OK, there, I said it. I love my repairman.
Somehow, the work he did has had the effect of hours and hours of practise.
Until yesterday, I felt that I was pulling phrases out of murky quicksand, begging the voices to separate, feeling like I was pushing a wheelbarrow with my lips, trying to create a sculpture with a cudgel. Now the bassoon responds and allows me to ride my wave of thought (simple as it is), now the journey is beyond labour and in the realm of movement, ebb and flow. My ability to circular breathe has returned.
My repairman, Shane Wieler, wearing two pairs of glasses and talking fluently about the meaning of life, coaxed keys and pads back into alignment on the boot joint, replacing the leather F pad with a synthetic one, and the result is a clarity that I have been aching for. My reeds also sound better, yessir, they surely do.
And I thought I was sick of the Braun Solos, fed up with the thirteen movements in g minor (out of a total of 24 movements), chafing at the limited range combined with small fiendish difficulties. Thought I might want to re-record the Telemann Fantasias because, after all, they are glorious.
Now the sly wit of the Braun is more evident and I am charmed and fascinated anew.
I would claim it as a miracle though Shane has wrought this particular miracle many times before. Always needed, always welcomed, always makes me very very happy. And it somehow helps that I have practised hard even when the leaky bassoon was stolidly unresponsive.