The Horn Player--Neurosis

We are all a little bit neurotic. This is partly or mostly due to the nature of the beast. You see, we are horn players. For this blog, I am going to use the nomenclature horn to designate what most people call a French horn since it is not really a "French" horn but in fact is an instrument with influence from several countries including Germany, England, France, and Italy. It is usually a flawed and sometimes dangerous practice to generalize personality traits or make judgments based on limited data and doing so can result in misunderstandings, but in this case, I am going to try. The life of a horn player playing his instrument is one of fear, joy, and occasionally sorrow.

The Horn is a difficult instrument requiring the courage of a lion and the sensitivity of a gentle lamb. The musical demands on the horn player are physically, emotionally, and musically exhausting. Yes, there are wonderfully exciting and exhilarating moments, moments to be loud, heroic, noble, commanding, strong, and muscular and these are balanced by the tender moments, those quiet, sensitive places that make the horn the most beautiful and touching of all the instruments. Its very diversity and magnitude make it treacherous for even the finest players, similar to walking a tightrope, or making that important and momentous move in a chess tournament, or hoping for your first kiss on a date, or awaiting your test results to pass your qualifying exams for your Ph.D., or skiing down the hardest slope, or eating a potentially poisonous piece of sushi, or making a speech to thousands, playing the horn is among the most stressful and rewarding experiences a person can have.

The rewards for excellence are numerous including accolades, frequent performances, recording contracts, specially composed works, and most of all the opportunity to play great music by the world's finest composers from solo to chamber to orchestral works. Even in my own mediocrity, I have been blessed to perform much of music's finest literature in many outstanding ensembles.

Equal to the rewards, however, comes the fear. The fear of the upcoming high, soft entrance. The fear of the look from the conductor. The racing of the heartbeat as a difficult solo gets nearer. The feeling whether real or perceived that the other players doubt your ability to play it well. The question of the possibility of letting the section or the orchestra or the conductor or even the audience down by playing something wrong. Or at another level, the fear of not being in tune or being too loud or too soft. The hours and years in the practice room will either find successful fruition or be recognized as a gross waste of time and effort. Which will it be?

That high note, just one note, not even all that important gets nearer and the measures move along steadily through various orchestrations and sonorities. It is only one note but it happens to be by itself. To hit it correctly is to win the game, right through the goalposts of musicball and become the champion, but to miss it is to wear a stigma on your forehead screaming loud and clear for all--LOSER. It is that last necessary free throw that will live forever in the minds of the players and the audience. It is the one opportunity for greatness, a life in the musical palace of excellence, or a life in the mudtown of substandard performance. You are mighty Casey and this is your last at bat. You will either become President of the horn success club or become Yertle the Turtle, king of nothing.

The note gets closer and closer and you wonder if you will survive. Your heart rate is fast and you begin to see lights spinning and feel weakness throughout your body. Shaking and quivering begins quickly to overtake your limbs and adrenaline threatens to implode your frail physiological self. The note is two measures away as you lift your horn for that treacherous moment. You place the horn on your face, breathe deeply, place your tongue carefully, hear the note in your mind, you know where it is and where it will be. Suddenly, almost shockingly, the orchestra drops out, the conductor glances your way, raises his baton, and signals the note...

After the concert, you get in the car, drive home, rest in the easy chair, and reflect on the evening. The note was played beautifully with precision, poise, sensitivity, and expression. Your palace is your home and the joy of the moment is past. You spend some time laughing at yourself and realize for the thousandth time in your career that horn players are neurotic for a good reason. Once again you wonder if it is all worth it...and you conclude without a doubt it is. As you turn in for the evening, you remind yourself to hide your neurosis from the rest world and attempt to be normal. But when you meet another horn player, there is no pretending. We are an odd but special breed. Such is the life of a horn player. Another day, another 50 cents!