The Montpelier Chamber Orchestra, of which Paul is a founder, was just getting started on the last night of their fall concerts. They were finishing the first movement of Beethoven's Symphony No. 8, playing to a full house, when the fire alarms started. Almost metronomically the alarms buzzed as the orchestra gamely played on. Since performance lives by the mantra “the show must go on”, it did as did the buzzing.

Finally, our son, Joshua, leaned over to me and, sotto voce, said “ I think we should get out of here....” Apparently others felt the same way as there was palpable beginnings of stirrings. The orchestra finished the movement and it was decided that we would all head outside into the brisk November evening to wait out whatever we were waiting out. Musicians grabbed their cases to keep their instruments safe to the exclusion of their coats. Once outside we laughed and chatted for a few minutes and then, as time passed, we got more silent and began rubbing our hands together in the chilly 40F.

Firetrucks arrived to cheers, we were certain we would be back in our sweater-covered seats momentarily.


The concert space is housed in a beautiful, very old, college chapel. It's said to be haunted and I'm not sure there wasn't some of that in play that evening. Perhaps a mischievous music lover was watching out of the fourth story window, enjoying the chaos caused.

The concert was over before it began.

The MCO had just hired a new music director, Anne Decker. It was the first full concert of her new position: the very first night she had performed (or not) in the orchestra's home space. I felt slightly nauseous for her. I spotted her passing among the players and audience members as we stood outside. Laughing, cheerful and seemingly in control of the uncontrollable. She ended up standing on the edge of a granite fountain to make the impromptu announcement that the performance was canceled, how sorry she was and to say that she really did not have a solution, at this point.

However...a few days later orchestra members emails began to light up with her plan. She would like to know who would be available to perform a “pop up” concert for the city of Montpelier. One performance, one piece, the Beethoven.

On Tuesday evening, December 6 at 6:00 I walked into an vacated Main Street store just before the concert began. Members of the orchestra waved as I entered, some dressed in velvet tops and others in jeans and sneakers. Paul was bundled up in his winter coat and boots- fashion be damned. I picked a spot to stand and watched as audience members drifted in; couples holding hands, a daughter pushing her elderly mother in a wheelchair, a mom with a sleepy child slung over her shoulder. In an increasingly crowded space, everyone somehow found a place to light as Anne took the podium.

Once again she turned to face us, stick in hand, a smile on her face. She explained the situation and a bit about the piece. Her ponytail flipped as she spun to enthusiastically face the orchestra and off they went.

People tapped feet, babies bobbed in rhythm and the room filled with the orchestral sound.

It was then that the brilliance of this struck me. Before the music began you might have looked at the group of musicians and had no idea what kind of music they would be playing. Jacketed Paul might be a grunge band cellist for all you knew and that, exactly that, was part of the beauty of this performance because once they began even I, who knew what they were going to do, was surprised and completely delighted by the fact that it was classical music replacing the air in this empty building.

The orchestra and it's brand new, fearless leader, had given the city of Montpelier a wonderful gift at the perfect time of year.

It also gave the audience and the orchestra a real chance to see that Anne Decker had, indeed, come to play.

Melissa Perley

The Long Road

T'is the season of extolling virtues: kindness, generosity, faith. There are two virtues that I extol daily in my cello studio; patience and perseverance.

When a new student arrives for their first lesson they are filled with excitement. Cheeks flushed with anticipation.

Rental instrument in hand, pulled gingerly from it's padded snowsuit. It sets on it's single, wobbling, still shiny steel pin. Music book placed carefully on the stand, pages so new they refuse to stay open.

Poised to start, bow in hand, so ready......we begin the journey with my asking them to put the bow down.


Many months later, a slightly more tattered etude book is laid on the stand. Discussion ensues about yet another scale. A few tears drop in frustration over an argument (another) with their metronome.

Who is that cursed little braided girl in the Suzuki book anyway?

“The importance is in laying the foundation,” I speak quietly

“If you can play it slowly, you can play it fast,”

The metronome is your friend”

“Connection, articulation, intonation...”

“Turn OFF YouTube.”


We cruise through Suzuki I only to collide with “Happy Farmer.”  Hours spent understanding “the block” just in time to begin vibrating and forget it ever existed.

Twinkle, Rigadon, Marcello, Breval, The Swan, Tarantella....The road to excellence is full of potholes and badly named pieces.

If we remain on course, putting one foot in front of the other as we climb, metronome in hand, we will arrive at the top of our mountain.

Patience and Perseverance.

Mastery is, after all, staying on the path.

Black Monday

It begins like every other practice. I open with scales, paying attention to the detail of each note. I play them until I feel that the cello and I are in synch and ready to move forward.

Etude. Difficult work this week but I maneuver pretty well. I remove any outer layer I'm wearing as I begin to heat up. Before long I have a small heap of discards to include my watch, sweater and rings. My shoulders are loose and my body falls into a familiar, daily rhythm. I set aside the etude book and pull out the piece that I am working up.

I've made myself a promise that I will work backward in practicing repertoire. Most difficult comes first and so on. It means that my focus will be the most sharp on the most challenging work. As I begin to fatigue I get to play measures that are more familiar to me. Most days this works well. I finish practice sated and satisfied (mostly) but not today....

As I climb the mountain of fast scale work I notice that somewhere between last night and today my fingers have fattened up quite a bit. I thwack instead of pizz and, for good measure, I pick up several extra strings. This might be a good thing as the ones I intend to use don't seem to be working so why not throw in a few more for good measure? (who am I kidding- there are no good measures!)

Instead of slowing down, I speed up. Insisting that my hand and brain work in tandem. I should know that there is a reason that the brain is in charge. The more I push, the worse I play. In fact, I find that I am now beginning to practice the mistakes.

