Heather S. Ingemar's Blog, page 32

Wait for You — on YouTube

I'm going to be jamming at the Open Mic tonight at Coppei Coffee Company in Waitsburg WA. Hope to see you there!

And in other news, Looky Looky! You can now pre-order your copy of "Let Me Go"!

Finding a Music Teacher

Since I teach music lessons myself, this is a topic that is close to my heart. Finding a music teacher can be tough, regardless if you are looking for yourself or for your child. Here are some things to think about:

Determine your goals. A teacher is only effective if they know what you want to work on, and the type of music teacher you look for depends on what goals you have. If you want to become a concert pianist, you probably shouldn't ask your church pianist to help you. However, if you simply want to play for your own enjoyment, that church pianist will likely be perfect.

If you're familiar with your instrument, pick your genre. Many instruments have several strengths to their credit, and the one you want to pursue will also influence teacher choice. For example, learning violin typically means classical music. Learning fiddle means traditional and folk. Techniques for each genre are different, and require a different skill set (reading music notation versus playing by ear). Beware! One may not necessarily help you with the other…

Pick a teacher with experience. It may not always be possible, especially in small and rural areas, but if you can, select a teacher with experience. Music is a cumulative art; the more years a player plays, the more knowledge and tips they can pass onto you, ultimately making your learning experience easier.

Try to find someone you get along with. You're going to be spending a lot of time and energy with your music teacher; try to pick someone you can get along well with. Don't make yourself miserable by learning from a cranky, scathing, or belligerent teacher! If you find yourself in this situation, look for another teacher.

Parents: don't force your children into music. Please. This is a big one with me. All too often parents strong-arm their children into music because "I took music when I was your age." I'm sorry, but this is a bad reason! It often turns children completely off music for the rest of their lives. (It did to you, didn't it? I bet that instrument your parents forced you to learn still makes you cringe to this day.) I know you want your child to have every opportunity, but a child who doesn't want to be playing and who resents their parent forcing them into lessons is a nightmare for a teacher and often does not retain an ounce of information from the lessons. Conversely, a child who wants to take music retains nearly everything they're taught and often continues to play through out adulthood. So, please. let your kids make the decisions on this one. And if they must learn music, at least let them pick which instrument they want to play.

Locate local music teachers via local music shops and the live music network. Music stores love to help new players, and often have a listing of local teachers — at the very least, they have names to pass on. Same thing with local musicians. If they don't teach, they likely know someone who does. Don't be afraid to ask.

Deciding to take music lessons can be a daunting task, but there are resources out there to help you. If you aren't sure about what you want to pursue, pick brains of music professionals and store clerks. They'll be more than happy to answer questions to help you narrow things down. Likewise, seek out a variety of live music — besides helping you decide what type of music you want to play, most performers would be happy to field a few questions after the show from a budding music enthusiast.

Happy musicianing.

Celtic songs

As I lay down the final few tracks on my upcoming album, "Let Me Go," I am struck by the realization that I want to head in a different direction. Maybe it's because I feel I've already had my say with the modern and the contemporary. Maybe I feel a little homesick for the traditional songs I fell in love with way back when. I'm not sure. I only know that that is where I want to head next.

Only…. I'm not sure how to get there…!

It's one thing to sit down and compose a mimicry; all the rules have been laid out for you already, all you have to do is wrangle some notes and a series of words to fit. It's entirely another to set down original material that utilizes the existing rule set, and yet transcends them.

It's especially hard when so much of my creative thought is contemporary in feel. It's like walking into a 17th century opera house and hearing fusion jazz in the ornate lobby… How do I write 'Celtic' when it's percolation place is 21st century? How do I tap into that ancient atmosphere, and faithfully recreate it with my own words, my own sound?

They say the hardest part of any journey is taking that first step, and I'm beginning to believe them. I feel like I'm standing before a locked door, to which I have no key. All I need to do is pick the lock….

Live at Mace Mead!

Saturday, February 25th

7pm

Mace Mead Works in Dayton

See you there!

I am not a radio… And other performance observations

I have debated long and hard about posting this. I do not wish to offend anyone, but I would like to share with you a few personal observations regarding audience etiquette…

THE RADIO:

Plays constantly
Can be turned off and on at will
Inanimate
Has no capacity for higher thought or feeling
Is entertaining… Sometimes
Can be stuffed in a closet
Only talks about news, politics, and current events
Is free
Is courageous only in the face of a power surge

THE MUSICIAN:

Plays constantly
Turns on and off at their own will
Living, breathing, animate object
Cares what you think and has emotions
Works hard to be entertaining
Deserves respect
Loves to talk to you about music, or other things you may have in common
Is paid… Sometimes
Is courageous in offering a part of their soul with every song

Musicianing is hard work. It's an art that takes countless hours of preparation for only a few hours of entertainment. At the base of it, it makes my day to see you relax and take solace in my music after a mind-numbing day. I don't care if I'm the main attraction, so long as somebody connects, feels, understands. I'm more infamous than famous, and this little dive is not Carnegie Hall. I know that. It's painfully obvious whenever I glance at the tip jar…

But regardless, these are my few hours, and I want to share them with you. Consider it a date of sorts, if you will. Would you shoot your date a dirty glance for wanting to converse with you, face-to-face? Is a cell phone shouting match with your mother that important? Does hanging onto the miserable events of a miserable day help you in any way?

Let me play for you. Let me see if I can make you smile, forget your cares for a while. Let me try to show you that I get it, that I've been there, too. Let me give you my undivided attention. Let me in, just for a little while.

Give me a chance. That's all I ask. And if you find a little peace while you're in my care, let me know, even if all it is is a smile and nod as you leave.

