Clarinet. Even how the word is said it’s musical — it throws a little trill on the last two syllables. Certainly the way Benny Goodman could make it.
Well, I’m no Benny Goodman (check out Sing Sing Sing – if after listening to the song you have the desire to shout: “Chips Ahoy! A thousand chips delicious!” pinch yourself immediately) and I’m no Artie Shaw, but I think I’ll be ok with that. My appreciation for music is soundly rooted.
If my clumsy math is correct, my clarinet with its peeling school decals on the case, is 42 years old. Originally my father’s — who also gets much of the credit for teaching my how to love music in its entirety — back when he was in the high school marching band. I believe he actually enjoyed being in the marching band, knowing how to march in time and staying in formation while simultaneously playing his instrument.
I was also in the marching band in high school with the same clarinet some 31 years later (again, clumsy math). But I didn’t take it seriously. Not when I had to wear a florescent orange cummerbund over my my royal blue flair skirt and the only way to keep warm at the fall football games was to wear my equally blue soccer socks. Despite appearances of grasping the clarinet on the field, I wasn’t actually playing. Too cold, and in truth, too lazy.
What a lost opportunity! Nonetheless, I’ve started playing again and I’ve got a ridiculous goal – to be able to play the introduction to George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.