I flip the page with extra zest and the book falls to the floor. I look across the room and wonder if I could actually hit that far door with my bow if I heaved it hard enough. The only thing keeping it in my hand is the dollar sign.

Now if my student tells me about a similar practice I would patiently listen and calmly tell them that in this circumstance, you should “remain patient, step away from the cello for a while and come back when you are rested and less frustrated.” Even this voice in my head makes me want to punch myself in the face.

I drop the Alexander technique altogether and begin to practice the art of self sabotage. Look how bad I am - watch me get even worse.  I can, I really can.

All this and no sugar to blame.

Finally I firmly place the cello/traitor on it's stand. I slam the light switch off in my studio taking delight in leaving the instrument in the dark...like it has left me.

 I thought that once I had passed the gazillion hour mark the agony percentage would decrease and days like this would stop.

Tomorrow is another day...


Melissa Perley

Making Music

I'm sitting looking out the window pondering the fact that last weekend I was hiking up Mount Mansfield and this weekend I'm looking at snow on the ground in the third week of October.

I've chosen a seat next to the wood stove for daydreaming. It is one of the first fires of the season and the ping of the metal expanding and the warmth on my bare feet make it an irresistible perch.

In due time I will lumber back to the computer and begin to organize my teaching schedule for the upcoming week. The snow will have melted and the crunch of the leaves will return just in time for Halloween.

This past week Paul and I finished running a cello quartet, made up of some of our adult students, that had been Tuesday evenings for the past six weeks. The final evening was an open rehearsal for family and friends of players involved. The four cellists sat in a horseshoe facing the “audience” and played, for them, the pieces that we had worked up together. The goal of this ensemble was to offer students the opportunity to play with their peers in an organized, coached situation. Ensemble work is a completely different animal from lesson situations where you are sitting next to your teacher. The goal of this was to be able to focus, not only on the notes in front of you, but also on the people alongside you and what they are doing.

We spent a great deal of time identifying what player was carrying the melody, who had the job of supporting it and then discussing that when it is your line, “play out Jeff!” There was laughter over mistakes and cheers when there was success.

The evening of the open rehearsal was the culmination of those weeks of practice. We ran through the music, stopping and correcting. Paul conducted and I played in where I was needed. At the beginning I would sit in on various parts on each of the pieces but that final rehearsal It was only necessary for me to be in on one of them. The weeks of practice paid off. The group had learned how to blend their sound and create pieces that were cohesive even in the separateness of the parts. I sat back, resting my hands on the top of my cello and watched their faces; they were looking at each other and smiling, pride had replaced fear.

Later that evening I oversaw various emails flying back and forth between the quartet . Calls to come together again and to perhaps play a couple of those pieces at the winter recital?. I watched the screen but stayed out of the conversation. Like all growth experiences, the goal includes becoming more independent of the instructor.

Last week I had two early students overlap each other's lesson so as to play a duet together. I gave them each the music the prior week and had them come in prepared to play together. Other than dueting with me, it would be their first time making music with another instrument.

As they finagled the big bodies of the cellos into place, tightening end pins and bows and shuffling music onto their designated stands, there was nervous chatter. They didn't know each other with the exception of passing on the in and out path to their lessons. I stood in the corner and let them balance their space and then begin to play. At first they had trouble listening to the other rather while simply reading their own parts. We added our good friend, Mr. Metronome and things began to iron out. They started with only a few measures, then just the first line and finally, the entire piece. Big sighs of relief as the bows clunked back onto the stands. But as big are their smiles because they just cannot believe that they are making music!

I find lessons for us everywhere. Left like crumbs of bread for us to follow on our paths. In our everyday lives it is important for us to read our own parts but be always conscious of those around us because they too are following their individual rhythms.


To Injure Or Not....That Really Is The Question.

I ran Sam at the sheep farm today. The wind was blowing a cool breeze and a few colorful leaves swirled around us in the field. This, and the fact that for the first time I was wearing pants instead of shorts, might have indicated that summer is over. And when we took Sam to the river to cool off after running, there was not one person there...no colorful umbrellas, no picnickers or swimmers...just us.

School has started and we are back in full teaching mode. There is grief in retiring my bathing suit but there is also excitement in returning to routine.

I find the relaxed schedule of summer has done two things for returning students; helped them to let go of certain habits and challenges that plagued them last season and wreaked havoc with their technique!!

Which means that, within all levels, we return to basics to reinforce our foundation. The importance of this cannot be overstated because basics not only give us the roots that we need in our playing but also help us protect ourselves from injury.

One of the very first things I teach new students is the importance of the proper seating position. Feet on the ground, hips aligned with upper body and a straight spine with relaxed shoulders and elbows. This has aggravated many an electric guitar wannabe as they hold the cello slouched into their laps.

We also talk, at length, about the need for movement of the body while playing. So many times I have seen effort and hard work translate to tension in the neck and jaw of a new player. I've sat and watched someone trying to set down a difficult extension and literally push their bow and squeeze the strings as if the extra oomph would guarantee perfection. Sometimes I am literally thrilled to see a breath symbol in the Suzuki books so as to remind students of the need to do just that...breathe.

Ella came to me, as an early student, tucking her bow arm against her body. I liked to call it the “fetal position” This arched her wrist and tucked her hand under the fingerboard forcing her to lift her wrist every time she wanted to move. A recipe for carpal tunnel syndrome. We corrected the position by opening her elbows, “like a Pterodactyl” only to have it rear it's ugly head time and time again as difficult passages forced her to revert to what she knew best. Now, years later, all I have to do is slightly turn my head toward her and out pops the elbow!

