Mason Arts Management, Inc.

08/08/2025

A musician’s Brain is different! 🌟 🎶

06/26/2025

I just love these essays…. Always LOL

Dearest Flutist, Flautist, and Flute Player,

Let us raise our flutes in jubilant solidarity, for we, the keepers of the silver sideways blowing tube, enjoy a privilege so rare in the musical kingdom it borders on scandal: we travel with our instruments in hand luggage.

While cellists beg airlines for mercy and double bassists bribe baggage handlers with homemade banana bread, we flute players glide onto planes with the breezy elegance of someone whose entire career fits neatly in the overhead locker between a teddy bear and an inflatable neck pillow. Truly, we are nature’s favourite children.

But before you don your laurels and start composing a smug airport-themed sonata, let us descend swiftly into reality. Travelling with a flute may look glamorous, but rest assured, it is chaos in a velvet-lined case.

First, we encounter the security checkpoint, a modern-day gauntlet in fluorescent lighting. You place your case on the conveyor belt with all the reverence of a royal offering, only to be met by a security officer whose curiosity is piqued and whose imagination has clearly watched too many spy thrillers. “What’s in the case?” they ask, already preparing to summon MI5 secret intelligence service. “A flute,” you reply, smiling with the innocence of someone who’s about to be searched for the Crown Jewels. They demand it be opened. You comply, praying they don’t try to play it. (Though frankly, in a moment of deep national crisis, even a poorly played piccolo could serve as a potent weapon.)

Assuming you survive the interrogation without having to demonstrate an Ab melodic minor scale, you proceed to board the aircraft. While the trombone player attempts to store their instrument in the flight attendant’s nostrils and the harpist negotiates the international laws of physics, you waltz aboard like a Regency noble with your case tucked under your arm. You slide it into the overhead locker, surrounded by backpacks, Toblerones, and one highly suspicious bag that appears to be humming. You sit, victorious.

And then, paranoia sets in.
You spend the next three hours side-eyeing every passenger who dares approach the locker. “Will that man’s suitcase crush my flute? Will a sudden drop in cabin pressure cause it to implode? Did I accidentally pack it near my emergency Jaffa Cakes and now there’s chocolate in the embouchure?” By landing, you’ve developed a stress wrinkle and a newfound respect for travel insurance.

But the fun, my dear flute playing friend, is far from over. For now, you’ve arrived at your destination, a charming European village where every cobbled street smells like espresso and crushed dreams. You must now brave the perilous realm of public transport, flute case in hand. Strangers stare. Children ask if it’s a wand. One particularly bold commuter leans in and whispers, “Is that a recorder?” You maintain composure, smile politely, and respond, “No, it’s a flute.” Internally, you scream: A RECORDER?! I BEG YOUR PARDON, SIR.

Ah, but the crowning glory of the travelling flute player’s saga: the hotel practice session. It’s 9:47 p.m., you’re jet-lagged, and you just want to run a few scales and arpeggios. But alas, the walls are paper-thin and there’s already been a passive-aggressive knock from Room 206. Do you dare risk a quiet warm-up? Or will one flutter-tongued third octave F # result in a formal complaint and a lifetime ban from the Holiday Inn Express?

And yet, despite all the melodrama, we must admit: travelling with a flute is a privilege bordering on outrageous. We do not require a forklift, an emotional support donkey, or a second mortgage to transport our instrument. Ours is the way of the minimalist maestro, one hand for the case, the other for coffee, croissant, or crisis-management fan.

So let us celebrate this unique brand of superiority, tempered only slightly by the trauma of security checks and misidentified instruments. Let us wave gaily to the bassoonist in the cargo queue and offer a sympathetic smile to the violinist whose bow is currently in Zurich. And above all, let us never take for granted the glorious convenience of being a flute player on the move.

