Christmas Concerts and Submissive Puppies

You might wonder what the two have in common—Christmas concerts and submissive puppies. I'll tell you.

My orchestra is performing it's Christmas concert this coming weekend, and we sat through our first rehearsal last night. Because this is a light pops concert, we only have three rehearsals. Honestly, we could do with four. As is tradition, the second half of the concert will be performed with a children's chorus made up of at least 80 kids all dressed in black and white and fidgety. In the horn section, some of us think they are darlings, and some of us think they are a nuisance. It's always a debate—they're so cute—no they aren't—yes they are—no they aren't.

This year, the first half of the concert will be performed with Divine Hope, a gospel group from Akron. Most of their music has been orchestrated, but we all end up being background no matter what we play. On our own we'll be performing a new piece composed by our conductor, and a few of the brass players will be playing antiphonally on the side in a brass choir—I'm one of them.

So, at the rehearsal last night, we ran through this new piece, the most complicated on the schedule, and I held my own. I had practiced, so I was prepared and didn't shy away from the exposed parts. Now that I have heard it played by the entire group, I'll know better how to practice this week. After an hour or so, the guy who plays third horn showed up and took his seat, just in time to play a simpler piece. Before we could even begin, he pointed out that the second part looked as if it were intended for the third horn player because it's higher in range than what is written for the third part—traditionally, the third part is indeed higher than the second. I could have shrugged and ignored him, but did I? No. I rolled over and said, "I don't mind playing the bottom if you'd like to switch parts," setting the tone for the rest of the evening, acknowledging the guy as the alpha player, the bigger dog.

When we rehearsed the next piece, the conductor asked that we only play with two horns because it was a light piece and didn't need all four. I had the second part and could have just played it. It was simple enough to sight read, and I could have handled it with ease. But did I? No, I didn't. Like a submissive puppy, the kind that rolls over immediately and hands the world over to the bigger more aggressive dog, I kindly looked at the guy and said, "Would you like to play it?" It wasn't an unreasonable courtesy actually, given that when pieces are written for only two horns, he is given the second part anyway, but it wouldn't have been unreasonable for him to kindly hand it back to me. That was the response I was hoping for. That isn't how it works, though, is it? When the submissive puppy rolls over and reveals his vulnerable under belly, the aggressive take-everything-I-want-and-now dog doesn't roll over, too. He bites.

So, there I sat with nothing to play, and I seethed. It was such a simple part and not even very interesting. It doesn't matter one way or the other if I get to play it, but I seethed anyway because I didn't even hesitate to hand over what I wanted. I voluntarily gave up my music, and I voluntarily rolled over like a puppy who doesn't know how to stand up and grab onto the bone that should be mine.

I wouldn't last five minutes in a pack of dogs. I would be the one eating the left over scraps of the scraps—the rind and the grisle. And I would tuck my tail between my legs and seethe about it all the way home.