BY LUCY RASH
eisteddfod (aɪˈstɛdfəd; Welsh aɪˈstɛðvɔd)
n, pl -fods or -fodau (Welsh aɪˌstɛðˈvɒdaɪ)
1. any of a number of annual festivals in Wales, esp. the Royal National Eisteddfod, in which competitions are held in music, poetry, drama, and the fine arts. Origin: Welsh
2. a breed of performing arts competition striking equal parts passion and fear in the hearts of young musicians everywhere
I have (mainly) fond memories of eisteddfods. Having grown up in a small country town, the mere mention of the word prompts visions of the region’s little musos getting about in their performance getup amongst a sea of vigilant minders; some subscribing to the typical stage parent profile (opinionated and overly involved) and others preferring to hang back and let their child experience the full gamut of emotions conjured up by such a situation.
The memories are clear as ever: tables full of carefully inscribed trophies and Certificates of Commendation to the side of the hall, the aurally delicate yet imposing *ting* of the adjudicator’s bell, and my arch nemesis (Laura Evans, now a dear friend of course) and her exquisite, deep brown violin that I admired/envied more and more every year. Funnily enough, The Eisteddfod was the place I first learnt the meaning (and impact) of the word ‘intonation’. It was where my young colleagues and I negotiated the sensitive issue of default positions (i.e. if you’re the only person in the section, do you win it? Do you place? Do you place at all?) and where I truly learnt the value of a good accompanist – obviously worth their weight in gold.
I remember – vividly – my first performance. I was nine years old, playing something like a typical Suzuki method adaption of a Brahms waltz, in fawn jodhpurs, brown leather boots, a mustard suede vest, and a crisp pink and green checked shirt. What a picture of effortless beauty! I remember thinking how incredible I looked at the time – so did Mum – but The Adjudicator thought otherwise. He made it all too clear in his comments, the contents of which are too painful (in the mind of a meek and impressionable nine-year-old) to reproduce here. It was a formative experience, but certainly doesn’t discount the more enjoyable eisteddfod experiences I had – like playing Wieniawki’s Legende to a packed Sale Memorial Hall or kicking butt with my high school trio in the ensemble sections. The list of memories is endless.
I invite you to collect a plate of delicious CWA-supplied morning tea from the trestle table as we sit down to review a cream-of-the-crop collection of eisteddfod experiences – as recounted by the broader CutCommon community.
“My experience put me off eisteddfods for life. I left my instrument case in the warm-up room for 30 minutes while listening to the session beforehand, came back to find the neck of my sax was stuffed into the bell, so I couldn’t get it out! My principal’s nephew was performing in another band that night and let me borrow his instrument, which he didn’t tell me had a few sticky keys, so when I had to play the solo section of a concert band piece there were ‘grace notes’ everywhere. It wasn’t pretty. Had a slight teary, then mum bought me an ice cream, and the rest is history.”
-Rob M
“I’ll never forget the eisteddfod where I played my piece perfectly, then the girl after me got up, cried on stage before playing, cried through the whole piece, and made a bazillion mistakes, and took out first place! I still haven’t gotten over it.”
-Sophie S
“I wanted to play in as many sections as possible when I was a kid, which made practising with an accompanist pretty tricky: a lot to rehearse, backstage, in one day. One year, I seemed to think it would be fine not to rehearse at all. I was set to play a transposed beginner version of Purcell’s Trumpet Voluntary – clearly so I could avoid the high notes. As the performance began, the accompanist set a great tempo. All was well – right up until my first note, that is, which sounded absolutely awful. I was shocked that it was sounding so bad, because I had practised so hard. About a minute in, I realised with horror that it was the piano that was wrong: the music I had given the accompanist hadn’t been transposed at all. Trying to figure out the transposition for the last 32 bars or so was less than successful, though I’m pleased to say that the ten-year-old me managed to find the tonic of the piece at the last note, which was met by a big smile and thunderous applause from the adjudicator who knew exactly what had happened. I’m sure there were some surprised parents sitting in the audience seeing him so ecstatic at such an atrocious sounding rendition.”
-Dan M
“Circa 1999. I’m in a violin lesson and my teacher utters the dreaded word, ‘eisteddfod’, to which my (also) violin playing sister says ‘yes’ straight away. I just sit there quivering in my boots. From that moment, right from suggestion to performance, my anxiety builds. I lose sleep, I get the shakes… I hated the night before the showdown, I hated the car trip to the hall, I hated the sparkly getup Mum had selected for me, I hated the customary pre-practice ‘coffee’ at the local café (see: hot chocolate, hedgehog slice, pep talk, etc.). One consolation is that my lovely teacher would always give me a hug backstage and ask if I was okay (clearly not) before I went on stage. Though I won a few trophies, I swear that every eisteddfod experience was my most dreaded.”
-Georgie R
“I did music eisteddfods and work in music administration now, but so many of my childhood performance memories are shaped by this one time at the dance eisteddfod. I was about eight, and doing a tap dance to ‘Isn’t she Lovely’ by Stevie Wonder. We had these gorgeous black and white striped leotards with red skirts and red bows in our hair and on our shoes (cute). The wing space side stage was super tiny. I was first in line to go on stage and we were standing watching the group before us. The girl behind me was so nervous that she projectile vomited all over me. I jumped away from her, and straight onto the stage while the other performance was still going on. All the girls standing side of stage screamed and started running wild. The sick girl was crying, I was furious, and our teacher was manically trying to clean the both of us up with some paper towel from the hallway. Needless to say that neither of us made it on, and someone’s mother from the group before us yelled at our teacher for interrupting their dance. A great day all round.”
-Elissa S
“My worst eisteddfod experience doubled as my best life lesson – always practice before a gig. As an arrogant high schooler, I was confident I could tackle the heavily syncopated work with only a couple of practice sessions, and a ten minute run-through with my sight-reading accompanist/classmate. Big mistake. The result was nothing short of total humiliation, with my friends in the audience cringing as I asked politely from the stage, “can I please start again?”. Funnily enough, I still scored second place – of course, the adjudicator was likely wearing earbuds, and there were only three of us. ”
-Steph E
“I usually did music eisteddfods but decided to enter a speech and drama eisteddfod, just for a change. I was in grade 4 and was doing a monologue as the White Witch from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. I forgot half my costume and forgot all but a few of my lines, but they gave me first place anyway because I was the only person in the section. My teacher told me they shouldn’t have given me anything, which was encouraging. I’m pretty sure I still have the trophy.”
-Elena L
“My first time ever in an eisteddfod, I played the Prelude to the Bach Cello Suite No. 2 in D Minor (transcribed for viola) in the 16 and Under String Solo section. I played from memory and was so nervous that halfway through the performance that I skipped about a page worth of music and just panicked. I have no idea how I managed to make it convincingly to the end of the piece. I had very little memory of exactly what happened. But strangely, my viola teacher told me I hadn’t actually missed any of the piece at all, despite what I thought, which shows the power of autonomous muscle memory in the face of extreme nerves. I somehow managed to win the section, though, so it has a happy ending.”
-Alice B
Have you got an eisteddfod story to share? Leave a comment below, or drop us a line at editor@cutcommon.com.
(Image by Stilfehler (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
