On Saturday I played a concert. It was an excellent concert. I was playing with one of my favourite musicians – Genevieve Lang –  on harp. We were working with a group of wonderful, wonderful actors from a company called Sport For Jove. We’d spent a long time working on a program where the actors had chosen a piece of Shakespeare that would match to the music that Gen and I had proposed. The music was fabulous – lots of really different pieces that would make a great concert without the readings. But the music was made even better by there amazing deliveries by various actors that not only used the stage, but walked around the space, through the audience.

Have I painted a good enough picture yet? We’d done this program once before, so it was polished. We were in an amazing space in Katoomba. The sound was good. There were about 150 people there. I think you can understand how special the night was.

Before we started, one of the actors asked everyone to turn off their phones. I had then come out and repeated that. And as I was talking, someone’s phone went off. So I made a joke about it. So we’d well and truly reminded everyone. Three times. Thrice. Not one time. Not two times. But THREE TIMES.

About two-thirds into the concert off went the first phone. It threw the actor speaking, although they recovered really well. Then, within seconds the SECOND one went off. This time, it wasn’t just a ring. It also had the AI voice telling whoever the damn person who owned the phone the damn person calling. It threw me. My F sharp at the start of Mendelssohn’s ‘Song Without Words’ wasn’t well in tune. (And yes, I know I shouldn’t be thrown by this. But I am human.)

We got to the last piece. It was a beautiful moment, all about sleep. 7 of the 8 actors recited something about sleep from some moment in Shakespeare’s writing. Then Gen and I played the Aria from Bach’s ‘Goldberg’ variations. It’s HARD for me. The actors had spoken beautifully. We began really well.

You know what’s coming, don’t you? Yep. THE THIRD PHONE. By this stage I was angry. (I am pleased to say it didn’t affect my playing on the outside. But I was still angry.) I still am, a bit. Because we’d all worked really hard. We’d set up something for everyone to enjoy. To experience. And for the third time, someone wrecked it.

Now, I get that sometimes you are waiting for an important call. So sit at the back, with your phone on SILENT. And then leave the room before you answer it.

But don’t be this person who doesn’t turn off their phone. Because live moments get ruined. I’m not that important to leave my phone on. You’re probably not, either. And yes, you can tell me no-one died. It’s not that important. But performers work so hard to make things perfect for their audiences – to play the best they can. So it does become important. Don’t people come to live concerts to be transported? To be taken away from their life, and all the distractions? So – please – when you are asked by someone to turn your phone onto silent – DO IT. Or don’t come.

I’ve had a long term. And there have been SOOOOOO many performances. And afterwards I’m often mobbed by the kids who just performed. And they are all on a huge high. They are telling me what they did, and how good they were (forgetting that I was kneeling in front of them. But that’s fine. I agree with them. They were excellent!).  And then audience members talk to me about how much they loved it – perhaps a particular song, or piece, or even just the walking on and off.

Now – just step aside from all this post-performance chaos. There’s a big push by parts of the school system to ‘teach every child music’. And that’s a GREAT thing. I applaud it. But often, it’s a one-size-fits-all program. Or it’s teaching kids music things that don’t excite them. Not every child WANTS to learn a violin. Especially not in a group.

Back to the post-performance chaos. Some one who I respect HUGELY turned to me and said… “Rach, it’s not enough to just teach kids music, is it? You have to excite them. Make them want to learn it.”

That person is totally right. Because then they will love music for the rest of their lives. And the magic will keep happening. This musical craziness.

I had a converstaion with a friend recently about teaching adults. They wondered if I liked it. And why I did it. And did I have adults I liked to teach more than others.

So this got me thinking. AND my mother (hi, Mum!) told me I haven’t written a blog post in ages, so I am doing just that.

Yes, I like teaching adults cello. I don’t like it more or less than teaching kids. It is different, because you are wokring around their jobs, and other commitments. You are often dealing with self-doubt, or habits of over-thinking, and also older (and so a bit slower) bodies that take longer to physically learn things. I often have to explain things more carefully. But I am just as bossy, and just as demanding.

