Thursday is Recorder Day. Every Thursday morning I gather up my bag of
recorders and sheet music, and the separate case containing my bass
recorder, and lug them in to work. At lunch I meet with three other
people (on a good day), and we play a variety of things ranging from
Early Music to relatively modern klezmer.

For those who aren’t familiar with them, the recorder is the ancestor of
the modern transverse flute. It’s played differently; instead of blowing
across an opening, you blow into a mouthpiece. It’s similar in that
regard to a tin whistle. They come in a variety of sizes, and on a good
day we’ll play four part music, Soprano, Alto, Tenor, and Bass. The
ranges aren’t the same as the choral parts of the same name; I believe
the overall tonal range is about half that of a choir.

A bass recorder is a thing to see. Picture if you can
a small bazooka, about four feet long, turned out of exotic hardwood and
festooned with metal keywork. But if a bass recorder is a bazooka, today
we were graced with the presence of a howitzer–Dave (Dave my co-worker,
not Dave my little boy) was able to borrow a “great-bass”. This beast is
almost half again as long as a bass and speaks half-an-octave lower. You
blow into a long metal tube called a bocal that curves up from your mouth
about eight inches and disappears into the top of the recorder; you rest
the bell of the recorder on your shoe–and you have to start blowing
earlier than everybody else in the consort in order to have the note come
out on time. It’s heavy as all get out, and it doesn’t sound nearly as
good as it ought to.

Or that’s what Dave keeps saying. But we all know he’s trying to prevent
himself from wanting one of his own.