Extensions are always a bugger for early players. The explanation alone is confusing, never mind the actual hand position. For a bit of time pretty much everyone forgets to bring the thumb along with the movement of the second finger into the third finger position making the extension look more like a stretch for home plate. I ask them to look at their fingers and make note of the white markings that indicate both tension AND the lack of blood in the thumb.

Rigid necks, awkward facial contortions, hunched shoulders, flapping elbows and palsy-like vibratos. All things that might seem like unavoidable results of learning to play the cello. And how can I expect you to both read those little black dots and sit up straight, move, lift your elbow, drop your elbow and....well, relax?

Every teacher would be remiss if we did not work on these things. Our goal has to be not only to teach you the technical aspects of playing a difficult instrument but also to protect you from the injury of what is, without question, also a serious athletic endeavor.

Ella...pop that elbow!




Madeline Collaborates

Madeline is my seven year-old student from Boston who studies with me in the summer months. The first half of her writing (black ink) was in response to my previous blog: the blue ink portion was written after experiencing some frustration with a difficult piece and a subsequent conversation between us.

(Mushing is dog-sledding)

I think Madeline's observations are brilliant.


Summer, 2016

We are in the middle of summer, actually, as we hit the last day of July we are rounding the corner in the stretch of the season. I prefer to think of us as strolling, relaxedly through the dog days of summer rather than racing, helter skelter toward fall.

I purposefully lighten my schedule for the summer months. It offers students the chance to enjoy family vacations and have the time to sit back and, perhaps process some of what we have worked on. This year it has also offered me the opportunity to train and compete in sheep herding trials with my border collie, Sam.

At first glance this would not seem to fit into my life as a musician. When filling out the yearly American String Teachers Association forms they asked me to write about something “interesting and unusual” that I enjoyed doing besides music. As I wrote “sheep herding” it did seem unusual, even to myself.

But, as I examine it further, it strikes me how common the thread actually is that binds together all of the things that I enjoy doing both for work and for pleasure.

Sheep herding trials were born from a farmer's desire to have some time off the farm. Farms that had sheep normally had at least one, if not more, border collies to work with them in the daily chores of moving the stock, etc. So, like tractor pulls and calf showing, why not get together and take some of those daily chores and turn them into a fun competition and get those few days out of the field to boot?

Many years later the set up for the sheep trials remains very much the same. You are given a random group of sheep and you and your dog have to move those sheep through various gates in a straight line, turn them around the post at which you stand and, ultimately, put them into a small pen, finishing the run and earning you the distinct pleasure of turning to your dog and saying the words immortalized in the movie “Babe,” “That'll do.”

When I step onto the field to work with Sam it requires focus and determination. My mind has to search for all of the possible invisible landmines that might trip us up and I have to have a plan.

When you sit down at your music stand and scan the music, I think you will see where I'm going here.

As I pick up my cello I have to respect it as my partner. There is no music without it and there is no music without me. I know that my instrument requires a certain touch as I move closer to the bridge and it is very clear that without the weight that it asks of me, chaos will ensue.

Sam and I have a routine before our runs. We move off of the crowd of handlers waiting their turns and we sit and watch the other dogs take the field. I talk with him about what they are doing, what we need to look out for and how I think we should proceed. As we walk to the post to begin, he always looks up at me as if to say “I got this, now let's go.” And I have to respect him as my partner for there is no structure and plan without me and there is no speed and muscle without him.

It would seem,simply, that I enjoy cellos and that I enjoy dogs and that much is true. However, what I love about the cello is taking the technique that I have gathered and being able to use it to interpret and convey what a composer is saying to me.

What excites me about working with my dog is that, although we are of different species, we are a team and if we are to get the job done it will require communication that crosses that barrier between human and animal. And when I look up and see sheep coming toward me in a completely straight line (hopefully) with Sam zig-zagging behind them, it absolutely thrills me.

Too many summers I have filled my time with too many things. I over-book myself with playing and teaching. I agree to run a camp or attend too many events and as I cross the finish line of the summer I look backward with regret.

Not this year. This year there have been sunny days filled with swimming and picnicking. Trips to places in my own state that I had never seen before. Long car rides, without phones, for Paul and I to really converse and catch up on things.Walking through open fields and watching Sam chase the ball, over and over and over again.

And ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream.

It is wonderful to be as determined about doing the things I like to do (or doing nothing at all) as I am about working toward other goals.

So as we round the corner and step into fall, the nut gathering can begin. I am rested and ready.


Melissa Perley


The Birth Of Your Musicality

At some point it becomes apparent that what makes players special actually has little to do with how many black dots they can play and everything to do with how those dots are played.

The misconception is that truly making music, exposing your innermost feelings, is reserved for a certain level of musician and for a certain level of music. Students often feel that there will be some line written in red or a bell that will go off letting them know that “now is the time”. In reality, that time is now.

As early as possible I like to begin to play duets with my students. One of my favorite moments is when I put a piece of music that they have not seen in front of them, and they not only actually play it, but now they are making music with another person. From there we begin, learning that making music is far more than producing notes.

I believe that there are layers to practicing and I suggest that we begin working a piece from the bottom up. Nothing important stands without a solid foundation. Technique is the key to freedom and it is the concrete in our foundation. Practice must include dissection, inspection and understanding of the technical aspects of each piece. However music always has to be a thing of beauty and technique always has to be in service to that beauty.

Too many times I have sat in an audience listening to progressing cellists use whatever techniques they had gathered in an attempt to play difficult groups of notes in a difficult piece of music. There was no feeling, no beauty, only a collision of notes played with fear, followed by disappointment and some relief when it was over.

It is a mistake to believe that all success comes from the left hand. Bow movement and sound point are crucial to creating color. These should be introduced early and used at all levels.

