The Omniscient Mussel » Vignettes

Upstairs/Downstairs

Miss Mussel — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 06:54:47 +0000

The following story actually happened while I was working as a chambermaid at a four star hotel in Manchester city centre. What music students won’t do to pay the bills. I wish I was embellishing, but truth really is stranger than fiction here. [Warning: Things do get a little graphic towards the end, so depending on your situation, it's may be best to read at home.]

An informational aside before we begin: The toilets in England are a different shape than those in North America. Imagine a beer stein and then put a shallow oblong bowl on top; that is roughly the shape of the English toilet. As a result, there is no water in the actual bowl portion, only a little bit in the beer stein part. This may seem to be superfluous information at the moment but stick with me and all will be revealed.

I arrived in the room and began the usual routine of gathering up all the dirty linen, collecting all the garbage and opening the windows. Opening the windows is of vital importance even in the middle of winter as it is imperative that the stale-Marlborough-and-wet-air-from-the-shower smell gets aired out. Also, people seem to feel obligated to take advantage of the free heat and always crank the thermostat to max, which usually results in a somewhat heady, wholly indescribable fragrance unlikely to be appreciated by the next guest.

Most of the rooms were pretty clean that day so I was counting on an early finish. Dreams of an early night fizzled quickly when I lifted the lid on the toilet. There, on the left hand side of the bowl, was the biggest skid I had ever seen. If you will just indulge me a little more detail here… small skids are not unusual due to the lack of water and shape of the toilet bowl. This one however was enormous and three dimensional.

After doing a little dance about how gross that was, I took a few moments to formulate a plan. Several options were considered. I decided the best plan was to drench it in toilet cleaner and place my faith in the near tidal wave power of the flush to rid the bowl of all or at least most of the offending item. Here is another British conundrum to go with questionable dental hygiene and windows that do not keep out drafts. Why does the toilet flush with such torrential power but I could spit with more force than the trickle that comes out of the shower? And to think that this country once ruled the world. Honestly. I’m sure the Romans would have had all of these things completely under control.

Anyway, back to the toilet. After making the bed and letting the item soak in industrial-strength chemicals for 10 minutes, I decided to try my luck. Two flushes later the cold, iron claw of reality was planted firmly on my shoulder. Bravely, after another two “this is so completely disgusting” dances I brandished my toilet brush and started to scrub.

I soon discovered that the item was baked on. The item’s resilience started me thinking about how long it would have had to be there in order to become so dried out. That train of thought was stopped immediately as it was clearly going nowhere good. I strengthened my grip on the brush, closed my eyes, grimaced and began to scrub all the while trying to control the bile that was rising in my throat.

The item finally broke apart only to expose its soft under layer which was subsequently smeared all over the side of the bowl. Clearly my technique left much to be desired. I employed the power of the flush to try and remedy the smearing and remove the particles from the bristles of the brush. The first problem was solved but it took two more flushes and some extensive swirling in the clean water to rid the brush of evidence. Ew.

In order to try and forget this incident I continued on with the rest of the bathroom. I had noticed some hair on the rim of the toilet, which is completely normal and some on the counter, also normal. What was abnormal was they were the type of hair, if you get my drift, and there was quite a bit of it. As I bent down to wipe the floor I discovered a huge pile of the same behind the garbage can. Because it was that special kind of hair and had never been shaven, it was too light for the vacuum and kept blowing away. Brooms are not generally part of the the chambermaid’s basic equipment so I had no choice but to wipe it up by hand.

So, putting all of the puzzle pieces together (for those that need a little less vagueness), it looks like that particular guest decided to do some cosmetic trimming in the nether regions but neglected to place the surplus in the garbage.

The rest of the room was absolutely spotless.

There was a boarding pass from Bergen on the table.

Crazy Norwegians.

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This One Time….

