Solo: The Unaccompanied Musician
If a cellist practises in a forest and no one is around to hear them… was that last F# still a bit flat?
By Nicola Warner
One of the fundamental ironies of music making is that in the pursuit of something so deeply rooted in connection, musicians spend much of their time alone. I’ve always found it perplexing that this act of solitude can be perceived from the outside as ‘selfish’.
“Come to the pub? Sorry - can’t tonight, I need to repeatedly blow into a small tube until I’m satisfied that I can do it consistently.”
“I would but the last Friday of the month is my trumpet’s bath night.”
“What do I like to do on the weekend? Scrape away at a piece of cane until I’m happy to put it in my mouth - would you like to see my knives?”
When I put it like that, it does all sound a bit odd. What are we doing?
Like many people, my go-to comfort podcast is Radio 4’s long-running interview programme, Desert Island Discs. When musician castaways are asked what their hypothetical luxury would be, more often than not it is their instrument. Indeed, this is usually anticipated by the host - who else would an instrumentalist choose but their partner in crime? Booking a seat for your cello with Easyjet, you are asked to enter ‘MR MUSICAL INSTRUMENT’ for the purposes of the ticket. Disregarding the implied gender bias, there is something affirming about their status as your travelling companion rather than as mere luggage. Very often our instruments are our constant companions; firm friends to whom we return to again and again, despite venting our frustrations when they’re not behaving quite so obediently as we would like… Although when the time comes as custodian to move on to another vessel, there is a pang of loss.
“Stranded in my flat, I feel that I have explored every square inch and often find myself in the now over-familiar grasps of cabin fever”
When I contracted a virus during postgraduate conservatoire auditions, I never thought it would be life-altering. After the initial infection of what was most-likely glandular fever, I never made a full recovery. This was later diagnosed as post-viral fatigue and then ME/CFS. In my prolonged convalescence, one of the big questions rumbling around in the back of my foggy mind is: can I still say that I am a musician while I am unable to perform?
In the last four years, I have spent more time alone than ever before. And before anyone accuses me of cracking out a tiny violin, I state this as a fact rather than something to be pitied. Besides, I am a firm disciple of the ‘big violin’ (otherwise known as the cello, if you’re not acquainted with that particular question). Admittedly some of this time is experienced as loneliness, but much of it has come to exist as the acceptance of isolation: solitude. Stranded in my flat, I feel that I have explored every square inch and often find myself in the now over-familiar grasps of cabin fever.
There is an obvious parallel to the existentialism imposed on musicians by the lockdowns and the government’s oppressive line questioning the ‘viability’ of artists. Unfortunately, because everyone felt trapped in their homes, people did sometimes attempt to bestow me with their cosmic perspective. “We’ve all had a taste of what you’re going through” often followed by the trials of sourdough inferiority and the tribulations of their on-off relationship with the Duolingo owl being on the rocks again. Not a comfort when my whole body is in its own lockdown. I want to distinguish this unsolicited silver lining proffering with the very real and lasting effects of the pandemic, inclusive of but not limited to:
Long-covid, organ scarring, injury incurred taking a job outside of music, financial stress, food and housing instability, experiencing mental health issues for the first time, pre-existing illness worsening, a breakup, a breakdown, grief for loved ones/your health/your life before.
“The dissonance of being very motivated to practise but your body having a hard limit is tough to reconcile”
To paraphrase the cellist Pablo Casals, we are humans first, and artists second: none of us is exempt from any of this by virtue of our vocation. I can’t attest as to what it’s like ‘going back’ (if it can even be classed as a return). As an observer, the rose-tinted spectacles are firmly off. There is so much courage in musicians putting themselves out there after an inescapable hiatus and I feel very inspired witnessing this musical communion, albeit from afar. Early on in my illness, I was fixated on the idea that if only my immune system could fix itself, everything in my life would be ok. This of course is pure fallacy. It’s easy to say you’ll never take performing for granted ever again until the washing machine on tour has decided to lock itself with all your underwear in it and you’re crammed into a top bunk unfit for a Sainsbury’s basics sardine. With every new chapter comes fresh challenges; probably the ones your anxious mind never even thought to conjure up.
Pablo Casals
We are humans first, and artists second: none of us is exempt from any of this by virtue of our vocation
I am neither booked nor blessed. I practise orchestral excerpts knowing there is no audition in the calendar. I explore repertoire with no recitals booked in. The dissonance of being very motivated to practise but your body having a hard limit is tough to reconcile. With only a few precious minutes a day, it's a fine line between practice being a haven and an addictive hit. So, what are we doing when we play in isolation with no promise of public performance? It is absolutely ok to admit that part of the reason you make music is for yourself. If your sole luxury on an uninhabited island would undoubtedly be your instrument, you already know this to be true. Going on the life-long journey of nurturing an idea that exists in your mind’s ear and translating it through your instrument or voice does not necessitate an audience. It is internal validation with an external sound. I long for the electrifying experience that is born in the meeting of musicians; I truly do. But ‘alone’ does not have to mean ‘alienated’.
I am always connected:
to the composer
to the performer they had in mind
to the whole performance tradition of my instrument
to the maker of my cello and bow
to my instrument itself and its raw materials
to the person who designed and tested my strings and equipment
to cellists who have written books about the craft of cello playing
to all my teachers and the stories they have told me
to the web of the collected wisdom they have invited me into via their own mentors and experiences
to every sound and vibration my body hears
Solo is connection within solitude.
Nicola Warner
I am a musician from Hertfordshire on an interruption of postgraduate studies due to ill health. Although the above is about the time spent alone with my cello, no cellist is an island and most things I do would not be possible without significant assistance from others (you know who you are). I would like to thank and acknowledge the charities who have supported me during this hiatus including: Help Musicians UK, BAPAM, the Benslow Music Instrument Loan Scheme and Andrew Thomson, Hitchin Youth Trust and The National Youth Arts Trust.
More about Nicola…
In the spirit of Hattie and Rebecca's bios, I am also: an espresso drinker, recovering over-thinker, disciple of the holy church of hoop earrings, cat-less cat person, strawberry Carmex addict, advocate for Chicken Run (2000) being a feminist classic that 100% passes the Bechdel test and Dymo label maker evangelist (get one; it will change your life).
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