A Bassoon in the Hand

In Which I Finally Get To Grips With A Bassoon.

So there I was with a bassoon round my neck. I knew that the note you play with 3 fingers of your left hand is C. Not G as it would be on most wind instruments I know. Basically, think of it as a very big, heavy, Treble Recorder with lots of metalwork. And a crook. Right. And your thumb goes on a key that links to a little tit on the metal crook. This is called the crook key, or Whisper Key. And the crook is also called a bocal. How do you say that? BOcal? BuCAHl? No idea.

I blew on the reed, and, surprisingly, a note came out. I tried another. A very strange sound came out. "Multiphonics," said Pete, and left me to it. Sylvia suggested that maybe I was blowing too hard, as we both used to be trumpet players. I agreed, relaxed my embouchure, and tried a few more notes. Pete reappeared. "You look quite comfortable with the bassoon. Some people don't at all.”

Dismantling a bassoon and putting it away in its case is as much of a ritual as assembling the instrument. A ritual, because it has to be done in the correct order.  But I’ll come back to that later because the voice in my head is reminding me that the events I am recounting in this post took place on April 16th, and today is May 28th, so I’d better bring this blog up to date PDQ!

I’d already arranged for Dawn to look the instrument over for approval the following Friday, and she had recommended a tutor, Abracadabra by Jane Sebba. So I paid for that, and took the bassoon it on the understanding that if Dawn said it was no good I would bring it back the following week. Sylvia bought some pencils that change colour with the heat of your hand, and a scarf as a present for her sister Phoebe.

"Welcome", said Pete as we left the shop, "to the wonderful world of reeds."

And then we set off with a bassoon in the back of my car. To look at more cars on the way home.