Miss Mussel — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 08:19:34 +0000

Four years ago, I was contracted by happenstance to play the Beethoven Horn sonata on a charity concert. The stance, as it happened, was that I was practicing for my Masters recital in the concert hall just before the pianist had booked some time and the rest, as they say, is history. The fee was an embarassingly modest £25 but had I known what was in store on concert day, I would have done it for free.

A rehearsal was hastily arranged and I turned up ready for a couple run throughs. As he sat down, the pianist opened his score the way bibliophiles do a new hardcover. Each page was painstakenly creased from the inside out to ensure the spine was broken in evenly. Since this was a charity concert, I threw a little his way an assumed that he had just bought a new edition.

Wrong.

Within 12 bars, it was clear that the piece was new to him in every possible way. A few bars later, I began to suspect that F major was as well. After three hours of assisted practicing, I finally extricated myself and proceed to the bar to try and quash the dread growing within like mold on week-old bread.

Concert night.
I wasn’t on til later but I arrived early to make sure everything was set up. After zipping the violinist into her dress, we settled in to wait our turn. It was then the gossip started to flow. The story was that this guy had setup an elaborate scheme to ensure that he always had audiences for his concerts. He would write regularly to a group of elderly ladies specially selected for their gullibility and loose purse strings. They, being so honoured to have an artist of his stature communicating with them personally would come to every concert he ever gave and willingly pay through the nose for it.

During the first half of the concert, he played a variety of small pieces and then settled in for the Moonlight Sonata. The triplets unravelled themselves in a fairly unspectacular manner until about the middle of the second page. Then, without warning the pianist stood up and announced that he could not continue playing while someone was rustling candy. He left the stage, saying he would come back when they were ready to listen properly. The violinist and I were watching all this from backstage, mouths hanging to the floor. After a few minutes, the pianist deigned it time to return AND THE AUDIENCE APPLAUDED HIM TO THE PIANO. It seems that one of the advantages of having an elderly audience is that they forget the rudeness and abuse hurled on them minutes earlier.

My turn to play came in the second half. The Beethoven Sonata starts with horn alone, which was just as well because I got the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t have thought twice about starting without me. Some practicing must have occurred between our rehearsal and the concert because he managed to get through with only a little bit of faking although his concentration was such that I would have been further ahead to play with a tape.

The sonata is only about 12 minutes long and is, for all intents and purposes, in F major the whole time. The last third of the third movement is a huge buildup to a fortissimo ensemble F major cadence.

He cadenced in B flat.

And then tried to cover it up before the coda started.

16 bars later we were afforded rapturous applause and I managed to make it safely backstage before giving in to the giggles.

He pretended nothing had happened.

Bloody typical.

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Overheard

Miss Mussel — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 21:54:38 +0000

Miss Mussel had her reviewer’s hat on last night and managed to overhear this delight:

Computer Engineering Student #1: I wonder if you can hire these guys?
CES #2: What guys?
CES #1: The orchestra…you know, for a party.
CES #2: What kind of party would you have an orchestra at?
CES #1: Dude. Any party. Like we’d be playing beer pong, then fall down and then they could play.
CES #2: da da da daaah [opening of Beethoven's Fifth]

The boys collapse into fits of giggles and the orchestra takes the stage.
All in a day’s work.

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Me, You & Edith: Montreal Edition

Miss Mussel — Mon, 26 Nov 2007 06:00:17 +0000

Three final year horn players rent a car and drive six hours to Montreal to audition for grad school. It is February. In Quebec. Something the girls have failed to take into account when packing their suitcases in balmy Southern Ontario. It’s not a big deal. They were only going for two days anyway. It’s not like they couldn’t deal with a little snow.

We arrive midafternoon in Dorval, where we were meant to stay the night at a friend of a friend of Edith’s family. After a few hours, the snow is approaches blizzard level, so we decide that it would be prudent to stay in the city at a this friend of a friend’s daughter’s place so as to maximize the amount of warm up available pre-audition. We bundle back into the car and head to the city without incident despite the heavy snow.

