coolshadow888z
Dec 28, 2008
Undergraduate / Common app, two essays on music. Which one's better? [3]
I wrote 2 essays on music, and I was wondering if you could tell me which one's better. the second one last paragraph may have some grammar mistakes, if you could correct that would be great!
Notes, rhythms, articulation, and dynamics- these are the four successive stages of music development that I, a clarinetist, learned from my first band class. I have always believed that if I perfected these four components in whatever piece of work that I play, I could achieve a seat in the All-State Band, All-Eastern Band, or even the world-renowned New York Philharmonic. If it only it were that simple. Mastering these elements is not as easy as it sounds- I sometimes cannot even hit all the notes correctly when I am blocked by the "sharp" fence. Many times I need to set my metronome to the lugubrious pace of a wooly mammoth slowly dying in a tar pit. Advancing from one stage to the next feels harder than climbing Mount Everest, but I thought that with diligence, I could accomplish anything in music. Apparently, I was wrong.
"I think you should give it (Philadelphia Youth Orchestra) a try. You've worked really hard during the last two months, and I think you got a shot," said Mr. Trombetta, my private music teacher. The next thing I remember was the lady in the brown dress calling my name. Together we climbed three flights of stairs in the chapel, and reached Room 321.
"What do you have for us today Bryan?" asked Mr. Scaglione, the conductor, in a gentle voice.
"Waltz Fantasy," I murmured.
"Louder please."
"Waltz Fantasy by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."
After I said this those four components of music development once again entered my mind. The notes were committed to memory. I studied my Quartz hand watch, and subdivided the second-hand movement to achieve the right tempo. The crescendo and sforzando marks were already highlighted on the page. Next, I exhaled into the mouthpiece, vibrated my cheap Rico reed, and created a mediocre sound. After five measures into the music, I heard Mr. Scaglione's pencil scratching the piece of paper. Two other judges grimly shook their heads and whispered something that I could not hear. What did I do wrong? The notes, rhythms, and everything are right there. Just thirty seconds into what I thought was my "best performance ever" Mr. Scaglione made me stop and said my audition was over. As I disappointedly came down to the lobby to pack up my clarinet, I saw a boy next to me playing the same piece. As I observed him for the next five minutes, I finally realized what went wrong. His eyes were closed. His chest expanded as he reached the crescendo in measure three. His head was carried along with the swing of each beat. Finally, he held and caressed his Buffet R-13 Clarinet as if it was his sweetheart. I too closed my eyes and tried to grasp the beauty, the delicacy, and the precision of each note for the next three minutes. In the end, I realized that I lacked something that I absolutely need to achieve- passion.
When I arrived home that day, I taped myself playing the Waltz Fantasy. My performance was a sham, a fake flower on display in convenience stores. Faux flowers have the components of real ones- a few petals, a stem, and a sepal from appearance, yet they are dry and lifeless. For almost an entire year, I tried to discover my passion in music and bring this flower to life. I went to nine concerts, listened to fifty recordings, and studied twenty opuses by Mozart, Beethoven, and Stravinsky. I committed myself to practice an hour each day, even when I was overwhelmed by schoolwork. Gradually, my band director's admonitions to "caress the notes, live in the beats, and blend into the mix" became my native language, and for the first time, I saw music meaning more than just following the mundane directions on the sheet of paper. Music requires engagement from the performer, who needs to see past the four primary stages- notes, rhythms, articulation, and dynamics.
Two years have passed since my failure in the Philadelphia Youth Orchestra audition. Here I was holding my clarinet in the grand concert hall, where the All-Regional Band was hosted. The conductor picked up his baton, and my eyes were intently fixed on his hands. The hall was deadly silent- even the two-year old baby in the third row kept his mouth shut. As the conductor moved his hand by half-an-inch, all musicians simultaneously let out one of the most beautiful minor chords on Earth. For a brief second, I closed my eyes, and tried to feel the texture and capture the frequency of each sound. Two seconds later the fanfare from trumpets woke me from my imagination and carried me to the allegro section. For the first time, the sixteenth notes on the page had come alive and turned into little soldiers exhorting me forward. The gorgeous chord from the trombone duo had embodied my lonely soul completely during the next five measures of rest. I was then warmed by the fancy filigrees from the flutes as I basked in the pastoral clarinet melodic lines. I felt like I left my own body and was suspended like a marionette above the ensemble- each muscle joint was directed and compelled by the swing of the beats. I could never predict where this phenomenon will carry me. For all I knew, I was in a totally different world- the World of Music.
and
The District Band concert was about to begin. The conductor picked up his baton. My eyes were fixed on his hands, waiting for the slightest movement. The music hall was deadly silent- even the two-month-old baby in the third row kept his mouth shut. Next, I released a breath of air, and a beautiful sound emerged from my clarinet and resonated throughout the hall. Gradually, the flutes joined in, then the brass, and finally the percussion.