Moving someone and truly making music cannot be achieved solely by mechanical means. Like in so many areas of life, muscle and elbow grease are self defeating.

I ask that students work on the bones of every piece, scale, etude. When that knowledge is solid the cellist should let go of the idea of playing just with their fingers and begin to play from their gut. I want them to tap into the emotion that sits in the puddle somewhere deep inside of us.

True beauty is never determined by what you play - but always by how you play it.




 Every single time I have a new student over the age of 20 I get the exact same question “Am I too old to learn to play the cello?” and every single time I give the same answer, “no”.

The benefits of learning music as a child are real - let's face it, our brains are both more accepting of learning new information and, probably more important, our brain is not crammed with the minutiae of day to day living as an adult; work, family, pets, garbage day, car repair and, of course the plethora of code numbers for every single account we need to access (my personal hair trigger). The code numbers alone scientifically take up 7/8's of our usable brain space (my science).

In teaching both younger and older students I can say that another benefit of being a “younger” student is that children and teenagers don't normally carry the baggage of having to be correct all of the time. Adults become almost fixated on making their notes perfect. They will make room for some rhythm, when asked, but of utmost importance are the black dots. Kids, on the other hand, not only don't mind making mistakes, they often take delight in it. Most enjoyable to me is when a student, of any age, makes a really noticeable error and explodes into laughter. It makes me hoot as well and then we get right back at it.

Kids have that damned memory thing going for them. Many times I will assign a piece and the very first week they return they have it completely memorized. I remember having that kind of memory.... I think.

But take heart adults, that is why I give everyone a notebook!! And, interestingly, my young learners often don't “remember” to look in the notebook at what I assigned them.

Adult learners come to lessons, almost without exception, prepared. Even with full-time jobs, laundry, and kids to ferry to soccer, they arrive having practiced. Often they are a healing balm at the end my “young learner” day. Adults are studying the instrument because they really want to. They have thought it through and, recognizing the challenges, make it happen. And it is their name that is on the check at the beginning of the month.

Adults take my suggestions and really work with them. They will sit in front of mirrors, use a drone and make friends with their metronome. And I say “Bravo”

Interestingly, something both teens and adults need in lessons is some time to talk. I make the studio a safe space. If you haven't practiced- I talk with you, not your mom or your partner. And you can bang your fist and you can tell me that you hate this piece (I get the insinuation that it includes me..but I can take it) and it never leaves the room. Music gives everyone a second voice. We can use it to express joy and passion and love and...rage.

Learning something new is difficult at any age for different reasons, but it is also an inherent part of our growth as people. Perhaps this is what keeps all learners “youthful learners?”

Adult learners vs. young learners is a bit like the tortoise and the hare...and we all know how that ends.




This is what I hear the moment I bring up the fact that it is that time again. It matters not that the student has played in many recitals, in fact just played in one this past winter. The mere mention of the “R” word makes most of my students heads snap around and they get that “deer in the headlights” look in their eyes.

Paul and I combine our studio recitals. We plan two during the cello season. We have one around Christmas and one at the end of the season, around late May or early June.

I have each student participate in choosing one piece to bring up to performance level. Once in a while I'll have someone throw in an extra duet with a sibling or friend, etc. but normally it is one piece per student. This wasn't a difficult decision, it came about after both participating as well as sitting through millions (or just felt like it) of recitals where students played numerous pieces. I have memories of getting to one of our son's recitals at what seemed a reasonable time only to find that reasonable relegated us to the “overflow” room, in which there was not even a piano. Picture ten sets of parents all leaning in one direction straining to hear at least one of the seven compositions each student was allowed to perform, in the other room, the room WITH the piano.

The word broil also comes to mind.

So...we minimize. I have a large studio and I have empathy.

Once the piece has been chosen we begin with a wide scope and then tighten our field of expectation. I remind everyone that bringing a piece to performance is very different from working a piece week to week. They often laugh when I tell them that to be truly ready to perform there should be a bit of the “eating too many crackers'” feeling- that you will never eat those crackers again as long as you live. And then they stop laughing at about week six.

However, our goal is to not only work through the individual challenges of each piece but to create a muscle memory that will be invaluable when adrenaline joins the party.

We work the piece and, quite separately, we work on performance anxiety, which is another muscle entirely. I feel that to fully prepare even the youngest performer we must pay attention to their head as well as their hands. Teaching someone to perform serves a purpose well beyond studying the cello and it is my responsibility as surely as teaching someone to play notes is. Ron Thompson, my friend and author of the book “On Cue- Managing Anxiety, Inviting Excellence” talks about creating our ideal audience and reminding us that our performance is a gift to be given without expectation.

When the recital day arrives students stream into the space, appropriately early, to tune and simply to “be” in the space. Everyone has the chance to play a bit of their piece- although not so much that they give away the whole gift. I love to see the younger male students come in with their wobbly ties and their flattened hair. Sheepishly grinning and jamming hands into their pants pockets.

One by one they begin, some in duet with me and some braving the spotlight alone. I try to help the audience to understand how challenging it is to learn something new, anything new, but this is THE CELLO- enough said.

And we go though it all together. We look at each other in delight when they zip through a passage that they kept falling into at each lesson and I lean over and squeeze a hand when they fumble, because it is never about the falling and fumbling but always about the getting up.

Afterward there is cake- there is always cake at recitals isn't there? Everyone mills around and feels fabulous as their family and friends smile and congratulate. They hang onto the neck of their cellos with the hand that isn't holding the cake, they are a team, they need each other to shine.

I busy myself with odd jobs in the corners, exhausted in a way that only comes from emotional exertion. As each player walks forward to perform my heart begins to pound and I feel myself playing every note with them, urging them from a place that they can't hear. And now it is over and I'm softly happy.