Until we have to park the car.

There are no driveways in Montreal, just road parking, a sport in which Montrealers take great pride. If a spot is too small it is only because you are not trying hard enough. Normally Miss Mussel takes pride in her parallel parking skills but here, in the land of ice, snow and seriously steep inclines, she was well out of her league.

We arrive in the apartment to discover that there are no spare beds, only a living room with the original parquet floor. Despite her sleeping bag and Thermarest, Miss Mussel’s hip bones pinged her out of fitful sleep with disturbing regularity. A scalding shower was the only salve.

Alas, it was not in the cards.

Our hosts had neglected to mention the previous evening that their shower wasn’t working. Not a problem. Miss Mussel had a snazzy set of performance clothes at the ready. The lack of shower was unfortunate but could be overlooked. Razor sharp pleats can make anyone look smart.

No iron. Hippies. Should have guessed as much.

Host mildly put off by Miss Mussel’s incredulity re: dearth of small appliances normally deemed necessary for civilised living.

The choice between yesterday’s driving clothes and horrifically wrinkled performance togs was fraught with cons. A quick survey of companions revealed that a) they had thought to bring clothes that did not need ironing and b) agreed with Miss Mussel that yesterday’s outfit was the only real choice.

Troops are gathered post Muesli and we march off to the car. It is early and the sidewalk plough has not yet reached this neighbourhood. We take to the road and arrive at our car with relative ease.

The road plough has been by and the car is now encased by a crusty layer of frozen snow. We are stuck and up to our knees in winter wonder trying to dig out our chariot. Time is ticking away and progress is negligable. The neighbour takes pity on us and lends a shovel but not a hand. We manage to free the car and a few minutes spent with the RPMs in the danger zone mean we are able to gain enough purchase to proceed forwards up the hill rather than sliding back down it while still in drive.

Feeling triumphant, Miss Mussel sits down on the piano bench to collect her thoughts. The practice room has a mirror and she notices that day-old gel and snow fall result in hair oily enough to interest the Saudis. Also, her re-wear jeans are sporting a unfortunate ketchup stain thanks to a refueling stop the day before.

Demoralized, Miss Mussel decides to get warmed up. The room is dead. The sound stops before it even leaves the instrument. Everything seems difficult. Fingers are slow. Brain is fuzzy.

Miss Mussel takes a break and looks around the room. The sound tiles are poor substitutes for bathroom stalls but musicians are a resourceful lot. Graffiti abounds.

Anna hearts Kevin.
Etienne and Caroline 4EVAH

Go eat a bag of soggy dicks.

There is a tap on the door. No time to be disgusted.

This way to the audition room, please.

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Beans, Beans, The Musical Fruit…

Miss Mussel — Fri, 05 Oct 2007 18:59:28 +0000

A couple of years ago, Miss Mussel was lured to a Halle Orchestra concert by a bit of Tchaikovsky. This is noteworthy in itself, as she almost always find his works to be overly sentimental, deathly dull affairs. The ticket led to a balcony seat next to a pair of women in their forties giggling like school girls.

Mildly perplexed, Miss Mussel took her seat, tried to remain nonchalant and began eavesdropping with intent. The concert programme has always proven to be an excellent prop in these situations. It’s amazing how the conductor’s biography can suddenly become a fascinating piece of literature when the need presents itself.

It quickly became apparent that these ladies were not just giggling idly. No, they were perpetuating an age-old tradition practised worldwide, across all cultural and socio-economic groups: scheming for men. This is a reflexive action for women and cannot be avoided no matter how strong their feminist leanings may be, so Miss Mussel was on to the plot in very short order. Here’s how it was supposed to go down:

From their vantage point in the balcony, these intrepid ladies could clearly search the stalls for the most suitable men. Once each had chosen their man, they would accidentally drop their umbrellas over the balcony onto said man. Then, they would each have the opportunity to rush down, apologise profusely and insist that they make up for this terribly rude behaviour by going out for a post-concert drink. The rest of the plan obviously involved falling madly in love and living happily ever after.