For a brief second, I closed my eyes, and tried to feel the texture and capture the frequency of each sound. Two seconds later the fanfare from trumpets woke me from my imagination and carried me to the allegro section. The sixteenth notes on the page had come alive and turned into little soldiers exhorting me forward. The gorgeous chord from the trombone duo had embodied my lonely soul completely during the next five measures of rest. I was then warmed by the fancy filigrees from the flutes as I basked in the pastoral clarinet melodic lines. I felt like I left my own body and was suspended like a marionette above the ensemble- each muscle joint was directed and compelled by the swing of the beats. I could never predict where this phenomenon will carry me. For all I knew, I was in a totally different world- the World of Music.
In the World of Music, our instruments represent who we are and determine our voice and personality. Here, we are all partaking in an engaging conversation- each note we play represents a word, each measure a sentence. In all the pieces we played, the conductor kept the conversation going, and made sure that we were not too loud or too soft. In March of 1941, the piccolos started the discussion, and then we clarinets took it over. In the coda of Tamboo, the saxophones articulated their thoughts, and we all stopped to hear their profound insight. We clarinets always formed excellent acquaintances with the flutes- when the trombone and tuba brotherhood presented the main melodic argument in Abram's Pursuit, we commented aside with our moving "sixteenth notes." When they got the chance in Rocky Point Holiday, they scolded us with minor chords to show their darkness and anger for our disrespect. Through this conversation, I saw every instrument possessing a unique character- the clarinets were regal, the flutes were fancy, the trombones were intrepid, and the tubas were bold. Though we were so different, we all still came together and amalgamated into a single pitch at times. When I reached the last chord of the concert I only wished we had rehearsed more pieces and did not want this engaging "conversation" to end.
As I was packing up my clarinet, I stared at the case that I had carried along for all these years. Ever since I started playing clarinet and carrying this case in eighth grade, I wished to be a soloist and not a team player. For all these years, I dreamed about day when I become a music prodigy playing the Mozart Clarinet Concerto solo in front a grand audience in a world-class concert hall. I had always wished to hear my regal sound resonating in the radios around the world. Similarly in life, I aspired to be the next superhero that you see in comic books ending poverty, curing diseases, and eliminating terrorism. In whatever I pursued, I wished to be independent and accomplish whatever task on my own. After the District Concert, I realized how wrong I was for all these years. For the first time, I discovered that playing in an ensemble and partaking in this "conversation" is a lot more interesting than playing a solo in a dark room. I realized that there are times in life when I really need such companionship to do something that I could never achieve on my own. In this case, all seventy-nine other musicians carried me to this World of Music and allowed for this "conversation" to happen- without the bold tubas, the intrepid trombones, or any other parts, it would have never been possible. I left the District Concert with a new outlook for life- "it is less me and more we."
I wrote 2 essays on music, and I was wondering if you could tell me which one's better. the second one last paragraph may have some grammar mistakes, if you could correct that would be great!
Notes, rhythms, articulation, and dynamics- these are the four successive stages of music development that I, a clarinetist, learned from my first band class. I have always believed that if I perfected these four components in whatever piece of work that I play, I could achieve a seat in the All-State Band, All-Eastern Band, or even the world-renowned New York Philharmonic. If it only it were that simple. Mastering these elements is not as easy as it sounds- I sometimes cannot even hit all the notes correctly when I am blocked by the "sharp" fence. Many times I need to set my metronome to the lugubrious pace of a wooly mammoth slowly dying in a tar pit. Advancing from one stage to the next feels harder than climbing Mount Everest, but I thought that with diligence, I could accomplish anything in music. Apparently, I was wrong.
"I think you should give it (Philadelphia Youth Orchestra) a try. You've worked really hard during the last two months, and I think you got a shot," said Mr. Trombetta, my private music teacher. The next thing I remember was the lady in the brown dress calling my name. Together we climbed three flights of stairs in the chapel, and reached Room 321.
"What do you have for us today Bryan?" asked Mr. Scaglione, the conductor, in a gentle voice.
"Waltz Fantasy," I murmured.
"Louder please."
"Waltz Fantasy by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."
After I said this those four components of music development once again entered my mind. The notes were committed to memory. I studied my Quartz hand watch, and subdivided the second-hand movement to achieve the right tempo. The crescendo and sforzando marks were already highlighted on the page. Next, I exhaled into the mouthpiece, vibrated my cheap Rico reed, and created a mediocre sound. After five measures into the music, I heard Mr. Scaglione's pencil scratching the piece of paper. Two other judges grimly shook their heads and whispered something that I could not hear. What did I do wrong? The notes, rhythms, and everything are right there. Just thirty seconds into what I thought was my "best performance ever" Mr. Scaglione made me stop and said my audition was over. As I disappointedly came down to the lobby to pack up my clarinet, I saw a boy next to me playing the same piece. As I observed him for the next five minutes, I finally realized what went wrong. His eyes were closed. His chest expanded as he reached the crescendo in measure three. His head was carried along with the swing of each beat. Finally, he held and caressed his Buffet R-13 Clarinet as if it was his sweetheart. I too closed my eyes and tried to grasp the beauty, the delicacy, and the precision of each note for the next three minutes. In the end, I realized that I lacked something that I absolutely need to achieve- passion.