Yours in hand-luggage heroism,
Jean-Paul (Flute Geezer at TJ Flutes and Unofficial Airport Security Disruptor)

P.S While travelling with a flute is technically convenient, recent studies conducted in the Departures Lounge suggest that 92% of flute players suffer from Acute Overhead Locker Anxiety, a condition marked by excessive glancing, muttering "please don’t squash it" under one's breath, and vivid dreams involving an overzealous passenger ramming a duty-free Toblerone into the luxurious leather flute case cover. The remaining 8%? Piccolo players. They keep their instrument in their pocket and their feelings in a locked box

05/28/2025

Wonderful daily read!

Dearest Flutist, Flautist, and Flute Player,

Let us today cast a critical (but ever-so-refined) eye upon one of the most quietly devastating afflictions to plague our noble community: the dangerous, delusional, and dreadfully dehydrating art of over-practising.

At first glance, it appears innocent, commendable, even. A musician, dedicated to their craft. A little extra time in the practice room. A final run-through before rehearsal. What harm could it possibly do?

Much like adding “just a touch more eyeliner” before a ball or saying “I’ll only have one Jaffa Cake,” it starts as a sensible decision. And before you know it, you’re sobbing through your fourth round of Taffanel-Gaubert, eyes twitching, lips numb, and questioning not only your ability to perform but also the fundamental structure of Western tonality.

The descent is swift. You begin with noble intentions: “I just need to polish that tricky bar.”
But the bar resists.
You slow it down.
You isolate it.
You whisper encouraging things to your flute.
And then, like a Victorian séance gone terribly wrong, you summon the ghost of every wrong note you've ever played since you started playing this sideways blowing tube. They arrive. They stay. And they start redecorating your muscle memory like it’s their new holiday home.

Before long, you are no longer practising. You are spiralling. Your scales have become the soundtrack to your personal nervous breakdown. You’ve played that one passage so many times that even your cat can hum it. Your neighbours have filed a formal complaint (against F # specifically). Your embouchure has declared independence and is now operating under its own set of foreign policy rules.

And let us speak now of the false high, that cruel moment where you think, “I’ve cracked it!”
You haven’t.
You’ve just played it right once.
Out of 43 attempts.

You rush to your rehearsal, buoyed by fragile confidence, only for your fingers to stage a coup in bar seven, your tongue to abandon ship entirely, and your tone to develop a wobble that can only be described as “haunted swan meets gas leak.”
But we are resilient, are we not?
So you return to the practice room.
You say, “I’ll fix it. I just need to go slower.”
Reader: you do not go slower.
You go mad.

Soon you’re pacing. You’re muttering to yourself. You begin analysing your breathing patterns like a Victorian corset designer. You try that trick you read online. You try playing it backwards. You try closing your eyes and imagining success. And then you look at the clock and realise your “quick 20-minute warm-up” has lasted three hours and all you’ve achieved is a throbbing jaw and a deep spiritual void.

Why do we do this?
Because we care.
Because we’re artists.
Because we’re convinced that if we just play that F # correctly another 93 times, it’ll stick.
It won’t.
But that doesn’t stop us.
And here lies the glorious absurdity of it all.
Because, dearest flute player, for all its chaos and collapse, over-practising is born of love. Of hope. Of a deeply misguided optimism that somehow, by sheer repetition, we might achieve something divine. And sometimes, just sometimes, we do.

So if you, like me, have ever been found face-down in your own etude book, whispering “why?” to your B major arpeggio, know this: you are not alone. We are all chasing perfection. We are all dodging burnout. We are all clinging to the dream that next time, it’ll be better. Cleaner. Quicker. Less like a kettle under pressure.
And one glorious day, it will be.

Until then, may your tea be strong, your tuner forgiving, and your scale passages slightly less traumatic than last Thursday’s incident in bar 27.

Yours in noble delusion and metronome-induced mayhem,
Jean-Paul (Flute Geezer at TJ Flutes, who once over-practised himself into a two-day embouchure vacation)

P.S In a recent covert study involving eight flute players, two piccolo players, and one traumatised pianist, researchers found that the psychological effects of over-practising closely mirror those of competitive baking shows: panic, sweat, misplaced confidence, and inexplicable rage at soft peaks. One subject was last seen scowling at their metronome, muttering, “You really are horrible.”