I am not a radio. I'm a human being.

You Never Were Mine

Shatterproof: In It Together

He looked down at her pulling herself together, picking up the fallen pieces of her soul and tucking them away for later fixing.  Later, after they wrapped up all the ends.  Later, when this dark day was just an unpleasant memory.  He watched her, felt her clinging to his hand like someone drowning, and he felt, a little bit, like he belonged.

I don't care what you are, or are not, she'd said to him.  She didn't care.

He shook his head in tiny amazement as they pushed through the science facility doors, onto the cool campus green.  Sprinklers arced in slow circles, the spray like a misty web, and they ran together, feet squishing into the grass, until they were clear.

As the sleeping streets enveloped them, he looked at her again.  Silent tears glistened on her cheeks, and he paused to gently wipe them away.

Startled, she looked into his face, her eyes clear and dark as calm water, and he wondered what he'd gotten himself into.

* * *

(This piece is the finale to an ongoing serial story. You can catch up on the plot or start from the beginning via the Serials page. If you liked this work, please consider purchasing one of my other stories, or some of my music for your collection. )

"Professional" does not necessarily mean "genius"…

Just a (slightly) embarrassing moment in the life of a working musician….

So, I've never been very fond of how the electronic pickup on my ukulele sounds. I've always thought it a bit harsh. Well, last night when I was fooling with my amp to make sure the riotstat for the volume knob wasn't busted (it wasn't), I nudged the pickup adjustments on my uke and LO! The harsh edge to the tone was GONE! I happily spent several minutes tweaking them this way and that way until I found just the right sound I wanted…

To quote Dear Husband:

"And just *how* long have you owned this setup?"

To which I sheepishly admit that just because I can play multiple instruments and take delight in spending my nights as a musical ninja, does not mean I'm skilled at reading users manuals…

Shatterproof: Facing the Devil

The body halted with the impact, but didn't fall.  A tiny ring of red marked the entrance over his lung, and spread as the white of his dress shirt soaked up the blood.  The Devil tsked again, shaking his head slowly.  I watched as he paused, raising a hand with long, sharp claws to his chest.  He grinned at me, then sank his claws into the hole.  The wound squished and sucked around the many fingers, blood spurting a little to fall bright red on the papered floor.  "Ah," he said softly, and jerked his fingers free.

"Little good your bullets do, Leslie," the Devil said, showing me the mushroomed mess of my hollow-point bullet.  He flicked the bullet into the trashcan, where it pinged and rolled about the metal bottom.  Then, he tapped the side of his head with one finger, and pointed it at me with a grin.  "I am the Devil, after all," he said.

"Let him go!" I screamed, losing it.  "Let him go!"

The Devil shook his head.  "No can do, kiddo.  You see, he's leverage.  I want you to agree to come with me, and then, I'll let him go.  No questions asked.  Your father will be free to live the long, prosperous, saintly life he's always craved."

"Liar," I said.

He grinned at me again, the razor teeth pricking out between Dad's lips.  "So that wimp of an incubus told you things."  He sat on the front edge of the wood desk, and his blood-soaked clothes squished around him.

"This isn't about him.  This is about Dad, and me," I said.

"Right, right," the Devil said, waving a lazy hand in the air.  "So what will make you happy?  I'll let you talk to him, one last time?"

I looked down at my gun, and felt useless.  This was like a hazy, strange dream, but the shard dug into the skin of my hand, and I knew it was real.  "Okay," I said, stepping forward.  The Devil's eyes gleamed as he stood, and I knew he thought he had me.

"Let me talk to my Dad," I said, leaning forward.  He raised his clawed, long-fingered hands to embrace me.

At the last instant, I plunged the long shard through his chest and into his heart.

He crumpled forward onto me, and we went down among the strewn-out books, the disheveled, ruined papers.  Across the room, the Devil, thrown from my Dad's body by death, shrieked in anger.  "Damn you!  How dare you take him from me!  I had you both – both of you! – in my glass!!"  Red slicked my hands, warm and sticky, but I drew my gun and fired a round at the razor-edged figure.  The bullet thumped, useless, into the bookcase as the Devil faded from view.

I sagged.  In my arms, Dad gasped for air, his lips turning blue.  Tears coated my face, pulled under my chin.  I swiped at them with the back of my wrist, smearing them.

"I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm so sorry," I sobbed.

"Leslie, Leslie-sweetheart, don't cry."  He looked up at me, eyes clear grey and calm.  Air wheezed into his lungs, and he smiled, his smile.  "It's okay now," he said, and was gone.

Collin found me, still hanging onto the last remains of my father, sobbing like a child.  He held me, quiet and still, while I cried.  When I couldn't cry anymore, he offered me his hand.

* * *

(This piece is part of an ongoing serial story. You can catch up on the plot via the Serials page. If you liked this work, please consider purchasing one of my other stories, or some of my music for your collection. )

Honey and Lemon

The joys of being a singer and being sick.

Right before a performance.

(I play at the Casino Night Fundraiser for the Libery Theatre this coming Saturday.)

It's not too bad since I like tea. I usually have a cup or two in the afternoons, so having some a few more times with honey and/or lemon in it is not too far of a stretch. And as old-school as it sounds, it is a tried and true remedy for an illness-afflicted voice. The important thing is to not strain yourself when you practice or perform with a sore throat (if you don't have the luxury of taking a week off). Vocal cords are muscles, just like those in your leg or your arm. While they aren't as fragile as some people think, you still need to take care of them.

I've been practicing a little this week to keep my chops up, and if I don't manage to kick this bug by Saturday (and provided I'm not death warmed over), I can definitely say I'm walking on stage with my thermos of tea with honey instead of my obligatory water…