Rudolph, the trumpet, and other stories

Anonymous student explores their relationship with the trumpet growing up, and why they haven’t been able to escape its clutches just yet…

Anonymous student

"Music career wise, I peaked in year 4 when I played Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in front of all of KS2"https://openclipart.org/detail/213686/trumpet-coloured

I started learning the trumpet when I was seven years old. This was largely my mum’s choice, so — as is often the case — I didn’t have any particularly profound reasons for choosing it. Since then, I have threatened to quit playing trumpet about three thousand times, but to no avail. Whenever I would storm out of practicing when I was little, my mum would just laugh at me. By turning my expression of anger into a comical event, I struggled to even take myself seriously. And so, begrudgingly, I would return to finish practicing while trying (and failing) to conceal a smile.

“I think in hindsight, the tears derived from the sheer entertainment value of a mini red-faced-hobbit-me trying to play a piece”

Music career wise, I peaked in Year 4 when I played Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer in front of all of KS2. I made my (infamously sullen-faced) deputy head teacher cry, although I think in hindsight, the tears derived from the sheer entertainment value of a mini red-faced-hobbit-me trying to play a piece which was probably (definitely) outside of my ability. Anyway, I continued to play Rudolph each Christmas without fail until Year 7, when I became too cool (or too scared — interpret as you will —) to play an orchestral instrument in front of peers. However, I built up quite a name for myself, to the extent that people still recognise me now, at aged 20, as the “red-faced girl who played Rudolph.” I take it as a compliment. My playing must be so memorable because it was so good, and when people mention the “redness” of my face, they must surely all just be a little bit colour blind.

Unfortunately, playing the trumpet got a whole lot less fun when it came to scales and aural tests. At first, I resolved not to practice, as my foolproof theory was that if I pretended there wasn’t a problem, then there could be no problem. I hoped the ability to play scales and answer music-related questions would just come to me in a dream or something. I am disappointed to report that this never happened. And so, with a lot of huffing and puffing (and door-slamming and eye-rolling), I tried to practice scales at least once a week. My mum would watch this theatrical display from afar with a twinkle in her eye.

Back in the day, I also had a brief stint as a french-horn player. Much to the displeasure and horror of my teacher, this consisted of me accidentally dropping my french horn one week in and creating an enormous dent in it. I proceeded to learn a few pieces and was generally having a whale of a time, until my french horn teacher took me aside one afternoon and said to me that if I wanted to carry on playing the french horn, then I had to quit the trumpet. I still have my suspicions that this was a cunning scheme to remove me from the equation on his behalf because he knew full well that I wouldn’t quit the trumpet when I was playing “The Great Escape Theme” and “Yesterday” in concert band on the trumpet. And so it came about that my promising career as a dented french horn player went out of the window almost as quickly as it came in.

“I proceeded to learn a few pieces and was generally having a whale of a time until...”

After I finished my grades on the trumpet, I spent a lot of time frolicking around in music groups which I was now apparently good enough to play for. The local youth orchestra brought plenty of gossip and drama, mostly fuelled by boys who fifteen-year-old-me thought would be forever but actually only turned out to be a week or so. Musically, I’m not sure how much I learnt from my four years in orchestra. I had plenty of time to scroll on Instagram during the rests, so I was very up to date with the lives of the Kardashians, but beyond that, I don’t have much to show for it. My attendance dwindled in later years, so that in Year 13 I won “Best Attendance” and wasn’t there to show up for it. Interpret as you will. On the whole, and I would say despite, but probably in part because of, the drama, I enjoyed these music groups.


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Recently, then, having taken a two year hiatus from the trumpet, I thought that I’d give lessons another go. My music teacher and I spent the first lesson chatting about houses, marriage, politics, my old conductor, and why, if I don’t like playing the trumpet, do I want a lesson? I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly in response to this, but was left a bit puzzled by the question all the same. I complain about the poor trumpet all the time (see above for proof), but I can’t seem to escape it. This leads to a truly terrifying conclusion: maybe I don’t want to escape it after all?