A Different Kind of Music
by Erin Moine
There are few times where one experiences pure panic. It’s the kind of panic that grips you so hard, your muscles tighten like freezing water. The feeling of confidence initially enveloped me as I made my way through the second movement of Miklós Rózsa’s clarinet Sonata. The movement was slow and somber, the mood of my clarinet studio Final beginning calmly. My clammy hands betrayed my confidence. The pads of my fingers were greasy and slippery against the keys.
The five woodwind professors overseeing the Final for Studio class, dubbed a “jury” in musician speech, sat quietly from their offices, watching me perform via Zoom. The year was 2021 and mostly everyone in the department had received their rounds of Covid vaccines, yet uncertainty still lined everyone’s minds. It had been decided at the beginning of the quarter that all students would perform their juries through Zoom.
As I continued to play, my left arm stubbornly began to tremble. I focused on my piece, pretending the professors weren’t even there. If I pretended that I was alone, perhaps my body would obey.
Out of nowhere, like the snap of a rubber band stretched to its limits, Panic bared its teeth in a brutal smile. My clammy hands grew cold, my head spinning with lightheadedness and the sudden dread of an oncoming freight train of anxiety. Then, my soft palate collapsed, the sound similar to a snort of a pig.
I had been struggling with this phenomenon quite recently (I’d experienced it a bit back in high school during solo performances, but it usually came on after hours of playing my instrument). I had spoken with my clarinet professor about it, but he explained that he wasn’t very educated on the topic. It is physically impossible to continue playing my instrument when this happens.
It occurred during the most important exam of my journey through the Bachelor of Arts in Music. My heart rate spiked, my whole body filled with sweat and goosebumps, trembling like an autumn leaf. I hurriedly explained what was happening, certain that I had already failed the exam. A lump constricting my throat, I apologized over and over.
The woodwind faculty didn’t chastise or jump to any conclusions. The bassoon professor gently urged me to drink some water, explaining the soft palate collapse sometimes happens because of dehydration. I gulped down water, drinking half of my 16-ounce glass in a span of seconds.
My own clarinet professor asked if I felt all right to try and continue. He told me if so, I can continue when I was ready. “We’ll see what happens. If it happens again, we can stop. It’s not your fault.”
After some deep breaths, I positioned my instrument and continued to play. I finished off the movement, now only playing with a certainty that I had failed the exam and would only be playing for comments. I continued on to the next movement, this one faster-paced.
I filled my lungs with air, mentally counting the beats per minute. I began to play, later I would learn the fastest I’d played the movement (my professor and I had been working to get it this quick the entire quarter). My adrenaline-filled fingers flew over the keys. The beating of my heart put the speed of a galloping Thoroughbred to shame. I prayed every second that my soft palate wouldn’t collapse.
Finally, I reached the end of the movement. The movement is set up so that the performer rarely has a second to catch a breath; breaths must be strategically marked into the piece. The last passages flew from my fingers, and the last dramatic note greeted me.
Thankfully, my soft palate waited until I’d finished that last note to collapse one more time.
When I finished, I took my bow and awaited comments from the professors. They gave me quick feedback since my time slot was almost up. More comments would be written on the adjudicators’ sheet that I would receive at the next lesson with my professor. Still trembling from adrenaline, relief filled me when the saxophone professor mentioned that she had experienced the issue of the soft palate collapse with some of her students. I finally felt understood by another woodwind musician.
A couple days later, I received an email from my professor announcing that I had passed the exam. Shock filled me. I was certain I’d failed because I’d had to stop midway through my performance. But, in the end, my performance in general and the amount of improvement I showcased with it were the deciding factors in the grading scale.
Despite the excellent news, something within my academic—and career—path was not going in the right direction. This one performance forced me to do some reflection.
After much thought, I made the decision to change from Music to Creative Writing. This change felt like a weight heavier than lead had been lifted from my shoulders.
Because of what happened in that performance, it forced me to ask myself: why am I doing music? Do I love it? Do I want to do music as a career? The answers to all of these questions were the catalyst to why I needed to change majors.
After making the big change, my anxiety lessened as I signed up for English classes. Happiness filled me again, and my attitude towards school improved. I had always enjoyed parts of being a musician, but it never brought me as much joy and happiness as writing. Writing is just a different kind of music—one that I felt comfortable expressing myself through and sharing with others. Writing brought me inspiration, whereas being a musician often felt like a chore. I would switch to a writing degree and embark on a new quest—a quest where I would do what I had loved to do since I was twelve: write.
BIO
Erin Moine writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. She received her BA in English: Professional & Creative Writing from Central Washington University. She is currently a Graduate student in the English MA: Professional & Creative Writing program at Central Washington University and is set to complete the program during Winter of 2025. Outside of writing, Erin enjoys hiking, drawing, and reading (of course). She lives in the Pacific Northwest.