05/27/2025

Dearest Flutist, Flautist, and Flute Player,

Let us take a reverent moment to address one of the most peculiar, misunderstood, and emotionally exhausting traditions in all of flute playing: The Warm-Up.

To the untrained eye, it appears harmless. A bit of gentle puffing, some calm scales, perhaps a trill or two. But we know better.

This is no casual prelude. This is a full-scale spiritual odyssey. A ritual so sacred and bizarre, it makes ancient druids look like part-time hobbyists. This isn’t warming up, it’s summoning the ghost of Marcel Moyse with a tuner and a tissue.

It begins, innocently, with long tones. Or as I call them: The Sighs of Existential Despair™.

You take a deep breath, aiming for that perfect, whisper-soft pianissimo… and what emerges? A sound that sits somewhere between a goose going through a breakup and a radiator slowly dying. Not a note. Not even a musical suggestion. Just… noise. You stare at the wall, emotionally defeated, and wonder if you should’ve taken up something simpler. Like tax law. Or the oboe.

Then, because you’re a ma*****st, you move on to scales. C major is fine. You feel competent. Then comes B major. Suddenly your pinky forgets it’s employed, your left hand seizes up, and your tongue is just making cameo appearances now and again.

And then… the chromatic scale. That slippery, snaky beast. Theoretically foolproof. In practice? You go up confidently, miss a note on the descent, and somehow land on what can only be described as a spectral F-sharp-flat-sharp, a note that doesn’t exist, and yet you’ve just played it loudly.

Now comes articulation practice, the flute world’s version of high-speed verbal gymnastics.

Double-tonguing?
In theory: “tu-ku-tu-ku-tu-ku-tu.”
In reality: “tuh…kkgguh…tkk…kuh?!”
Your tongue gives up halfway and begins frantically sending SOS signals to your brain in Morse code.

Triple-tonguing? You’d have better luck trying to recite Shakespeare underwater with a mouthful of biscuits.

And for those ambitious enough (read: delusional), there’s tone colour work.
You play the same note in seventeen different dynamics and emotional states, ranging from “wistful raindrop” to “existential thunderstorm.” The poor person in the next room thinks you’re acting out King Lear using only middle G.

Then comes the dreaded vibrato control, which promises subtlety and elegance but often delivers… a minor earthquake in your flute. You try slow, pulsing vibrato and end up sounding like a wasp trapped in a kazoo. You try fast vibrato and nearly pass out. Your lip twitches. Your tone breaks. Your soul cries softly into your headjoint.

But wait!
We can’t forget etudes, those sweet-looking, innocent studies that hide the musical equivalent of a surprise round of gladiatorial combat.

You begin one thinking, “This’ll be good for my tone.” Five bars in, you’re swearing vengeance on the composer’s entire bloodline. Your fingers fail, your tonguing melts, and your dignity packs up and leaves.

And then, you glance at the clock. Your “15-minute warm-up”? You’ve been at it for 72 minutes. The rehearsal has already started. Your tea’s gone cold. And all you’ve really achieved is a deeply personal connection to the sound of panic in low register.

And yet… somehow… we love it.
Because beneath the honks, the flops, the lip spasms and tongue tantrums, the warm-up is more than just a musical ritual. It’s a reunion. You, your flute, and your eternal optimism, all trying again, for the hundredth time, to find that perfect note, that perfect breath, that moment where it all clicks. It’s frustrating. It’s ridiculous. It’s beautifully absurd. And it's ours.

So to my fellow warm-up warriors: keep sighing, keep squeaking, keep rolling those scales like you’re auditioning for a jazz band in a wind tunnel. Your progress is hiding in the chaos.

And someday, when everything does line up, you’ll be able to say, with pride, “That pianissimo 3rd octave F # was intentional.”

