For those who know me: you already know I enjoy trying something new every now and then. I’ll soon be sharing my adventures in the world of aquapole boxing as well yes, that’s a real thing, and yes, I did it but today’s story is about music.
Yesterday, I had my very first saxophone lesson.
Why on earth the saxophone?
Let me take you back to where this all started: my brain.
I wanted to learn something new. Something that would challenge me, but without requiring me to think too hard. Something that gets you out of your head and into your hands. A hobby that makes you forget about your to-do list, your inbox, and that one email you’ve been avoiding for three weeks.
And this was a firm requirement something without a screen. No phone, no tablet, no app sending me cheerful notifications telling me I’m doing it wrong. I spend enough time staring at glowing rectangles as it is. I wanted to do something physical. Something real.
But there were more conditions. I wanted something you can just do. No complicated setup. No fifteen-step preparation ritual before you can even get started. You know what I mean those hobbies that sound wonderful in theory but require you to spend forty-five minutes laying out equipment before anything actually happens.
Painting, for example. Lovely idea. Beautiful results. But first you need to get out the canvases, set up the easel, find the brushes, organise the paints, protect the table, protect your clothes, protect yourself and then two hours later you’re scrubbing cerulean blue from underneath your fingernails and wondering how it got behind your ear. Same with pottery. Magical craft. Ancient art form. Also: an absolute disaster zone every single time.
I didn’t want that. I wanted something I could pick up, do, enjoy, and put back down again. Simple. Clean. Fun.
So: music.
The keyboard was right there. I ignored it.
Here’s where I have to be honest with myself for a moment.
I also considered the keyboard. In fact, I own a keyboard. It’s sitting upstairs, perfectly functional, collecting a thin but respectable layer of dust. It has been there for a while. I thought about learning to play it. I thought about it quite a lot, actually.
And then I didn’t.
The fact that I have never once sat down and actually played that keyboard tells you everything you need to know about my motivation level. It’s not that keyboards aren’t wonderful instruments. They are. It’s just that clearly, deep down, it wasn’t calling to me. You can’t force inspiration. If the instrument has been sitting three metres above your head for months and you haven’t touched it, maybe it’s time to admit that it’s not going to happen.
The saxophone, though? That felt different. Something about it felt exciting in a way the keyboard never quite managed. There’s something about the saxophone the sound, the shape, the sheer audacity of it that just pulls you in. It’s an instrument with personality. It doesn’t sit quietly in the corner. It demands to be played.
So I booked a trial lesson.
Enter Pepijn
My teacher’s name is Pepijn. He welcomed me with a big smile, which I appreciated, because I arrived with the energy of someone who had perhaps watched one too many YouTube videos of jazz musicians the night before and was now quietly convinced they had some natural talent waiting to be unlocked.
Pepijn gave me a thorough and friendly introduction to the saxophone how to hold it, how it works, what all the keys do. It’s actually a surprisingly logical instrument once someone explains it to you. I was nodding along, feeling good, feeling capable, maybe even feeling slightly smug.
And then Pepijn looked at me and said, very calmly and kindly, that if I managed to get one note out of the saxophone today just one that would already be a great achievement.
One note.
I paused. One note? I am a grown adult with a functional respiratory system and ten fingers. Surely I could manage more than one note.
Pepijn had almost certainly seen my puppy-dog eyes the moment I walked in. That particular combination of boundless enthusiasm and zero experience is probably something saxophone teachers recognise immediately. He decided, wisely, to set expectations before I started mentally composing my debut jazz album.
He was absolutely right to do so.
The humbling reality of making sound
Here is something nobody tells you before you pick up a saxophone for the first time: getting any sound out of it at all is genuinely hard.
It’s not like a piano, where you press a key and a note comes out, reliable and immediate. With a saxophone, you have to convince the instrument. You have to breathe in a very specific way from your belly, not your chest and then blow out in an equally specific way, with the right amount of pressure, the right shape of your mouth around the mouthpiece, the right tension. Too much air and it squeaks. Too little and nothing happens at all. You’re essentially negotiating with a brass tube.
I spent a few minutes in that negotiation. There were some interesting sounds. There were some sounds that I will generously describe as “exploratory.” And then finally there it was.
My first note.
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t Coltrane. But it was there, it was real, and I had made it happen with my own lungs and fingers and sheer stubborn determination. I played it again. And again. And then I held it for a long time, because apparently once you’ve found a note you want to stay there for a while, just to be safe.
Then Pepijn suggested we try a second note.
The second note came. So did the third. And then came the real challenge: playing all three notes in sequence, one after the other, in something that resembled if you were feeling very generous a melody.
This required everything to work at once. Breathing from the belly. Steady airflow. Enough breath to get through three notes without running out halfway. Fingers on the right keys at the right moment. Transitioning smoothly between positions. It was, in the politest possible terms, a lot.
I made some errors. The notes came out in the wrong order once. The airflow collapsed dramatically on another attempt. There was one moment where I produced a sound that I cannot fully explain.
And then the trial lesson was over.
But here’s the thing
It was absolutely, completely, totally wonderful.
I walked out of that lesson feeling like I had discovered something. Not just the saxophone, but that specific kind of joy that comes from being a complete beginner at something from being genuinely, authentically bad at something and loving every second of it anyway. There’s something freeing about being at the very bottom of a learning curve. Nobody expects anything. There’s nowhere to go but up. Every tiny improvement feels enormous.
Three notes. I played three notes. And I was genuinely thrilled about it.
This is the thing about trying new things as an adult: we forget how good it feels to be a beginner. We spend so much of our lives being competent being the person who knows things, who does things well, who has experience. And that’s great. But there’s also something wonderful about sitting in a room with an instrument you’ve never touched before and just figuring it out. Note by note.
What comes next
I’ve decided to continue. That much is clear.
Tomorrow I’m going to visit a music shop not far from here a proper one, where they actually know about instruments and can give you real advice. The good news is that you can rent a saxophone there for a while before committing to buying one. Which is an excellent system, if you ask me, because it gives you time to make sure that this isn’t another keyboard situation.
I don’t think it will be. But I’ve been wrong before.
For now, I’m going into this with full enthusiasm, realistic expectations thank you, Pepijn and the knowledge that I can already play three notes on a saxophone.
Three notes that I earned, one breath at a time.
Pepijn, if you’re reading this: I really am practising. Honest.
Want to read more about my questionable life choices and occasional victories? Follow along for new adventures posted regularly.
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