Every plan has its problems but this one had a fatal flaw. Even Miss Mussel, the International Cricket Sensation that she is, could not guarantee an umbrella/javelin hitting the right man from 40 feet in the air. The chances of it hitting the heavy-breathing, unwashed man seated just to the left of Mr Dreamboat or the aging lothario in the row behind were way too high for her liking. Miss Mussel has an uncanny knack for attracting these gems at the interval anyway. It’s a universally-recognised hazard of being a lone female concert-goer under thirty.

The ladies calmed down a little bit and the hall was nearly full. Everyone was settling in nicely when I felt the woman beside shift a little in her seat. It was almost imperceptible but there was a definite leaning to one side. Miss Mussel didn’t think that much of it until a few seconds later when she became aware of a sort of odour permeating the airspace of A-72 Choir Circle. Faint at first and then stronger until stopping breathing was really the only available option.

Considering that baked beans are practically the national side dish in Britain, breakfast, lunch and dinner, Miss Mussel was surprised that this was her first run-in with the public emission of noxious gas. There have been plenty of incidents since then. All part and parcel of riding the bus with 70 strangers each day.

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Off The Cuff

Miss Mussel — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 16:06:40 +0000

Kenneth Sillito at Friday night’s concert:

We’ve heard tonight the work of teenagers. Shostakovich wrote his octet at 19, Mendelssohn his at age 16. There is another fantastic piece for this combination also written by a teenager, Georges Enescu, the great Romanian violinist, pianist, composer, singer etc. It is incredibly beautiful and takes about 40 minutes to complete. I’m sure you will all enjoy it very much [starts to sit down] but now we are going to play Last Spring, by Grieg.

Audience roars and most of the ASMF collapses like schoolgirls into fits of giggles. The band gets ready to play only to be overtaken again by laughter, leading to the following announcement by one of the cellists.

While my colleagues are trying to get control of themselves, which may take a while, I should like to take this opportunity to mention that this ensemble is recording the Enescu Octet in 3 days time, so if you wish to hear it….please buy it.

More giggling and then Last Spring begins.

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The One That Started It All

Miss Mussel — Sat, 22 Sep 2007 04:31:51 +0000

On her About page, Miss Mussel acknowledges the influence of Sir Donald Francis Tovey. The real truth is that he is the reason this blog got started in the first place. Well, that and writing about reverse mortgages really tends to destroy rather than nourish Miss Mussel’s soul. Here’s how it went down:

One day in during the Spring of 2004, Miss Mussel was minding her own business in a practice room when her concentration suddenly slipped. Saint-Saens’ Morceau du Concert had lost what little appeal it had and her mind started to wander. Seeing nothing but grey skies and dreary concrete outside her window, Miss Mussel instead began to stare absently at the items in her little bubble. An empty bookshelf, the remnants of the previous occupant’s snack and a beat-up desk determined to soldier on for another fifty or so years, the broken drawer and deeply scratched top merely flesh wounds.

As she approached the bookshelf, Miss Mussel spotted an orange book likely left by some absent-minded pianist. It was the ABRSM edition of the Beethoven piano sonatas with annotation by one Sir Donald Francis Tovey. Here’s some of what he had to say about Piano Sonata Op 10 No.3 in D major.

“In some early editions, a very silly person inserted a crescendo leading to a fortimisso end. If people still exist who do not see the point of a pianissimo arpeggio without pedal and with an exact final crochet, why consider their interests?”

The words were like heaven. A perfect blend of cantankerous wit and joy. It was enough to show Miss Mussel that it was possible to talk about music without having her head stuck up her own ass. A critic could be funny and still credible. Even be knighted.

The wit and good humour of mid-century music books is largely absent from the much more serious (and, of course, more important…yawn) volumes written by late century commentators. Miss Mussel has a fairly large vocabulary but wading through Adorno or Said is impossible without all twenty volumes of the Unabridged OED open and at the ready.

