Have you ever tried to play a top E on a bassoon? Sorry, silly question. Why would you want to?

I had to do it recently. Look, here’s a top E in the bass clef:

It has ledger lines. A ridiculous number of ledger lines. Am I a flautist? No.

Here it is in the tenor clef. This is supposed to make it better.

Frankly, it doesn’t help.

Now, I’m going to be completely honest. When I was confronted with that note, for the first time since the age of about 12 I felt utterly bewildered by my own instrument. I realised that I had no idea how to play a top E on a bassoon. Never before has it been remotely necessary.

So I looked it up on the internet.

It would appear that there as many ways to play top E on a bassoon as there are stars in the sky. There are numerous websites explaining how to do it. None of them agree.  This was not encouraging.

Anyway, I tried. I really did. For 7 days I attempted my top E, looking up various ways on the magic interweb to reach an absurdly unnatural register on what is, essentially, an instrument not designed to go there.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Which composer required me to make this much effort?

Ravel. His piano concerto in G major, if you’re interested in such things. Well yeah, exactly. Ravel was French. He wrote his bassoon part for a French bassoon.

Have you ever heard a French bassoon? No?

OK, imagine a whiny person whining about something or other… with a bad cold. That’s what a French bassoon sounds like. This is why most sensible people don’t play French bassoons – or `bassons’, as I believe they’re called in classical music circles.

Put it this way. The only thing going for a French bassoon (sorry, basson) is that they can play high notes. Stupidly high notes. The ones that most bassoonists clench their buttock muscles and say a prayer for.

You know the solo at the beginning of The Rite of Spring? Yep, it was written for a French bassoon. And apparently, the bassoonist had a spot of bother with it. I reckon it was that poor sod who started the riot. It saved embarrassment.

I play a German bassoon. Most of the time I’m told it sounds rather lovely. My neighbours, during those 7 days attempting my top E, will tell you that it sounded like a constipated cow trying to pass a baseball.

In the end I gave up and played it down the octave. Nobody noticed.

I hate flautists. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nothing personal. Some of my best friends in the world are flute players and as a musical species they’re invariably gorgeous, modest and utterly adorable. The fact is that I’m jealous. It’s because flutes don’t have reeds.

Yes I know, I promised never to write about reeds. After all, in the world of classical music there is simply nothing more guaranteed to bring on boredom-induced catatonia. Unfortunately, this doesn’t stop woodwind players going on about them. We spend hours faffing about with the bloody things, badgering our musical colleagues for their opinion on individual reeds.

“Do you think this reed sounds better than that reed? What about this one? How about I spend the next hour playing the same tune over and over, on every reed in my possession, so you can give me a direct comparison. So go on… Which one’s the best?”

“Dunno, they all sound the same.”

If you’ve never had to deal with the fickle, fragile, unpredictable madness of a reed you’ll probably be wondering what the fuss is about. Or you’ll have clicked away to read about something more interesting – bowing, probably.

But here’s the thing: all clarinettists, oboists and bassoonists are only as good as their reed. Seriously, you can take the best player in the world, Give them a crap reed and they’ll sound like a farting duck after 8 pints of beer and a vindaloo. So how can a simple piece of cane make such a difference?

I’ve no idea. Because here are 2 basic rules about reeds:

• Nobody understands how they work
• Nobody cares

There we’ll be, expected to make a splendidly gorgeous sound on every register of our instrument – grumblingly low, beautifully middle and somewhere up in the stratosphere where only the angels dwell. We breathe in, place the mouth and tongue at exactly the right place for musical perfection and go `t’. What happens? Nothing at all. Zilch. Or, at worst, a sound that only your mother could love – if she’s a bit deaf and has had a couple of sherries.

Everyone makes a face. You apologise. “Sorry, it’s my reed”. The conductor, along with all other members of the orchestra, tut quietly and raise their eyes to the heavens. You take out your reed-fiddling kit and caboodle – knife, plaque, pliers, tip cutter, chainsaw, industrial sander – and then stamp on the thing in a fit of pique. The flute player, meanwhile, looks smug.

As I said, I have absolutely no idea how a truly great reed comes into existence. I reckon it’s a combination of cane, a skilled reed-maker and a perfect alignment of the planets or something. Magic, in other words.

Partly because it’s a new year, but mostly because no one has beaten me up yet, here are some more toe-curling photographs of classical musicians trying to look cool.