The lesson from recitals is that we work and then....we play.


Melissa Perley

To Skype Or Not To Skype

There are germaphobes, agoraphobes, hydrophobes and there are technophobes, and that is me. You can throw in arachnophobia as well...so when one of my students was headed to Spain for a year and asked me to teach her via Skype I immediately said “no.” Then the begging began at each lesson and I could only take so much.

It involved me purchasing a laptop computer that was capable of Skype and a bit of bartering car privileges with our son, Ethan, to figure out how to make it work before I was ready.

I was cynical that it would be possible, let alone successful. I wasn't teaching someone to paint, which you might (I wouldn't but...) be able to do without good sound production, I was teaching them to play an instrument!

The computer “rang” for me and I answered with a video response and there was Chris, just as she was the week before, only on a screen. We sat down for our lesson, across from each other both in terms of position to computers and placement on the planet. The first hurdle is to stop looking at yourself. There you are, big as life, with all of your hair challenges. Horse blinders are helpful.

I always begin my lessons with scales and so we began. Up she went for four octaves and down she slid on the other side. I could hear each note distinctly. And I could easily hear, much to her dismay, if her pitch needed adjusting.

On we pressed to etudes. If I had something to show her, I would hold it up to my little camera and she could see what point I was trying to make. We began to take notes in tandem in our notebooks. One that she would keep for herself and the other I would keep here so that I could refer to it the following week. I would jot comments and ideas and, as when she was here in person, little jokes.

When we finished the hour lesson we both felt wonderful about what we had accomplished and the bonus was that she could “carry” me around the new house in Spain! After we had hung up I would send her an email transcribing what I had written in the notebook here. It gave her assignments to work on and enabled her to read my thoughts and ideas as she went through everything. Email allowed her to ask questions and, if a problem arose, I would appropriately primp and turn on the screen.

Our Skype lessons continued for the year that she and her husband remained in Spain. When she returned to “normal” lessons, there was no question that she had progressed. I was sold.

I have several Skype students now from various parts of the country. I have taken one student, Sherrie, from never reading music to working on her first Sonata. We have recitals with Paul as her audience (no snacks being the down side of this arrangement) and I snail-mail her any prizes she might collect from my infamous quizzes. We are a team as sure as I am with anyone who physically sits beside me. We laugh, we work through her struggles and we trust each other, as a team does.

I should be more amazed that this works than I am, but music always finds a way to break all barriers and I, as ever, remain grateful.



The trees are taken down, the candles put away and time to relax and contemplate has ended...it is January.

December is traditionally winter recital month and early January comes New England High School Music Festival and All State auditions. Cello students have put aside most other materials in order to fully focus on these events.

Over and over we run scales and measure by measure we take pieces apart only to put them together again. This is preparing for performance. As I explain to the audience at our student recitals, we aren't being total ogres by having students give a recital, it just seems that way. However, getting pieces ready for any type of performance is a very different animal from week to week assignments. And once these recitals and auditions are finished both teacher and student can take a deep breath.

And then in comes January. In Vermont this is the longest month of the year. Unpredictable weather means icy rain one day and piles of snow the next. No sparkling lights to lift our spirits as darkness descends by 4pm. All this cello study resumes anew.

For us it means pouring over pieces to find the music that will lift a student into their next curve of learning while being aware of pushing too hard and inviting disappointment and discouragement. Our winter meal consists of scales and etudes with new duets as the dessert. Difficulty and fun need to be put on the scales as laughter is as important in a lesson as challenge.

Lessons come at the end of a workday. Schoolwork or work for pay doesn't matter- the student is tired and it is our job to greet each student with renewed energy from the last lesson, we are tired too.

But in the midst of this effort is the music, always the music. I watch tired faces lift while playing a joyful stretch of Bach and laughter at silly mistakes by teacher and student alike.

And so we come to terms with stoking the stove, wearing our boots and returning to our musical studies while we wait for that first crocus


Christmas is one of my very favorite times of the year. December normally swoops in on the tail of frigid winds and blustery weather. Unfortunately, that is exactly when it is time to drive to the airports and pick up family, who are swooping in on blustery tailwinds of their own.

Our small house bulges at the seams to reaccomodate the ones we love. We have been food shopping numerous times to be sure to stock our refrigerator with everyone's favorite things.

Air mattresses are inflated and disguised with a pile of quilts and pillows. Our dog squeezes in between the chair legs under the table to hide from the fray.

Unless Christmas conveniently lands on the weekend, the week that people come in remains a work week for us. That means that our students tiptoe around suitcases with their cellos and the sight reading portion of lessons becomes holiday duets.

For our family, the official musical week of the holiday season always begins with a trip to the Flynn theater in Burlington to see a musical version of “A Christmas Carol.” brought in by the Nebraska Caravan Theater. Our kids know every line by heart and the post performance walk to our car is essentially a re- production of the performance.

Next is something most musicians are familiar with, Handel's brilliant Messiah. Paul plays in the Messiah performance in nearby Stowe. It is a sing-along and he is an original member of the orchestra going back 21 years. He is sedately dressed in musician black while his family fills the pew closest to his seat wearing our ugliest of ugly Christmas sweaters and various sparkly attire. He can't miss us, voices withstanding.

Another budding tradition is to bring members of both of our cello studios to Woodridge Nursing home the week before Christmas. We arrived this year with around ten cellists, one violinist (we like those numbers) and two bassists. The music has three parts guaranteeing that anyone who would like to play can fit into one of the parts.

We begin arriving with our cumbersome cases in tow. Some of the residents are already seated. A few will be in regular chairs and many in wheelchairs. Often as we come in we will get a weak wave or a small smile to greet us. Sometimes we get neither, just a vague stare.