Blogs, of course, have changed the scene entirely. Mischief makers such as Soho The Dog and Jeremy Denk regularly entertain as well as illuminate.

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A Propos of Nothing

Miss Mussel — Thu, 20 Sep 2007 02:37:09 +0000

Scene: A grocery store in Southern Ontario

OM: Excuse me, where do you keep the tahini?
Adolescent Stock Boy: The tzatziki?
OM: No, tahini. It’s a sesame street paste.
ASB: Sesame Street?
OM: Yes, sesame street.
ASB: [obviously wondering if Miss Mussel is suffering from some sort of mental defect]
OM: Oh no! Wait. I meant sesame seed.
ASB: Sesame seed…oh, that’s Aisle 7, bottom shelf near the almond butter.
OM: Thanks. Ummm…before you go, where might a person find the tai chi latte mix?
ASB: You mean chai tea?
OM: [defeated] Yes. Oh dear. I think I should just go home now.
ASB: That’s probably a good idea.

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Sunday Evening at the Theatre: The Interview

Miss Mussel — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 04:17:04 +0000

The Omniscient Mussel Theatre is proud to present a fabulous one act play provisionally entitled The Interview.

Dramatis personae
Distinguished Professor - a well known expert on Shostakovich and, as it turns out, semiotics.
Somewhat Younger Professor - a quintessentially British academic, stammering, fumbling, hair constantly falling in the eyes, razor sharp wit.
Miss Mussel - PhD candidate, forthright and intelligent with no patience for academic hubris. Mouth perhaps a little to fast for the brain.

Miss Mussel is in a small office deep in the heart of England getting ready for her PhD interview. Distinguished Professor has already discussed the proposed thesis topic and is now, along with Somewhat Younger Professor, initiating a relaxed, informal grilling of the candidate.

SYP: Can I get you a glass of water?
MM: Yes, that would be lovely, thanks.

[water appears in plastic cup. DP still rummaging absently through papers on desk]

SYP: Right then, let’s get started. Did you have a question DP?
DP: So, Miss Mussel….emm..[rummages more] what is your opinion on semiotics?

[slight pause]

MM: Ummm….well….I think it’s a load of bollocks really.

[DP looks stunned but quickly recovers. SYP is also surprised and tries to casually cover his mouth with his hand]

MM: [very matter-of-factly] I mean, there is certainly some value to it but at the end of the day, you can always find what you’re looking for. If you want the second theme of K407 to have a homo-erotic subtext, it will.

[SYP suddenly develops some sort of breathing problem and starts to make strange snorting sounds. His face is flushed and his eyes are watering. His whole upper body is tremoring and he studiously avoids eye contact with DP]

DP: [fidgets in chair and seems slightly uncomfortable] Right. Well there certainly are many opinions about it and it’s nice to see that you are able to articulate your point of view so clearly. Did you have any questions SYP?

[SYP is now feigning a coughing spasm and can only nod that he has no further questions.]

DP: Ok then. That about wraps things up at this end. Give us a few days to talk this over and we’ll be in touch.
SYP: It was really lovely to meet you. A real pleasure. I do hope we see more of you in future.

[scene fades to black]

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Idiocy and the Border Patrol

Miss Mussel — Fri, 24 Aug 2007 21:36:09 +0000

The Rambler is spot on. The US Border guards are the most “inappropriately incompetent, lazy, smugly authoritarian individuals” Miss Mussel has ever encountered too. She has also been through Heathrow. And Luton. The Niagara border patrol people are definitely on the OM black list. When shopping around for Master’s programs some years ago, Miss Mussel went for a trial lesson in Cleveland.

A friend was also going for a lesson also and what follows is a fairly accurate reconstruction of our exchange with a border guard in Niagara Falls. Miss Mussel if fairly certain that our guy was that year’s favourite in the INS Condescender of the Year pageant. His talent was a unique combination of megalomania, surliness and utter idiocy.