First up are the cellists. For reasons which escape me, cellists appear to favour the great outdoors. Look, here’s one frolicking with his cello in the Alps…

What was that? You want me to move my chair back 6 inches? To get the right light. Uh,OK…

This next cellist has obviously checked out his rival’s publicity photo, and decided that extreme temperatures are a good way to get gigs.

Please help me. I’m lost in the desert and cellos are growing out of the sand.

Meanwhile, the chap below has left me momentarily lost for words. Yes I know. It’s unlike me. But really… What can I say?

Go on, fall off.

And now, on to the wealth of embarrassment presented to us by the classical flautist. What is it about flautists? Why can’t they just get themselves photographed fluting somewhere normal?

Quick, take the photo! I’m about to go under for the 3rd time…

Here’s another one. I honestly have no idea why this bloke is playing his flute to a koala bear.

Please get rid of this guy and bring me some eucalyptus leaves.

Mind you, flute players aren’t nearly as embarrassing as horn players.

It’s not my fault! The photographer made me do it.

I reckon something happens to horn players when they’re presented with a camera. Some strange, irresistible force compels them to do something silly with their instrument.

What? You want me to hold my horn in the normal position? Are you mad?

I think it’s about time we had some unnecessary nudity, don’t you?

Look, you’ve persuaded me to pose naked with my gamba. Just don’t expect me to look happy about it, OK?

You may have noticed the leafy garland. String players, when nude, seem to rather like them. This lot have taken the garland to a whole new level.

My garland’s bigger than yours.

And finally, here’s a picture of a man with a viol.

Now listen carefully. I’m about to give away a secret about orchestral musicians – something you probably haven’t noticed when you’re in the audience at a concert.

There we are on stage, dressed up in tails and tiaras, looking for all the world as though we’re taking things very seriously indeed. This is an illusion, a musical trompe l’oeil. Because actually, at any given time, most of us are a hemidemisemiquaver away from a helpless, hysterical fit of the giggles. Snorts of laughter. Uncontrollable guffaws.

Now you could, if you were being nice about it, put this down to the pressure of performance. The nerve-racking precision required to play classical music well. The constant looking-over-your-shoulder worry that there’s someone out there who’s better than you – and they want your job. Yeah yeah, yada yada. It’s got nothing to do with this.

It’s because our collective sense of humour is that of a 3 year old.

For starters, let’s take the opening of Tchaikovsky’s 5^th Symphony. The sombre, funereal introduction – the narrative paradigm of per aspera ad astra which manifests as an overall tonal trajectory of E minor to E major,  “a complete resignation before fate, which is the same as the inscrutable predestination of fate”.  Bollocks. This is what musicians hear at the beginning of Tchaikovsky’s 5^th:

Who’s got the keys to the shithouse?

Name virtually any piece of classical music, anything at all. You can bet that we’ll have made up rude words to it.

I’m not going to reveal all our offensive lyrics here because there are just too many. Well OK, maybe a couple – but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Scheherezade (“Oh my god, I’ve had a wet dream again”); the famous solo at the beginning of Till Eulenspiegel (“This French horn player, this French horn player, this French horn player, will be lucky if she doesn’t fuck it up”).

Anyway, you get the picture. Childish.

Not that I’m making excuses or anything, but I think our perilous proximity to hysterics is down to a dichotomy. OK, that sounds pretentious. Let me explain. Basically, classical music is taken very seriously. Therefore it’s extremely funny when it goes wrong.

You know that bit in the Verdi Requiem? The beginning of the Dies Irae, when the percussion player bashes the life out of an enormously huge bass drum? It’s dramatic. One of those genuinely terrifying ‘Day of Wrath’ classical moments. In other words, it’s serious. Have you guessed where I’m going with this?

Yep.

Apparently, the drum wasn’t properly secured to its stand.

It didn’t make it past the second bash. Following the percussionist’s enthusiastic run-up, it rolled magnificently and unstoppably through the entire orchestra. Gradually picking up speed as it went, the bass drum left a trail of felled musicians who utterly failed to contain their glee.

Next time you go to a concert, pay close attention to the orchestra. At least one of us will be laughing.

Well, no one’s sued me yet for the last blog. So I’ve decided to take the risk and share more excruciating photographs of classical musicians.

I probably ought to say again, just in case… I don’t know any of these people, and I’m sure they’re all excellent at playing their instruments. What they can’t do, however, is tell the difference between a good photographer and a potato.

First up, the bottomless pit of embarrassing photographic awfulness that is the wind quintet.