Yours in sweaty-palmed, slightly-sharp solidarity,

Jean-Paul
(Flute Geezer at TJ Flutes, Olympic Medallist in Prolonged Warm-Up Avoidance)

P.S Recent psychological research (conducted entirely in under-heated practice rooms) confirms that the average “15 minute warm-up” lasts longer than a feature-length film and induces more emotional turmoil than a Regency break-up. Known side effects include: spontaneous existentialism, tongue knots, scale-induced hallucinations, and the sudden belief that B major was invented as a form of wind player punishment. One participant reportedly emerged from a 90-minute tone exercise speaking only in harmonics.

05/27/2025

Love these daily notes.

Dearest Flutist, Flautist, and Flute Player,

Let us take a reverent moment to address one of the most peculiar, misunderstood, and emotionally exhausting traditions in all of flute playing: The Warm-Up.

To the untrained eye, it appears harmless. A bit of gentle puffing, some calm scales, perhaps a trill or two. But we know better.

This is no casual prelude. This is a full-scale spiritual odyssey. A ritual so sacred and bizarre, it makes ancient druids look like part-time hobbyists. This isn’t warming up, it’s summoning the ghost of Marcel Moyse with a tuner and a tissue.

It begins, innocently, with long tones. Or as I call them: The Sighs of Existential Despair™.

You take a deep breath, aiming for that perfect, whisper-soft pianissimo… and what emerges? A sound that sits somewhere between a goose going through a breakup and a radiator slowly dying. Not a note. Not even a musical suggestion. Just… noise. You stare at the wall, emotionally defeated, and wonder if you should’ve taken up something simpler. Like tax law. Or the oboe.

Then, because you’re a ma*****st, you move on to scales. C major is fine. You feel competent. Then comes B major. Suddenly your pinky forgets it’s employed, your left hand seizes up, and your tongue is just making cameo appearances now and again.

And then… the chromatic scale. That slippery, snaky beast. Theoretically foolproof. In practice? You go up confidently, miss a note on the descent, and somehow land on what can only be described as a spectral F-sharp-flat-sharp, a note that doesn’t exist, and yet you’ve just played it loudly.

Now comes articulation practice, the flute world’s version of high-speed verbal gymnastics.

Double-tonguing?
In theory: “tu-ku-tu-ku-tu-ku-tu.”
In reality: “tuh…kkgguh…tkk…kuh?!”
Your tongue gives up halfway and begins frantically sending SOS signals to your brain in Morse code.

Triple-tonguing? You’d have better luck trying to recite Shakespeare underwater with a mouthful of biscuits.

And for those ambitious enough (read: delusional), there’s tone colour work.
You play the same note in seventeen different dynamics and emotional states, ranging from “wistful raindrop” to “existential thunderstorm.” The poor person in the next room thinks you’re acting out King Lear using only middle G.

Then comes the dreaded vibrato control, which promises subtlety and elegance but often delivers… a minor earthquake in your flute. You try slow, pulsing vibrato and end up sounding like a wasp trapped in a kazoo. You try fast vibrato and nearly pass out. Your lip twitches. Your tone breaks. Your soul cries softly into your headjoint.

But wait!
We can’t forget etudes, those sweet-looking, innocent studies that hide the musical equivalent of a surprise round of gladiatorial combat.

You begin one thinking, “This’ll be good for my tone.” Five bars in, you’re swearing vengeance on the composer’s entire bloodline. Your fingers fail, your tonguing melts, and your dignity packs up and leaves.

And then, you glance at the clock. Your “15-minute warm-up”? You’ve been at it for 72 minutes. The rehearsal has already started. Your tea’s gone cold. And all you’ve really achieved is a deeply personal connection to the sound of panic in low register.

And yet… somehow… we love it.
Because beneath the honks, the flops, the lip spasms and tongue tantrums, the warm-up is more than just a musical ritual. It’s a reunion. You, your flute, and your eternal optimism, all trying again, for the hundredth time, to find that perfect note, that perfect breath, that moment where it all clicks. It’s frustrating. It’s ridiculous. It’s beautifully absurd. And it's ours.

