This is not the first time I have ever picked up the Ocarina, and it would be a lousy standard to set if it turns out to be my last. Prior dabblings have convicted me of the resource to mount my mouth, cock my fingers, and retrace the ABCs of music notation (or the ABCs, for short); occasionally splitting the difference between an F Sharp and a G Flat. It is placid, plucky work of puerile complexities, and though I foster no disregard for the enormity of making a punctured whistle into expressable music, I also feel a slight lethargy in staring so far ahead. It’s a strange feeling; like noticing that the horizon is perfectly, and perhaps even pleasantly, walkable, but wondering if there is a horizon beyond the one I see waiting for me. Waiting to strike… as much as a horizon can.
Yet in any case, I feel proud to have chosen such a useless hobby. So easy it is to justify kicking a football or swimming a channel or investing in a stock based on the kicks, kick-offs or kick-backs you’ll get by the end, and yet with absolute clarity I can see no end-result that could possibly offset the time I have already wasted on this stupid piece of plastic. In truth, when I fumble a digit on its punctured black spine, I can almost hear the ocarina laughing at me, like a slobbering toothbrush. Having only one octave of range barely puts this woodwind’s tonality above that of a machine gun, which I think I’d rather be putting my mouth around if this keeps sequestering me to its ridiculous high pitched yaw every time I over-puff my toots. Pride is really all I’ve got to run on, and I’m not all too sure how renewable an energy source it is.
This reads like a suicide note; so I’ll hang it here. Adios!
The ocarina is a small, light musical instrument burrowed from 12 holes and 1 whistle point. Functionally, it is a colander, and there is a strong argument that its greatest utility is still that of a small colander. Musically, it’s typecast into the role of a Treble Cleffestrian. 1.5 Octaves of range (B5-F6), and bizarre handling techniques make working the ocarina much less appreciating emotive soundtracks, and much more trying to decipher some form of secret handshake that your estranged partner never told you about but will not engage with you until you get it beat by beat perfect. That you happen to look like an idiot is probably the most redeemable excerpt of this crusade: seeing as you feel, sound and are one for even trying, at least now your looks camouflage in…
So far, I have learned my base scales, and wrangled 3 melodies from juke-to-jaw (“Make a Man out of You”, “Test Drive”, “The Shire”). Though learning songs in letter notation is utterly painless, it serves little function other than to impress upon myself the talent of the original orchestrators. When the Ocarina demands blood, I jump to symbol notation, of which I’ve entered an Einstein-Weinstein relationship (Feel smart when I finger right, Terrible squeals when I finger wrong). In time, this option will numb, perhaps even to the pain of just regular letters. Wouldn’t that be just mellifluous, all the letters and splotches just living alphabetically ever after? One can only dream. Maybe my next song should be Imagine…