Practice Makes Perfect
Practice Makes Perfect
Ever since I can remember, everything was handed to me on a silver platter. Anything I wished for I received. The reason this happened to was, I have a very loving as well as caring family. Because of this pedestal that I was placed on as a child I never understood the hard fact that you had to work for something you wanted, and love for that item or goal wouldn't be enough to take you there. This was until I was denied a position to play in the jazz band when I was in middle school. This set back, woke me up to grasp this important lesson.
I began playing the saxophone when I was in the seventh grade; I started off on an average pace in class with additional students. I even preformed better than most students at concerts and other musical endeavors. The only awful musical habit I developed was I would never practice more than an hour or so each week. As anyone in music or in any fine art knows, this is a major dilemma, but I still could not comprehend the concept that "practice makes perfect".
About half way through my seventh grade year, my best friend who just happens to be my grandfather introduced me to this music called Jazz. This was a life changing experience for me. I heard those sweet sounds of "Bird" Charlie Parker. I soaked every ounce of it in; I listened to his melodic licks (as they are called in Jazz). I listened to the way he made all those technically difficult licks sound flawless. He played his horn similar to how a ventriloquist made his puppet seem human. The entire time I was listening to the C.D. I was jumping erratically on my grandparent's pristine furniture shouting enthusiastically: "That's it! That's it! That's what I want to sound like!" What I didn't realize was the "Yard-Bird practiced close to twenty hours a day, and me only a few hours a week if it was urgent practice time, which usually came a couple of days before a
Ever since I can remember, everything was handed to me on a silver platter. Anything I wished for I received. The reason this happened to was, I have a very loving as well as caring family. Because of this pedestal that I was placed on as a child I never understood the hard fact that you had to work for something you wanted, and love for that item or goal wouldn't be enough to take you there. This was until I was denied a position to play in the jazz band when I was in middle school. This set back, woke me up to grasp this important lesson.
I began playing the saxophone when I was in the seventh grade; I started off on an average pace in class with additional students. I even preformed better than most students at concerts and other musical endeavors. The only awful musical habit I developed was I would never practice more than an hour or so each week. As anyone in music or in any fine art knows, this is a major dilemma, but I still could not comprehend the concept that "practice makes perfect".
About half way through my seventh grade year, my best friend who just happens to be my grandfather introduced me to this music called Jazz. This was a life changing experience for me. I heard those sweet sounds of "Bird" Charlie Parker. I soaked every ounce of it in; I listened to his melodic licks (as they are called in Jazz). I listened to the way he made all those technically difficult licks sound flawless. He played his horn similar to how a ventriloquist made his puppet seem human. The entire time I was listening to the C.D. I was jumping erratically on my grandparent's pristine furniture shouting enthusiastically: "That's it! That's it! That's what I want to sound like!" What I didn't realize was the "Yard-Bird practiced close to twenty hours a day, and me only a few hours a week if it was urgent practice time, which usually came a couple of days before a