This year one of our students made a handbook with the words to the holiday music that we were playing. We moved hopefully among the residents handing them the books so that they could sing along.

I conducted the group and Paul sat in. We began with a very familiar piece and, as we started up I could hear voices begin to sing from behind me.

As we moved from piece to piece I became much more adept at the “conductor swivel” One minute I would face the musicians, the next I would spin and face the residents. Flapping my arms like some kind of a Christmas bird to keep the musicians in tempo behind me and to encourage the chorus in front of me.

As we continued, people became braver and more animated. We watched them begin to clap their hands to the pieces that were as familiar to them as the hands they were clapping. Some of the voices were tired and weak but others rose above the music, strong and clear. The best part was when we would forge on to verse three, one that carolers rarely sing, and all of us, including this conductor, were forced to keep repeating the phrase “fa la la la la” as it was the only line we could readily remember.

I found that as I continued to swivel between orchestra and musician the line began to blur. One side was laughing and singing, the other smiling and laughing. Music and laughter becoming the ribbon that was tying this package together.

As the clapping died down we packed up to leave. We had made a plan with our students to meet for pizza and so they were hefting cases onto their shoulders and lugging music stands down the hall toward the elevator. At the same time many of the residents were being wheeled down that same hall to their rooms. But, as there are only so many “wheelers' available at one time, many remained in the space with us. Now that the music had ended they sat silent in their wheelchairs. Smiles replaced by vague stares.

I found it difficult to leave them. I knew that I was headed to a warm space filled with holiday cheer and laughing friends. I knew that when I left the restaurant it would be with my husband and son and we would be going home to turn on our familiar Christmas records and sit by our beautiful tree and, I knew that, at one point, the residents had lived this life as well.

But no longer.

Often we struggle to find and then describe what can make holidays special and important.  In this case, with those voices singing and faces smiling, no words were needed.


Melissa Perley

Thanksgiving 2015

What if today were the day when everything was enough?

What if, when you picked up your instrument, every squeak, the low percentage of right notes, and even all “unscheduled solos” were okay?

If today could be the day that your focus became on the process instead of on that far off perfect end point?

If those things were enough, could you be grateful? Could you be grateful for the ability to simply draw your bow across the strings and make resonant, beautiful sounds?

For the sheer power of the instrument?

For its smooth, curving beauty?

For your hands?

For you?

Today everything is real and good and it is all enough , including you - be grateful.


Happy Thanksgiving.


The Path That We Have Chosen

I 'm driving home in the late afternoon deep in thought, my brand new studded snow tires crackling against the stones as I pass over the familiar dirt road. I come around the bend and am struck by the light on the water of the pond. The conifers on the far side of the water look as if they have a spotlight shining on them. Staggeringly beautiful and in the water in front of them an equally stunning reflection- two for the price of one.

I pull my car over to the side of the road to take a moment and breath it in. Overhead geese honking their goodbyes as they fly over the water. Small ducks, permanent residents, bob up and down looking for food. Someone drives past me, dust from the dirt road swirls around my car, as it settles back the view reappeares as if it has been hidden behind a scrim just waiting for my show to begin.

The brilliant colors of the leaves have rusted out. But there is something in the faded color, in the new sparseness that pulls at my emotions. I think it is the ache of loss coupled with the anticipation of things to come.

I know this view. Every day I see the pines rise up from the shoreline. Their almost black- green creating aggressive stripes against the soft deciduous trees. I need each of them to be able to see the other.

The pond curves out ahead of me as I drive. One day it will be dark and capped with white foam, unsettled and rough. The next it will be beautiful blue green, peaceful and calm. I find that as it is reflecting what is around it to me, I also feel peaceful and begin to reflect it.

Today I notice my neighbors gathering their wood. One man comes out in red plaid carrying a maul. At the next house someone is pulling a tractor out of his shed, cranking his neck around to miss hitting the cars parked in the driveway. Like squirrels bravely darting across the road, we, too, are preparing for the next season. Each of us gathering. Friends are getting the final brussel sprouts off the stalk and forking potatoes into a bucket to be stored in the basement and brought out later when the ground is white.

I know this dirt road. Beautiful in the fall, hard and solid. Winding through the fiery colored landscape. Peaceful in the summer, long and dusty, passing in and out of the cool, green shade. Icy in the winter, almost unrecognizable with its white coat on. And treacherous in the spring. We take in big gulps of air before heading out on each journey anticipating the bumps and jolts of mucking though mud. Wondering if we really will ever get back home.

This is where we choose to live. We could choose somewhere that is placed on the side of smooth, black pavement. It would be quick to get to and the road easy to drive on. We would know what to expect each and every day. But we don't want to know what to expect from day to day. And we want to have to experience the struggle of living here because we need that to be able to appreciate the good that we have.

This is our road, why we are here and this is the path that we have chosen.


The Art Of Ensemble


I woke up this morning and noticed a dusting of snow on the grass. In response to this offense the trees seemed to be tossing leaves to the ground in a swirl of defiance. Protesting winter's early visit. We had to feed the stove big chunks of maple instead of poplar to keep the wood floor warm under our feet while making breakfast.

I put a whole chicken into a pot to roast the day away and made a pumpkin pie for dessert. It is fall in Vermont.

The younger students are back onto their weekly schedules both in school and for private lessons. It is not just math skills that gathered dust over the summer. We revisit our bow grips and climb down the scale to begin the climb back up.

They gradually remember my teaching subtleties - when my eyes drift over to an elbow that is cowering too close to their side- out it pops as if by magic. The quick turn of my head to catch a wayward pinkie having British tea brings it back in line avoiding a scribble in the notebook that will indicate the need for a week of bow-skill work.

