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Illustration by Maya Nguyen
Every spring for a month or two I adjudicate music festivals. From Stettler, Alta., to Salmon Arm, B.C., from Fort McMurray to Moose Jaw, from Nelson to Nanaimo, B.C., from Yellowknife to Yorkton, Sask., and everywhere in between, I listen to earnest young piano players doing their best to perform a piece they’ve practised for months: on an unfamiliar piano, in front of a crowd of parents and piano teachers – and me, the adjudicator.
As my biography says, read out many many times during every festival, I’ve been a professional pianist for over 50 years. Occasionally (though not often enough) the person reading my bio will then say “he must have started when he was very young.”
When I was playing in music festivals, competition was fierce. My piano teacher took tranquilizers. He posted a running list of the festival marks his students received. The ultimate shame was to be pulled from the festival because you weren’t ready.
The newspaper listed the results of every festival class daily, including the names of winners and their marks. Once I heard the parent of another competitor say, undoubtedly in jest, “there’s Jamie Syer. Let’s go break all his fingers.” I sometimes wondered if the world would go on turning after the festival was over. Happily, I can report that music festivals have changed since then.
When I was competing, adjudicators were among the top piano teachers in the country, and I try to model my own adjudicating on the best of them. Some were well-known for giving adjudications that were as entertaining as they were instructive – so much so, that parents, teachers and performers would crowd into the room when it was adjudication time to enjoy the show, even if they had not heard the class.
I enjoy adjudicating because, though only for a few days, I come to feel part of the musical communities I visit. Many of the festivals were founded and are still supported by a local service club. Sometimes, the adjudicator’s secretary will be a venerable Rotarian who may not be sure how to pronounce “Beethoven” but knows the names of all the kids, their families and what their parents do for a living. Other festivals are run by the local music teachers’ association. In that case, I have to try to ignore the fact that I’m adjudicating the students of the person who is usually sitting beside me, helping to keep me organized.
Some festivals are reassuringly informal. When I couldn’t find the church where one event was to be held (because it was mislocated in Google maps) no one seemed worried that I didn’t arrive until well after the class was supposed to begin. “Oh, is Google still saying the church is in the McDonald’s parking lot?” Other organizers are justly proud of how efficient they are, and my secretary will tell me, “You’re running a little late, and you have 13 minutes left for your adjudication.”
The highlight of every festival, of course, is not the adjudicator, but the performers. Though I’ve probably heard the piece they’re playing many times, there are always new things to say: something good to begin my comments (there is always something good), a few suggestions for improvements, a couple of my tired jokes, some compliments to end with. With the youngest kids, I might talk about why we bow after we play; or I’ll do something ridiculously wrong at the piano and get them to correct me. With reserved, self-conscious teenagers I tease them about not answering my easy questions (“My students never answer the adjudicator’s questions either”).
There are talented kids everywhere, and I’m rejuvenated and excited when someone plays with passion, energy and commitment, even if they’re still searching for the right notes. And if someone is obviously floundering, I remind myself that I’ve never heard them before; perhaps that’s the best they’ve ever played and they deserve to be complimented, even if only for surviving.
Some of my friends say that adjudicating is just my excuse to check out the local food and coffee scene: fish and chips in Yellowknife! Caramel cannoli in Lacombe, Alta.! Local-roast macchiato in Penticton, B.C.! I enjoy exploring other aspects of the towns I visit, beyond the festival. Sometimes I’m able to work a local news item into my adjudication or tell a young performer that I liked the Super Mario poster she drew that was on display at the local movie theatre.
We don’t announce marks any more or even pick a first-place winner. Instead, we give out gold, silver and (rarely) bronze certificates, and sometimes a special pin or seal for anyone who achieves the magic mark of 90. At many festivals, performers don’t receive marks at all; though I remember one festival, where marks were still important, whose organizers prohibited me from giving a mark of 89 because they knew they’d receive complaints from parents saying, “It should have been 90.”
Parents and teachers are not supposed to approach the adjudicator until the festival is over. If I see a teacher I know in the audience, we scrupulously avoid glancing in each other’s direction. It’s not always easy for teachers to listen to adjudicators; they know their own students much better than I ever can. But when everything’s finished, if someone says to me, “thanks for treating our children so well” I feel I’ve succeeded. I try to honour all the encouraging and sympathetic adjudicators I’ve learned from who were at least able to say: “Much of that was very good!”
Jamie Syer lives in Bergen, Alta.