It is difficult to describe the smell, but once you walk in you know it at once: it is a combination of greases, oils, old music cases, and instruments of all ages and variety; it is musty and pungent all at once, and to me it is instantly welcoming. It is the smell of an instrument repair shop. In particular, it is the smell of Best Instrument Repair and Dick Akright is in the house. When I duck under the bright blue awning, open the door with no markings at all (sliding by the curious glances of the people standing in line at Mr. Burrito), and enter the hallway with old music posters and ancient brown carpet, a wide smile crosses my face. I have instruments that need repair, and one of the best repairmen in the world is about to repair them. As I round the corner and head down the rickety stairs, I feel entirely at ease. There is a feeling in the air of industrious accomplishment: people come down these stairs with problems, they go up them with solutions. I am entirely confident that this will be the case for me.

When I finally emerge into the shop I see several repairmen hard at work in their stations, hunched over this task or that. At last, I see Dick Akright in his station, the large flame from his blow torch is billowing and he is looking up expectantly to see who has come down his stairs. He waves with instant recognition and comes over to the counter where we begin to go over the instruments I have brought. We chat about how things have been going for each of us since our last meeting and what is new in the San Francisco music scene. I called the day before to see if he could work me in and he has graciously arranged his schedule so that he could get to the work I need. He looks over the instruments I have brought, asks a few questions, then casually says, “Give me about an hour”.

With that I leave the shop in search for lunch and return in an hour to find him finishing up some work on my old Bach C trumpet. My Schagerl rotary is working again (see Brown Trumpets) and my Bach C has had its pitch finder removed, restoring it to its original, gadget free, glory. All my desires have been accomplished and after more brief conversation I pay and make ready to leave. “I better get back to work!” Dick says, the weight of unfinished repairs flashing briefly acorss his face. Yes Dick, you should, and we are all glad that you are!

There are not many places left on this planet of ours where we can walk in the door with an injured instrument and know that it will repaired with meticulous care, by expert hands. It seems to me these kinds of shops are drying up, becoming like small islands drifting in an enormous blue ocean. If you have a shop like this near you or a repairman that you truly trust with the care of your instrument, make sure to let them know. Support them in any way you can, because it is a largely thankless job and we need them more than we know. These people are our miracle workers. They take our mangled instruments and return them to us in their former splendor; disaster is reversed and we are allowed to continue as if nothing ever happened. To a musician who knows what it is like to love an instrument, there is hardly a greater gift.

Today I am headed to California, back to the city by the bay, back to the state where my orchestral career began, back to one of my favorite places on the planet. I won’t be there for long, just tonight and tomorrow in San Francisco, then a few days with family out in the East Bay, but it will be enough time to reflect (again) on the paths I have followed, where they have taken me, and where I go from here.

I got my Master’s degree from the San Francisco Conservatory, and I distinctly remember the idyllic dreams I had about playing the trumpet for a living, and the kind of life it could bring me if I could just get good enough. Most of those dreams are laughable at this point; as I have moved through my career I have realized that many of the things I dreamed about essentially don’t exist. That being said, however, there are many great adventures and experiences that have been thrown my way simply because I have a fair proficiency at buzzing my lips together and making some neat sounds with a fancy brass tube. I have travelled around the world on this ability, played in the world’s great concert halls, played with some of the world’s greatest musicians (even Metallica!), and lived all over the country and met all kinds of interesting people. It has been quite a ride, an unexpected and jarring one at times, but good nonetheless. I wouldn’t have known, during those formative days at the conservatory, to dream of the things that have brought me the most happiness or to stop dreaming of the things that have brought me the most frustration. Then again, that is probably the most likely outcome of dreams: we seldom follow their actual path, but it is the places they take us — the places we never knew or expected — that make those dreams so valuable, so necessary. Today I return to both the source and object of many dreams, to walk some of the same streets and think some of the same thoughts. Today, I’ll be California Dreamin’ again.

It is 1am, the whole house is asleep, and I just got back from practicing and am now sitting down to write a blog post. To many people this would be absolutely insane, but to me, it is simply normal hours of operation: musician hours. Not all musicians keep a schedule like this, but many do. There is something about this line of work that makes for extremely productive evening and night people. In fact, sometimes i feel like I do my best work after 11pm (watch the wisecracks people ). Now, if only we could move those 8pm concerts back a bit.

Actually, I did play a symphony concert in Madrid with the San Francisco Symphony that started at roughly 11pm (I think it started at some weird time like 10:50). It was the second orchestra show of the evening in the hall and we played until sometime after 1am. It was like playing the second set of a salsa gig! After I got back to the hotel I went out to a Madrid disco and stayed out until 5am or so, but that is a story for another time. Ah yes, musician hours…

So, I have been in the process of trying to move back into a bigger mouthpiece lately, something more along the lines of what I used during my orchestra career (I guess I have missed some of the fatness of sound, soft control, and low register sharpness. It turns out that, at least for me, some of those things get to be a little more of a struggle on smaller equipment). This attempt to go into a bigger mouthpiece, though, has proven more difficult than one would think.

I played the mouthpiece that I won the principal job in Chicago on (a Mt. Vernon 1 1/4C if you are curious), but all I was left with is wondering how I ever managed to win that job playing on that mouthpiece (it tends to ride a bit high… yeah, just a bit). Anyway, I am going through my collection of larger mouthpieces — not finding what I want — when I get a voicemail from my good friend Rod Mathews. On this mesage Rod mentioned to me that he finally got a copy of the recording of me playing the Furtwangler Symphony No. 2 with the CSO, and he mentioned how much he enjoyed my playing on that recording (How nice is that, anyway? To call up your buddy and tell him how much you enjoyed something he did, just because. Very classy.) So I am listening to this voicemail and remembering the CD, when I suddenly remember the mouthpiece I used for that recording, a mouthpiece that I have left inexplicably untried in this process. After hearing the message I promptly dig out the mouthpiece, play a couple of hours on it, and wonder why anyone would ever look for a mouthpiece different from the one in my hands. Now I am no fool; I know that this is only the first practice session on this mouthpiece and that there are bound to be things I won’t like about it after playing on it for a while. However, if it weren’t for a good friend who took the time to send a considerate message, just because, I wouldn’t even have thought of digging it out in the first place.

Yeah, that is what good friends are for, to help you out when they don’t even know you need it. Thanks Rod.

For the second time in a week I have started to write a blog post and ended up with an article; last week’s feature Eclipsing also started off life as a blog post. This time, though, I am salvaging something from those hungry articles, and that something is called Arnica Montana. You may already know what it is, but if you don’t it’s worth a try.

The next time your chops feel bruised or sensitive to the touch, then try getting some Arnica cream from a local GNC Store (or equivalent). This herbal remedy is good for bruises and inflammation and I always feel like it helps me get back to playing quicker. It is no miracle drug, that is for sure, but it does seem to help the healing process along and that means playing normally again, sooner than you would have otherwise. And when you are faced with the depressing condition of not being able to play anywhere near your own abilities, playing normally sooner is a welcome prospect indeed.