At the end of each session we play duets. It is the cake of the lesson. Students get to pick their duet (something they have not played before) and their part, (top or bottom). It offers the opportunity for each student to be in charge of at least one part of the hour and that is important. There are laughter and mistakes but there is also growth. I liken it to adding chopped broccoli to spaghetti sauce, my kids never knew and yet they got the value of the vegetable. Amidst the laughter the student learns to sight-read - an invaluable tool in their cello drawer.

As the music programs in many schools falter and even stop, it becomes important that the private teacher offer some kind of ensemble opportunity to their students. Perhaps there is a youth orchestra in the area that can help with those skills. But, for some, for different reasons, that may not be feasible, and for many early-learning adults it is not possible.

Paul and I have run an ensemble (known simply as “ensemble”) for many years. It began life as a way to give students the chance to learn how to play as part of a group, how to work under a conductor, and what it means to be part of a musical community.

We decided on music and there were normally four levels of parts matching skills. We, (and when I say “we” I mean Paul) transposed various instrument parts into cello parts. It was the ideal orchestra to our minds- all low strings- all the time! We met bi-weekly in the basement of a local church and through cold Vermont winters the lights of that church would blaze out over the snow and the sound of music and chatting would fill that basement.

As word spread of ensemble more people asked if they could join us and before long we were dealing with a small chamber orchestra by adding violins and basses. At one point we had five basses lined up, backs to the windows.

Each session opened with music and closed with cookies. They performed at every recital and could hear as well as feel the results of their new experience. It was exciting to watch students begin in the fourth cello part, mainly half and whole notes, and each successive year move up through the ranks- a shy smile on their face on their first day of being with a new section. One year our oldest student was an eighty-six year old Japanese man and the youngest was an eight-year-old little girl and they sat side by side. Kazuhiko spoke very little English but, fortunately, the language spoken was music and it was enough. 

This year our schedules have not allowed us to run a full-on ensemble and it is a disappointment - both to them and to us. However, Sunday evening we will be holding a Renaissance Night as a collaboration between our two studios and our friend Margaret Gilmore's studio. They are from the Upper Valley so we will meet in the middle at a church in Randolph, Vermont. There will be players of different abilities and each will have their own part. There will be a potluck dinner and pie, always pie. This time the lights will blaze out over colored leaves and retreating snow and there will be the sounds of chatting and of music filling another basement hall. And it will be a chance for us all, teachers included, to remember that an important part of learning music is remembering to “play” together.


Photography & Music

Recently I had a great experience pairing solo cello music with photography and painting. It has been so interesting to put all three art mediums in one space - there is an element of sensory overload that is edgy and exciting. It has certainly made me more appreciative of the visual arts.

Photographers and painters “see” in minute. They pick up interplay between colors and textures and enjoy the world of sight with a magical tilt. Musicians “hear” in minute- we hear the rhythm in the calls of the crows outside the bedroom window each morning. We listen intently to the background music in film and we are never unaware of how sound affects the way we feel - in fact - we rely on that sensory intertwining and understand the need to be able to tap into it.

For our Paul Perley Cellos website we set up a photographic space to take pictures of the cellos and bows for sale. We put it in our basement both due to lack of appropriate space as well as to insulate the blue language involved as we figured out how to best shoot the instruments. In studying luthiering Paul was taught that varnish is holy. Above all else, avoid altering the varnish on an instrument. We respect, understand and appreciate that, but the sheen off that varnish with big lights makes photographing the cellos without big “hot spots” nearly impossible for lay photographers (that's us...)

So we did what all respectable photographic wannabees do- we hired someone!

The team that we hired, John Snell and Rob Spring are fine photographers and they loved working with the instruments- the beautiful shapes of the bouts, some magnificent peg designs and the impressiveness of thirty cellos are hanging shoulder to shoulder -the sense of waiting to be played palpable. They did a fabulous job for us and our web site is testament to their artistry. However, Rob also added extra photos of our shop and instruments to his website  http://www.robspringphoto.com/emily-london/   The web site is well worth exploring in it's entirety- to both appreciate the feminine shape of the cellos against the geometric angles of gray barns in the mist.

He helps us to remember that everything, including what we see and hear each day, is beautiful.




There are many things that happen as time begins to slant toward autumn. The angle of light changes and everything is cast in a faded lemony yellow. Slowly we are losing our long and warm summer evenings. We have to hurry to the garden after dinner to get any weeding done and walks are often in the cool of the twilight. The pulse of the summer pace is quickening.

It feels like yesterday that we finished teaching our school year schedules and eased into the more relaxed summer routines. Recitals and end of year concerts are over and the sigh of relaxing is perceptible.

Interestingly, it seems that when things are at fever pitch is the time when I am most efficient with my practicing. I find pockets of time to tuck practice in between students- I become more focused and diligent about utilizing my free space to work with my own instrument. When I am in summer mode it becomes harder to feel pushed to get to the cello. Aren't there still tomatoes to pick? And this heat makes it a perfect day to take the dog to the river for a swim. I become the practicer that I discourage my students from being, the “leave it to the last minute” practicer.

What this normally means is that I end up working late into the night. Entering the dark studio becomes the challenge, the music is silent on my stand, it seems that where during the daytime hours it is calling me, exciting me with possibilities, in the nighttime it seems very still, as if to say “why not tomorrow?” Sheer stubbornness (and, okay, a performance looming) makes me get to it and I find I pass through degrees of both simply being awake and yawning in tempo, into focus and intensity. Although it sounds like a good teacher to say “so- practicing really does excite me”, there is something about feeling the music move under my fingers and watching struggle morph into success that drives me forward.

