Finding the Perfect Practice Room is Liz Parker’s homage to the practice culture that is the daily life of a music student. For those of you who have never studied at a university-level school of music, this includes seeking out a practice room amidst the school’s facilities on a daily basis and working tirelessly on our repertoire, all the while worrying about how others will perceive you on the other side of the door. I remember this routine well:

The prep for these student recitals became more crucial as I grappled with learning to sing. It was imperative I find a room as far away from people as possible. Most practise rooms were located by everybody’s lockers where we all sat on the floor hanging out. I couldn’t do lip trills or other experimental siren noises there. As a frustrated alto trying to become a not-awful mezzo, I had to work on expanding my upper ranges, and it wasn’t pretty. I discovered practise rooms on the ground level behind the administrative offices, which lead nowhere – meaning nobody was walking up and down that small hallway. There were no lockers either, so people weren’t lingering. PERFECT! That’s where I’d make my strangled cat noises.

At Eastman, my favorite practice room block was at the basement of the Annex. It took a few minutes of walking among winding corridors and stairwells, but these secluded rooms were some of the most private for getting work done.

I think Liz might be referring to me here:

Sometimes at night, you’d see two pianists approaching the same room and they’d burst into a sprint to be the first to nab one of the rare grand pianos (like the Chickering!) available.

My recollection of the Chickering in the UBC third-floor practice rooms was a piano well past its prime but still able to help you discover sonorities. The rack was stained with coffee marks and the aging instrument smelled of cigarette smoke from the years prior to 1986 when inside smoking was banned in British Columbia. Far better was the Yamaha grand on the other side of the floor which had been rebuilt with Steinway parts. It had a large and unforgiving sound which had a strong tendency to carry through on the other side of the door. Good for running through your rep, but not for learning notes, as everyone in a 30-foot radius could hear exactly what you were playing.

The hours of practice were endless, by turns both gratifying and frustrating, and included the terror/thrill of never knowing exactly which piano you would be practicing on for that day. Pianists who practice regularly in music schools are forced to become extremely agile, as their practice routine might require playing on several dozen instruments through the course of an entire week. On the thrill of walking through a music school on any given day:

it’s a beautiful thing to walk through the hallways of a music school, hearing snippets of music emerge from various rooms. You’ll hear some students practising out of obligation, usually parts required in some ensemble piece. Others play with stars in their eyes, practising solo parts for the whole hallway to hear. It was such a shock when I once cut through a science building on campus. It was ghostly silent, and if anyone was battling neurosis, I couldn’t tell. I’m glad I got to work out my neuroses via music.

I also recall that until the early 90s, the third-floor practice rooms at UBC were covered from floor to ceiling in music-related graffiti dating back to the 1970s.

(Photo courtesy of Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash)