SPOKANE MUSIC FESTIVAL, PART 1

A view of Post Falls, Idaho (5-17-18)

Last Thursday (May 17), Mike and I set off for the VW dealership in Post Falls for warranty work on the GTI.  We arrived there about 10:30, and the service department took the GTI right into the shop to check it out. They confirmed that the car is fine, and we were on our way again at 11:00. Mike was reassured, and we were both relieved that we didn’t have to leave it and make another trip to pick it up. Naturally, Mike had looked forward to geocaching, but it was a rainy day. He found several anyway. 

Mike hunts for a cache near Post Falls

From Post Falls, we drove on into Spokane. The lilacs are mostly past in our valley, but in Spokane (as at our farm), they were in full bloom last week. Spokane calls itself “the Lilac City,” and celebrates its beautiful lilacs with a festival that runs several weeks in May. Thinking of that brought back memories of my participation in the Greater Spokane Music and Allied Arts Festival, a well-organized music competition held the second week in May. The festival appealed to my dad, a piano teacher, and he enrolled a half dozen of his students each year, beginning about 1958. Let me tell you about it.

Lilacs at the farm (5-20-18)

The Festival is an adjudicated classical music event for young musicians. (That word “adjudicate” means that someone is going to judge your performance.) Divisions were classified according to age and naturally, the assigned music became more difficult as the student advanced in age and ability. Sometime in the fall, I think, the program would arrive, specifying the assigned music the student was to play. In addition, he was to play a second number of his choice, also classical.

The Festival was a big deal in the regional music world. Piano students (other instruments, too) came from miles around to play before adjudicators, who were noted musicians. (One year, Van Cliburn’s mother was an adjudicator.) Each class consisted of eight or ten participants. The competitions were held in various Spokane churches. For instance, I remember playing at least once at Temple Beth Shalom. The grand pianos were on loan from local showroom(s).

The adjudicator sat at a table up front, not far from the piano. The order of play was predetermined, so eight or ten of us would line up in order and await our turn to perform. Each participant stayed in his seat until given the signal to approach the piano. When it was my turn, I followed the same format as the others. Doing my best to make eye-contact with the adjudicator, I said, “My name is Kathy Dobson. I will play ABC by XYZ. For my second number, I’ll play DEF by QRS.” Then I would sit down at the keyboard, adjust the bench, try to calm my shaking fingers, and begin to play, hoping for the best. (I was never a consistent performer.)

After finishing the required number, each student would sit quietly, while the adjudicator wrote. (Are we having fun yet?) When he gave the solemn nod, the student played his second number, and when finished, arose from the bench, acknowledged the polite applause of teachers and parents, and returned to his place in the row.

My dad was all over this as a fine opportunity for the student. Regardless of what my mother thought, she was supportive of my dad. She always made me a beautiful dress to wear. There I was – a kid from the sticks on display – looking good and playing miserably. I felt totally out of place. The atmosphere was competitive and unfriendly. You could cut it with a knife! I had difficulty memorizing music, and as the years went by and the music got harder, the experience became worse for me. It was useless to complain. I was the piano teacher’s daughter, and I had to go.   

Homestead lilacs

The fateful year was when Daddy enrolled me in a Bach class. (I was 15.) The music looked simple, which was deceptive. The important thing in this class was the interpretation, and mine was – well, off. I can’t blame my dad. He tried, but I was uninspired. At the end of the class, the adjudicator rose to address the participants. I remember his saying, "If this is your first Bach, I hope you won't give up." The better students were asked to stay for a workshop. The rest of us were dismissed. I was mortified -- near tears. Mother said, "Let's go shopping." This was my first inkling that maybe she had some sympathy for me.

That was the last time I played at the Spokane Music Festival. “I’m not going,” I said the next year, and to my surprise, my parents accepted that. By that time, my confidence was shot, and I had developed a real mental block against memorization and performance. KW