Albert Einstein once said that the reason people enjoy chopping wood is because the results are apparent and immediate. In many ways I find that is true of practicing as well. If you use your time efficiently and zero in on problem areas of your studies you will feel, at some point, movement in your progress. It is part of the path to mastery and, while necessary, it is also quite thrilling and addictive.

And so, while I will miss the warm days and the slower pace, I also know what is coming, I feel the rhythms changing and look forward to, perhaps, practicing in the daylight.


Your Special Day

Tis the season- not the season with decorated trees- tis the season for weddings!

Every musician looks toward the spring/summer with a mixture of anticipation, excitement and occasionally dread.

The process begins with a phone call or an email - excited brides or grooms are calling to see if we would be willing to share in their beautiful day.

Most of the time Paul and I perform for weddings, as the cello duo, Soavita.. And the first thing we discuss with them is what they are interested in having us do within their wedding. Almost always we are asked to play pre-wedding music as the guests are seated (standard wedding fare) and, in the last few years, we have been asked to replace “Here Comes the Bride” from an organist, with two cellos playing “Trumpet Voluntary.” I have to say - I play a mean trumpet with strings.

The standard postlude (think “Ode To Joy”) as many times as it takes to empty the church. The challenge is sandwiched somewhere in between pre and post and that is the bride's, groom's or, to be honest, the mother of the bride's, choice of ceremony music.

The choices are usually the fodder for dinner conversation between Paul and I. The question becomes:

“Can Paul, as arranger, make Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven rock with two cellos?”

Or “Can cellos actually twang in a Johnny Cash song”

Or, “Can Melissa somehow fit the Dvorak concerto into 3 minutes?”

There seems to be a gap between what they hear on the radio and what instruments will actually be playing the piece during the wedding.

Once we have the music in place we talk logistics. Where, what, when, certainly how, and more often than not, why?

In New England, outdoor weddings are popular. The ideal is sunshine and roses, the reality is more likely to be blowing rain and black flies.

Long ago we decided it would be a good idea to come up with a contract that would detail the weather conditions under which we could/would play. This contract was borne from weddings (painfully, this is all true) where, even after explaining that wood instruments and water did not mix- we tromped across a soggy yard, heels sinking into soaked earth, to be placed without cover near the bride and groom who are safely nestled together under their canopy. And when the sky began to spit drops on us- we suggested that we, too, needed to be nestled under the safety of a canopy! Only to then be unceremoniously placed under the family porch next to the lawn mower, peering out from behind lattice work for cues to begin playing.

Or, the reverse- we play the ceremony and head to the reception where we will be playing for a cocktail hour. The sun is baking everyone so they all retire to the cool shade of the porch for champagne while we plant our chairs next to the garden and begin to slow roast. Water and wood do not mix and I am here, through experience, to tell you that direct sun and wood are not the best of friends either.

On the car ride home, with another performance looming, my string height and pitch dropping further than I care to remember- and more tears and swearing than Paul cares to remember, is the time when one begins to contemplate purchase of the “wedding cello”.

We have arrived at a wedding to discover that the bride and groom are being married in Star Wars outfits, we have watched many a ceremony from behind the backside of a large attendant and we have ratcheted up the dynamics of the music to cover the sounds of a sobbing bride coming from the bathroom.

Our wedding “kit” contains:



Water, water, water

Bricks to keep our stands from flying into the swimming pool

Clothespins to keep our music from following

and duct tape- because it is duct tape.

So if you are planning a wedding- we might include a few suggestions. If you need it, ask for a bit of help when choosing music- we are happy to do it and would much rather (trust us) offer up some suggestions than default to Pachelbel's Canon....again.

Feed us. Even cookies. because believe me, eating black flies does not constitute a meal.

Pay us when we are finished, we have worked really hard.

There are many details that you will not remember about your beautiful wedding day- but your music may just be one of the things that you can both recall with fondness - hopefully we can as well.


End Of Season

End of season is always challenging for both player and teacher. It is a time for auditions and recitals: end of school. The beginning of the long, untethered days of summer hang, tantalizingly close.

In order to be fully prepared for it all there needs to be repetition and lots of it. Weeks of the same scale and piece mean two very different, yet ironically similar things to the teacher and student.

The student feels repetition as tedious work. The question “why” seems to pop up frequently. The explanations and answers illicit “the look”- eyes glazed and unseeing and ears hearing only the Charlie Brown teacher voice.

To the teacher repetition means surprise. Surprise that the E major scale in four octaves could wander into so many keys over the course of weeks. I often ask the question “Are you sick of this piece yet?” and my students are always interested that the  “yes” response is the good and correct one.

Recitals and auditions bring fear, pride, angst, tears and always, at some point, laughter.

I feel a true compulsion to mother my students, adults, teens, and children alike. To wrap warmth and empathy around them while simultaneously gently, but resolutely, pushing.

There are the students who will triumph in the manner of the tortoise and the hare. They will listen as I instruct and will take suggestions and step over the hurdle of talent.

And then there are the students who will cram for the recital, ignoring the repeated messages penned into their weary notebooks. In the early preparation stage the notes are filled with cheering and encouragement and as time passes slide into the philosophical with a dose of crankiness.

I have to make the difficult decision to let the inevitable happen. The lesson to be learned is bigger than preparing for cello work and it is organic in it's simplicity. The inevitable result of lack of preparation is disappointment in performance. My own children learned more form falling down and getting up than from being carried.

It is now, in the twilight of the season, that I know more fully what it means to teach. For now is the time to bring forth all of my talent, creativity and, if all else fails, the box of Popsicles. At the beginning of the term everything is shiny and new. I am a rock star with stickers. Now it is hard not to feel hurt by my students watching the clock.

But I teach - it is much of what I do and who I am, and if I have to I will fireman-carry each and every student across the finish line of May.