When I arrived home that day, I taped myself playing the Waltz Fantasy. My performance was a sham, a fake flower on display in convenience stores. Faux flowers have the components of real ones- a few petals, a stem, and a sepal from appearance, yet they are dry and lifeless. For almost an entire year, I tried to discover my passion in music and bring this flower to life. I went to nine concerts, listened to fifty recordings, and studied twenty opuses by Mozart, Beethoven, and Stravinsky. I committed myself to practice an hour each day, even when I was overwhelmed by schoolwork. Gradually, my band director's admonitions to "caress the notes, live in the beats, and blend into the mix" became my native language, and for the first time, I saw music meaning more than just following the mundane directions on the sheet of paper. Music requires engagement from the performer, who needs to see past the four primary stages- notes, rhythms, articulation, and dynamics.
Two years have passed since my failure in the Philadelphia Youth Orchestra audition. Here I was holding my clarinet in the grand concert hall, where the All-Regional Band was hosted. The conductor picked up his baton, and my eyes were intently fixed on his hands. The hall was deadly silent- even the two-year old baby in the third row kept his mouth shut. As the conductor moved his hand by half-an-inch, all musicians simultaneously let out one of the most beautiful minor chords on Earth. For a brief second, I closed my eyes, and tried to feel the texture and capture the frequency of each sound. Two seconds later the fanfare from trumpets woke me from my imagination and carried me to the allegro section. For the first time, the sixteenth notes on the page had come alive and turned into little soldiers exhorting me forward. The gorgeous chord from the trombone duo had embodied my lonely soul completely during the next five measures of rest. I was then warmed by the fancy filigrees from the flutes as I basked in the pastoral clarinet melodic lines. I felt like I left my own body and was suspended like a marionette above the ensemble- each muscle joint was directed and compelled by the swing of the beats. I could never predict where this phenomenon will carry me. For all I knew, I was in a totally different world- the World of Music.
and
The District Band concert was about to begin. The conductor picked up his baton. My eyes were fixed on his hands, waiting for the slightest movement. The music hall was deadly silent- even the two-month-old baby in the third row kept his mouth shut. Next, I released a breath of air, and a beautiful sound emerged from my clarinet and resonated throughout the hall. Gradually, the flutes joined in, then the brass, and finally the percussion.
For a brief second, I closed my eyes, and tried to feel the texture and capture the frequency of each sound. Two seconds later the fanfare from trumpets woke me from my imagination and carried me to the allegro section. The sixteenth notes on the page had come alive and turned into little soldiers exhorting me forward. The gorgeous chord from the trombone duo had embodied my lonely soul completely during the next five measures of rest. I was then warmed by the fancy filigrees from the flutes as I basked in the pastoral clarinet melodic lines. I felt like I left my own body and was suspended like a marionette above the ensemble- each muscle joint was directed and compelled by the swing of the beats. I could never predict where this phenomenon will carry me. For all I knew, I was in a totally different world- the World of Music.
In the World of Music, our instruments represent who we are and determine our voice and personality. Here, we are all partaking in an engaging conversation- each note we play represents a word, each measure a sentence. In all the pieces we played, the conductor kept the conversation going, and made sure that we were not too loud or too soft. In March of 1941, the piccolos started the discussion, and then we clarinets took it over. In the coda of Tamboo, the saxophones articulated their thoughts, and we all stopped to hear their profound insight. We clarinets always formed excellent acquaintances with the flutes- when the trombone and tuba brotherhood presented the main melodic argument in Abram's Pursuit, we commented aside with our moving "sixteenth notes." When they got the chance in Rocky Point Holiday, they scolded us with minor chords to show their darkness and anger for our disrespect. Through this conversation, I saw every instrument possessing a unique character- the clarinets were regal, the flutes were fancy, the trombones were intrepid, and the tubas were bold. Though we were so different, we all still came together and amalgamated into a single pitch at times. When I reached the last chord of the concert I only wished we had rehearsed more pieces and did not want this engaging "conversation" to end.
As I was packing up my clarinet, I stared at the case that I had carried along for all these years. Ever since I started playing clarinet and carrying this case in eighth grade, I wished to be a soloist and not a team player. For all these years, I dreamed about day when I become a music prodigy playing the Mozart Clarinet Concerto solo in front a grand audience in a world-class concert hall. I had always wished to hear my regal sound resonating in the radios around the world. Similarly in life, I aspired to be the next superhero that you see in comic books ending poverty, curing diseases, and eliminating terrorism. In whatever I pursued, I wished to be independent and accomplish whatever task on my own. After the District Concert, I realized how wrong I was for all these years. For the first time, I discovered that playing in an ensemble and partaking in this "conversation" is a lot more interesting than playing a solo in a dark room. I realized that there are times in life when I really need such companionship to do something that I could never achieve on my own. In this case, all seventy-nine other musicians carried me to this World of Music and allowed for this "conversation" to happen- without the bold tubas, the intrepid trombones, or any other parts, it would have never been possible. I left the District Concert with a new outlook for life- "it is less me and more we."