So to my fellow warm-up warriors: keep sighing, keep squeaking, keep rolling those scales like you’re auditioning for a jazz band in a wind tunnel. Your progress is hiding in the chaos.

And someday, when everything does line up, you’ll be able to say, with pride, “That pianissimo 3rd octave F # was intentional.”

Yours in sweaty-palmed, slightly-sharp solidarity,

Jean-Paul
(Flute Geezer at TJ Flutes, Olympic Medallist in Prolonged Warm-Up Avoidance)

P.S Recent psychological research (conducted entirely in under-heated practice rooms) confirms that the average “15 minute warm-up” lasts longer than a feature-length film and induces more emotional turmoil than a Regency break-up. Known side effects include: spontaneous existentialism, tongue knots, scale-induced hallucinations, and the sudden belief that B major was invented as a form of wind player punishment. One participant reportedly emerged from a 90-minute tone exercise speaking only in harmonics.

05/22/2025

I love this guy! Always a great read.

Dearest Flutist, Flautist, and Flute Player,

Let us speak candidly, of a moment so chilling, so gut-wrenchingly cruel, it has caused even the bravest of flute players to consider taking up knitting instead. Yes, we speak of those dreaded five words: “Let’s take it a bit faster.”

A hush falls. Your heart rate spikes. Your fingers, so competent just moments before, suddenly resemble a family of squirrels playing hopscotch in mittens. Your tongue forgets how consonants work. Your brain, once a loyal ally, now screams “ABANDON SHIP!” while your inner child quietly sobs into a damp practice towel.

Fast tempos aren’t merely a challenge, they’re a flute player’s panic attack in allegro. When a piece is marked Allegro, Vivace, or, may the gods have mercy, Prestissimo, you know you're about to be launched into a high-speed, woodwind-induced existential crisis. Those neatly rehearsed semiquavers? Now a blur of fluttery nonsense, accidental trills, and breath support decisions that can only be described as “optimistic at best.”

Your fingers start their own interpretive journey. That clean C major run you perfected last Tuesday? Now a jazzy detour into F # minor, with guest appearances by Cb and chaos. It’s fine. No one will notice. Except everyone.

Meanwhile, your tongue, which double-tongued with swagger in the safety of your practice room, now sounds like it's been possessed by a toddler learning Morse code with a mouthful of peanut butter. Somewhere, in the fog of panic, a voice says, “Play musically.” Musically? Musically?! I’m busy performing dental surgery with my own air stream!

And then… there’s the conductor’s face. That slow blink. The twitch of the baton. The look that says, “Was that meant to be a glissando?” when you absolutely did not mean to play a glissando. It wasn’t Gershwin, but by the time you landed that phrase, it had big Rhapsody in Blue energy and zero forgiveness.

You offer a sheepish smile. A bead of sweat rolls down your temple. Internally, you're filing transfer papers to the percussion section, where people hit triangles and no one expects triplets at 144 bpm.

But nothing, nothing, compares to the moment the conductor says,
“Let’s hear just the flutes there.”
Oh, joy.
The spotlight turns to you.
You are now a solo act in the Cirque du Flûte.
Your tongue has resigned. Your fingers are on strike. Your piccolo partner is vibrating with silent laughter because they’ve lived this exact trauma. You give it your best shot, and it sounds like a duet between a hiccup and a sneeze. Musical theatre meets cardiac event.

And yet… and yet… sometimes, by some miracle of the flute gods and last-minute caffeine, it all clicks. Your fingers and tongue align like stars. The run is clean. The air flows. The notes shimmer. You glance down the flute section like, “Did everyone hear that?! I am the chosen one.” It lasts roughly four seconds before the next chromatic passage brings you crashing back to Earth, but oh, what a glorious four seconds they were.