BG: Where are you going?
OM: Cleveland
BG: Why are you going there?
OM: To have a lesson at CIM.
BG: Are you a student there?
OM: Not yet, but perhaps in September.
BG: When are you coming back?
OM: Tomorrow
BG: So you’re going to have one lesson and then come straight back?
OM: Yes [starts to wonder if BG is hard of hearing and talks louder]
BG: And you’re not a student there.
OM: NO
BG: What about her? [points vaguely in direction of friend]
OM: WHAT ABOUT HER, WHAT?
BG: What’s she doing?
OM: THE SAME THING AS I AM, ONLY WITH A DIFFERENT TEACHER.
BG: So, you’re both going to study?
OM: Yes [realises BG is not deaf, merely stupid]
BG: Can I see your visas? [hypothesis confirmed]
OM: We don’t need visas. We’re only going for one lesson and then coming right back.
BG: What’s the point of that?
OM: To see if we like the school and teachers. [wonder if BG is having us on or is really one knife short]
BG: What good is that going to do?
OM: It will help us decide if we want to audition for a place for September. [maintains patient voice and saintly expression despite internally rolling eyes]
BG: What’s that in the backseat?
OM: A cello.
BG: What’s it for?
OM: Playing music with. [honestly, where does the INS find these people?]
BG: Are you giving a concert?
OM: No. We are having trial lessons. [briefly considers making a sign. Perhaps BG is just a visual learner]
BG: How long are you going to be in the country for? [with serious memory problems]
OM: Less than 36 hours.
BG: When are you coming back? [dropped on his head as a child]
OM: Tomorrow.
BG: Ok. Welcome to America
OM: uh…thanks. [drive away slowly and completely bewildered by what has just transpired]

The return crossing the next day took all of two minutes. The Canadian officers always seem genuinely glad to have one of their own back in the fold.

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Carilloneuse

Miss Mussel — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 20:29:22 +0000

A lovely surprise in the OM mailbox today: a note from Jonathan Bellman relating his experience with the carillon. As stated in the About page, Miss Mussel is a bit of a carilloneuse herself although nowhere near what one would call accomplished.

This was the most entertaining bit of Jonathan’s post:

Does Norm know how to play a twelve-bar blues? No. So I write one up: swung-rhythm C-G, C-A, C-B-flat, C-A…twice on C, once on F, once on C, once on G, once on F, twice on C. Repeat 432 times and fade, as pop sheet music has it. Meanwhile, I’m trying to do blues licks and so on on the high chimes, flapping around the clavier like a maniac. With follow-through you can move around pretty quickly and not hurt yourself (or not hurt yourself much). I really have no idea what it sounded like other than that we kept the beat and progression and that there is no instrument less suited to da blooz than a carillon.

Mischieveous persons such as Miss Mussel occasionally find the lure of the carillon overwhelming. It is the perfect vehicle for pranks, offering the lethal combination of anonymity and maximum coverage.

While searching for appropriate carillon music, Miss Mussel came across the delightfully inappropriate “Hockey Night In Canada” theme music. For those that do not call the Great White North home, this is Canada’s unofficial anthem and is heard every Saturday before the CBC hockey broadcast. It is particularly popular because it doesn’t have any words to forget and da da da da daaaah is inherently bilingual thus eliminating the need to sing half in each official language.

The chances of Miss Mussel succumbing to the pressure and making her own Hockey Night In Canada broadcast at some point in the near future are good but for now, she is happy to stick to Satie and the Bach cello suites.

Since her music training did not include organ lessons, Miss Mussel’s foot technique leaves something to be desired. Essentially, her feet dangle uselessly from the bench, employed only for the occasional pedal note or very slow cadence. Miss Mussel discovered this instrument in May and continues to live in hope that one day, she may be able to achieve this: