Vivaldi, and most recently there was way more than I expected in Gubaidulina. From that point on, everything new could potentially be knock-me-to-the-floor awesome.
So I'll ask again: do you remember the first time you thought your instrument was awesome?
In addition to being a warm fuzzy and self-assuring sentiment, this realization has motivated me through the tough practice sessions lately. While I've written before about the tools of slow and the dangers of angry practicing, this is even more fundamental. For me, this has been the answer to the "why am I doing this?"
These past few weeks, I have been working on David Maslanka's Sonata. In a break from one particularly tricky section, I wandered my way onto Instagram:
So I'll ask again: do you remember the first time you thought your instrument was awesome?
In addition to being a warm fuzzy and self-assuring sentiment, this realization has motivated me through the tough practice sessions lately. While I've written before about the tools of slow and the dangers of angry practicing, this is even more fundamental. For me, this has been the answer to the "why am I doing this?"
These past few weeks, I have been working on David Maslanka's Sonata. In a break from one particularly tricky section, I wandered my way onto Instagram:
Pouring in the blood, sweat, and tears for the potential of awesome is one thing. For years, that has been enough. Now I realize that I work not only to realize the potential of awesome in a performance, but also to potentially create a moment where someone first realizes that the bassoon and its music are awesome. That music as a whole is pretty awesome.
What if you were the moment someone realized music is awesome?
Now get to it. Go be awesome.
What if you were the moment someone realized music is awesome?
Now get to it. Go be awesome.
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