And that, dear flutist, flautist and flute player is the bittersweet thrill of the fast tempo. It’s messy. It’s maddening. It’s slightly traumatic. But it’s also electric. When it works, you feel like you’ve cracked the secret code of the universe using just a bent metal tube and the sheer power of panic.

So next time you hear those fateful words, “let’s take it a bit faster”, don’t despair. Grit your teeth (gently, please, we still need tone), take a heroic breath, and go for it. Even if you trip, even if your fingers try to spell “help” in Morse code, know that somewhere out there, every flute player is cheering you on.

Because the beauty of this ridiculous, breathless, tongue-twisting instrument isn’t in perfection. It’s in the heart, the chaos, and the glorious crash-landing at the end of an unplayable run.

Yours in sprinting, squeaking, and soaring,
Jean-Paul
(Flute Geezer at TJ Flutes, Breathlessly Tapping at 184 BPM Since 1983)

P.S In a recent study conducted entirely in flute sections during panic-induced tea breaks, 93% of players admitted they have no idea what actually happens between 144 and 160 bpm. Common reactions include spontaneous time travel, rogue polyrhythms, and attempting to breathe through their fingernails. One respondent claimed to have played an entire presto passage correctly by blacking out and letting “the flute take the wheel.” Scientists are still investigating.

04/20/2025

I love this! Always searching for a newer, better way to play! Great read, flutists.

Dearest Flutist, Flautist, and Flute Player,

It is with equal measures of sympathy, amusement, and perhaps just a dash of gentle mockery that I address the most treacherous, exhilarating, and financially ruinous journey every flute player undertakes: the search for the perfect headjoint. Ah yes - that elusive tube of metal (or occasionally wood, should you be going through your "rustic" phase) which promises to transform your tone, elevate your artistry, and possibly even iron your shirts.

The quest, naturally, begins innocently enough. You procure your shiny new flute, complete with its reassuringly familiar default headjoint. All seems well; your tone is pleasant, your scales suitably precise, and your teacher's face remains blissfully untroubled during lessons. Life, for a fleeting moment, is perfectly delightful - until, inevitably, some innocent-sounding remark worms its way into your flute-playing psyche:

"You know, a different headjoint could utterly transform your sound."

And there it is. Pandora’s flute case bursts open with all the subtlety of a hundred eager piccolo players auditioning for the local band / orchestra.

Soon enough, you find yourself at your first flute convention, drawn magnetically towards a table piled dizzyingly high with headjoints of every conceivable variety. Silver, gold, platinum, rose gold, wooden, hybrid - each one practically humming with seductive promises. One by one, you blow a few tentative notes, and suddenly - miraculously! - one headjoint makes your top register sparkle, your low notes resonate gloriously like cathedral bells, and your middle D sings so sweetly that angels themselves pause their harp-playing to applaud. You're utterly convinced: this headjoint is destined to change your life. Then you glance at the price tag and swiftly ponder remortgaging your home, or perhaps auctioning off your first-born.

Summoning courage, and perhaps experiencing temporary financial madness, you swipe your card, take your new treasure home, and triumphantly announce to anyone who’ll listen: “I've finally found ‘The One!’”

Months, or perhaps heroically, even years later, you find yourself once more at another flute event. "I'm perfectly content," you whisper unconvincingly, hovering conspicuously around the headjoint displays with the practised air of someone who's "just browsing."

But inevitably, curiosity creeps in like a mischievous serpent. You pick up one headjoint, merely out of polite interest. Before long, you’re tumbling headfirst into full-blown flute-player madness. This headjoint seems warmer, that one brighter. Another boasts handcrafted excellence in precious metals and comes complete with a price tag higher than your car - but oh, how gloriously it caresses your lower octave! Now doubt gnaws at you. Was your previous choice ever genuinely good? Have you unknowingly been tormenting your listeners' ears all along?