I don’t care what standard they are. I care if they practise. I care if they trust me to teach them well. I care if they improve. I don’t care if they take weeks to learn a musical concept. I don’t care if I have to explain something a number of different ways.

I do it because I can. And I am good at it. And I love sharing music with others. Playing the cello is so wonderful for me, I’d like it if more people did it. (Imagine a world where everyone played something. Wouldn’t that be a good place, eh?) And for every adult student that comes to me, I try and get them to play the best they can.

And do I have some I like more than others? Not really. I like the ones who pay me on time. I like the ones who try their best. I like the ones who enjoy the process of learning. Because learning something as a grown-up is challenging. It’s often hard. It makes the adult learner often uncomfortable.

We all should keep learning, you know. Keep our brains active. Keep pushing ourselves. I do this to remind myself of what my adult students go through each week – because they are inspiring. To me, but to themselves, mostly.

I don’t think a week goes by when I don’t have one or other of these conversations….

“Rachel, why isn’t this concert live-streamed?” And then something like this is said…. “You could increase your audience, you know.” or “I’m sure you could make more money…” or something like that.

Or then the other one… “So why can’t we see one of the live-streamed concerts live?” And then this is followed with “I don’t really like streaming.” or “I can’t hear it so well…” yada yada.

For every concert I do, I ask the other artists what they’d like to do, and mostly take their choice. Or I ask Ben (who does all the tech for me) if he’s happy to stream. Because the gear that is needed to stream is huge, and the care, and the set-up is incredibly time-consuming.

Some musicians don’t really like streaming. Most of us love to play live – to get the feedback from the audience. To hear things going on in the room – not just the applause, but also the sighing, or the reactions.

So thank you for your concern that I need bigger audiences (I’m happy with the audience I get, thanks), or more money (the money isn’t actually that different). And if you must know, I am (and always have been) someone who will only take direction from a very few trusted people. You’ll know if you are one of them.

I’ll just keep noodling along, thanks. On my own terms. And stream, or not, as the mood takes me.

It’s not a great time in schools at the moment. Teachers are tired – it’s the end of term, they’re having to write reports (that’s a lot of extra work for them), it’s cold, people are getting sick (both big people and little people) – it’s a bit of a drudge.

I am not immune to this either. One night I turned to Ben and said ‘I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I’m tired. I’m tired of being energetic. My body is sore. My brain is tired.’ We both knew that of course I’d go to school. Of course I’d be happy and energetic. But I didn’t want to.

And then this thing happened, in an elective choir I run at a program. I see kids who do it tough. REALLY tough. When I see this particular group, it’s early in the day, so they’ve not really got into the swing of things yet for the week. And they are tired too. And cold. But they came in, sat down and looked at me, ready to go. I warmed them up and then we started to sing the song we’d been working on for a few weeks. It’s hard, this song. They have to sing in a language that is the Indigenous language from the Kimberley region (called Yawuru. It took me AGES to learn this verse.). They sing and sign in AUSLAN at one point. There are three verses in English.

These kids gave it their ALL. So I started, for the first time (this is a new group – just started this year), asking them to control their breathing, to think in musical phrases, to follow my cut-offs. And it got better. They all sat taller. Their smiles appeared and got bigger. I sat taller too. My grin was enormous. These kids were extraordinary in this moment.

They wanted to perform to someone, so we asked some teachers up who were meant to be planning (and were good enough to give up their time) to come and listen. (The teachers at this school are totally wonderful…). We got a younger class up too. Just as I was about to press play on the backing track, the bell went for recess.

“Oh.” I said. “It’s time to go.”

Stern looks from the front row of the choir. “No, Rachel. We are SINGING.”

So I pressed play. And they were incredible. They sang like angels. They followed my conducting. They sang proudly. They seemed to take up more space in the room, each one of them. It was a moment I will remember for a long time. They nurtured me with their music-making. They gave me everything I asked – and them some.

They were sensational. Completely and utterly marvellous.