An honest account of one person's experience of music college in London. Guest blog: The World was my Oyster, now it’s my Anglerfish, written by oncebard.

As ocean metaphors go, it is easy to rehash the old favourites when it comes to the classical music industry. In this ecosystem, like so many others, we have the sharks: in charge of maintaining and controlling the species below them; the wily eels: who predate and scavenge; and last, and by all means least, the small fry and crustaceans who do all they can to survive the brutal ocean currents. That’s me by the way, hi!

As such imagery has been done to death, I won’t bore you with elaborate analogy here for too long, but something a friend said to me recently really struck a chord:

“Music education in the 2020s is like walking into the sea from the beach: at some point you’ve got to swim for yourself, but a whole bunch of people get washed away before that can happen.”

I arrived at the beach…

So, I have been really lucky. Like, ridiculously lucky. Having grown up in Cornwall with the guidance of a loving family, I was already nurtured in a way that many might envy. I have never pretended to be a musician tortured by trauma because I have been overwhelmed with opportunity. At fourteen, I was awarded a scholarship to a music school in the South West which gave me the space to learn and grow with many, like-minded and talented individuals. Further to this, my teachers there had already “been there and done that”. I was in awe of them not only as musicians/technicians but also as mentors - I will never forget the words of Mr. D: “you should always be a musician first, the trumpet just happens to be your weapon of choice.” How right he was. To revisit the metaphor, I had been able to dip my toes in and had taken my first steps.

“There is a lot to be said for studying an undergraduate music degree at university.”

Then I went to uni…

There is a lot to be said for studying an undergraduate music degree at university. If, as a passionate musician at 18 you look at yourself and go, “wow, I actually have no idea where this music thing can take me”, it really is the most perfect place to explore what’s out there. Will I ever produce another electroacoustic etude from field recordings? Unlikely… Should I ever ponder again the influence of the Gutenburg printing press on the sharing of music in the 16th Century? No. Sorry Luther… Might I ever finish that 5000-word essay on analytical methodologies as applied to the music of Malcolm Arnold? No, I turned it in half-finished and I stand by that decision.

But the point is, I had a go. I got to try it. I was able to see what worked for me, what did not. And what greater way is there to find what you truly love than that? Pure, academic freedom.

For me, though, it was always Performance. It will always be Performance. I think if I was born at another time in history I might have thrived as a court jester. So what was the natural next step for a young man in my position? You’ve had a look in your periphery but the blinders are on, seahorse! The pull of the moon keeps drawing the tide out and your lilo has a stitch fit to burst.

And then I went to music college… in London…

“I found myself at an institution designed to crush people, shattering them into a million fractals whilst expecting them to perform at the very highest level.”

Open ocean. I had capsized and it was time to start swimming. Out of the elation of graduating university, having earned a first-class degree, having been awarded a prize for the highest-scoring recital, I began to hear a little voice coming from deep. This hadopelagic voice was cloying. And it seemed to have a lot to say: “How are you going to catch up now you’re out here? You’re never going to find enough fish to survive out here now that lilo’s gone - it’s just you and me little fish”. Like so many others, I found myself at an institution designed to crush people, shattering them into a million fractals whilst expecting them to perform at the very highest level. I was threatened with tales of professionals being sacked for the smallest indiscretion. Taunted by stories of individuals being unable to join particular orchestras due to petty rivalries. Haunted by beta-blocker induced visions of being this faultless perfectionist. It was then that I realised I was no longer at the surface. The voice pulled me deep. The Tube pulled into the station…

I didn’t jump… I couldn’t, I had a gig and I couldn’t let them down…

That was a near miss. I had just performed the Neruda Trumpet Concerto and when I walked off the stage I had drowned. Was this really what it was going to be? I had achieved all of my goals. I can now listen back to that recording with pride - but if you ever needed an image of someone masking depression I implore you to watch it. People thought I was being cocky when I didn’t return to the stage to receive another round of applause. But I couldn’t, it was everything I wasn’t.

And I didn’t return. After my brass quintet gig in Leicester I withdrew from music college and was unemployed for five months, unable to do anything but watch television from my cocoon. Through the support of my family and the turn of the tides…

I opened my eyes and looked up. I was back at the beach staring vacantly at the crepuscular sky. It was time to wake up. It was time to get on. Self-pity was getting me nowhere. When I got home, I realised I was covered in sand - over the past three years I’ve been tasked with brushing this sand away. I think I’m there now. For the first time in three years I can play the trumpet again without wincing at my own sound. My hardened toes again slowly made their way back to the water’s edge. Where it leads this time, who’s to say? All I know is this: the world was my oyster, now it’s my anglerfish.

Do you also feel that crushing students’ confidence at music college is not the way to facilitate industry growth? Are you in a position to change this? Feel free to reach out - I’d just love to chat. Contact oncebard here.

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