Let us briefly consider, too, the utterly baffling language of headjoint craftsmanship. Congratulations - you are now inexplicably fluent in terms like "lip plate angle," "chimney height," “embouchure hole measurements”, and the profoundly serious art of "undercutting and overcutting." You nod sagely when a flute store proclaims the headjoint is "expertly handcrafted in a tiny Swiss village by a flute-maker who only works beneath a full moon." Apparently, it helps you "project beautifully into expansive concert halls," despite your largest audience still being the acoustically questionable village hall down the road - charming though it may be.

Most perilous of all, however, is the second-guessing. Safely at home with your gleaming new acquisition, you innocently retrieve your old headjoint "just for a quick comparison," only to discover - horror of horrors - that your previous companion sounds suddenly, bafflingly brilliant. Trapped now in a spiral of existential flute anguish, you ask yourself: Have I made a dreadful mistake? Should I abandon it all and take up a simpler pursuit - perhaps the kazoo or triangle?

Piccolo players, of course, share in this melodramatic plight, though theirs is perhaps even more harrowing. They, too, pursue perfection, with one headjoint projecting like a laser-guided missile (ideal for outdoor marches, deeply questionable indoors), another sounding deliciously warm but squeaking unpredictably on third octave A’s, and inevitably that one peculiar headjoint which is flawless - provided it’s tilted precisely 37.5781 degrees to the left and played with exactly the breath force of a hummingbird whispering sweet nothings.

But here's the charming, absurd, and liberating truth, dear flutists, flautists, and flute players: the perfect headjoint simply does not exist. There is only the headjoint perfectly suited to you right now. Your playing evolves, your tastes shift, and headjoint technology marches relentlessly onward, tempting you with enticing innovations. And therein lies the splendid fun! The journey isn't about locking yourself into a lifelong commitment; it’s about savouring the delightful madness of discovering what inspires you today (and indeed, testing the limits of your overdraft).

So embrace the search, laugh heartily at your indecision, revel in the absurdity of chasing sonic perfection, and savour every squeak, shimmer, sparkle, and trill along the way. And always remember, my dearest flute friend: the real magic isn’t hidden in the headjoint, it has been within you all along (admittedly corny, yet wonderfully true).

Yours in endless experimentation, comedic sympathy, and occasional existential flute crises,
Jean-Paul
Flute Geezer-in-Chief, TJ Flutes

08/23/2024

Ending the 2024 Summer Concert Series seems appropriate with an early Halloween theme, and the Stonewall Brigade Band will provide spooky, spooktacular music selections to kick off the holiday season!

Isn't Halloween your absolute favorite Fall holiday? The Stonewall Brigade Band will end the summer 2024 Concert Season with an all-spooky music line-up, such as Night on Bald Mountain, Oogie Boogie's Song, Phantom of the Opera, The Addams Family, In the Hall of the Mountain King, and Pirates of the Caribbean, among others. SBB musicians will be wearing their best Halloween attire - bring it! Candy will be distributed for the youngsters, of course. Grab up all of the family members, including the dog, the neighbors, the in-laws, the boss, the church choir, the poker group, and the delivery guy, along with your comfy park chairs, and have a howling good time with the last concert of the season. Hamburgers and hot dogs provided in the concession stand. Kiddoes invited on stage for the final number. Don't miss it - the concerts won't be back until next June! Staunton's Gypsy Hill Park band shell, Monday, August 26 at 7:30 pm.

08/09/2024

Experience the enchantment of a European vacation right here in Gypsy Hill Park in Staunton as we provide classical German and Austrian musical selections that you will certainly recognize. From Bach's Air and Simple Serenade, Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (A Little Night Music) and the Marriage of Figaro, Wagner's Elsa's Procession to the Cathedral, Strauss' The Bat, and of course, Beethoven's Fifth (unlike you've ever heard before). Grab the dog, the kids, the spouse, the boss, the neighbors, the poker club, the church group, and your comfy chairs for an enjoyable summer evening in Europe. Concessions available beginning at 6:30. Concert begins at 7:30.