Ooh, it’s a stave! And hey, that’s clever, we’re sitting on it! (Er, does anyone know why?)

And here’s another one. They are posing in a manner known in the classical music world as…”zany”.

I play the French horn. What the hell am I supposed to do with this bloody oboe?

For some reason, classical musicians often feel that posing for a photograph with their instrument in the normal position is somehow boring. Take this violinist, for example. (I think she may be rather famous – but bear in mind that I’m a bassoonist, so I wouldn’t know.)

I’m so talented that I can, in fact, play Paganini’s 24 Caprices with  my violin in this position. Ner.

And here’s another supremely awkward violin pose. Although this one does at least have the instrument wedged in a relatively normal place.

I forgot to take my socks off.

Talking of uncomfortable poses, I’ve found a whole load of musicians falling into the sea. It seems to be some sort of trend. Look, here’s a cellist.

I play a Strad you know. Oh bugger.

And here’s a viola player.

What’s the difference between a viola player and a-…  

Right, that’s enough string players for the time being. Here’s a random photograph of a person holding far too many instruments.

I can play all these things. And look! One of them is a banana.

Still, at least she’s not trying to look cool… with an oboe.

Yeah, I’m in the desert gazing meaningfully into the distance. And I have an oboe slung casually over my shoulder. As you do.

  Lastly, and just for the sake of it really, here’s a teensy weensy oboist.

When I grow up, I’m going to be a hedge fund manager.

I’ve fallen in love with people because of the way they play. Quite unremarkable-looking people, in fact. Wouldn’t notice them in the street. But when they pick up an instrument the sound they make is so beautiful, so gorgeously sensual and nuanced, I’d marry them on the spot.

Funnily enough, really good musicians often turn out to be rather loveable people. Others though… Well I’d rather bite my own arm off. We’ve all met them. Some of us have been on dates with them. The advantage of being a musician is that you can avoid sticky situations in advance by listening to the way they play. Here they are…

The selfish lover crashes horribly early over bar lines with all the sensitivity of a charging bull elephant. Genuinely believes that he (or she… sorry) is the only musician in the orchestra.

The screamer draws attention to themselves with excessive movement whilst playing. It’s a practice commonly known amongst wind players as “soup stirring”. They occasionally finish off a phrase with an over-elaborate arm flourish.

The early finisher is sweat-soaked mess of extreme nerves during gigs. They have a habit of unwarranted fidgeting just before solos. Occasionally they will mutter things to themselves such as “don’t f**k it up”.  The ensuing solos are, inevitably, rushed.

The inattentive paramour is slightly behind the beat at all times. I can’t work out if this is down to a lack of confidence or because they’re short-sighted and can’t see the downbeat. Either way, they’re best avoided. You’ll end up killing them.

The over-confident disappointment plays absolutely everything too loudly.

It was a viola player, in case you were wondering.

While waiting at the bar for a post-concert beer the other day, one of the bar stool regulars peered suspiciously at my instrument case and then asked the question that most bassoonists dread:

“Wassat then?”

“It’s a bassoon” may have come out more wearily than I intended. But instead of the usual “Wassa bassoon?” he looked at me, looked at the case and then said “Bloody ‘ell, why the f**k do you play the bassoon?” Well it’s a fair question isn’t it.

Why the f**k do I play the bassoon? Here are 5 reasons:

1. Reeds – In short, we’re not oboists. We do not spend hours fiddling with a reed and most bassoonists will not, under any circumstances, discuss them. OK, I have occasionally stamped on one in extremis. But most of us will avoid wittering on about our reeds. We just put up with them and get on with it.
2. Tunes – We get the best ones. OK, the cellos get some truly stonking tunes with the added advantage of being able to sing along. But they have to play in a flock, as do the violins and violas. Oboists (them again) and flutes have lots of tunes but they have to play them ALL THE TIME and familiarity breeds contempt in my book. A melody on the bassoon is a rare and special thing of beauty.  I’m not going to mention clarinets. Or the brass. They’re just loud.
3. Bass lines – Obviously… I just like them, that’s all.
4. The contra bassoon – How do I begin to describe the joy that is the contra bassoon? Unlike the bassoon, which is the quietest instrument in the orchestra, the contra bassoon creates such a ground-shaking, bone-tremblingly delicious noise it could fell an oak tree 10 miles away. I go all gooey just thinking about it.
5. Other bassoonists – See number 3.

Anyway, I didn’t say any of this to the bloke at the bar. I just smiled politely and replied:

“Because I can”.