So my dad was adjudicating a music conference in Vegas the other day and a man came up to him and asked, "Did your son used to play bass at the University of Northern Colorado?" "Yes." "I worked with him out there. The poor young man, they were mercilous with him." "Why was that." "Well, he was an 18 yr old freshman that beat out a grad student for lab band one, and was playing with mostly grad students. They rode him hard."
When I was in Colorado I was constantly lectured and critiqued for mor or less every aspect of my life. "What do you mean you saw a movie with your friends?! You shouldn't be doing anything but practising!" Seriously, I was taken aside by nearly every high-up in the jazz department and told that I was screwing up and letting everybody down. I was hating it. I developed my first ulcer, dealt with my first panic atttacks, and lost my love for music.
The man who talked to my father had seen his name listed as a judge, and decided that there can't be too many chatelains in the world, and decided to talk to him. He was the director of the #1 vocal jazz ensemble, behind which I played. He was delightful and supportive. When asked if I had gotten anything from my year there, my father was proud to announce that although I had decided NEVER to pursue music academically, that this was not keeping me from going on the road full time with my band as of this summer.
This whole exchange has marked me profoundly. I cary some of the complexes I developed out there with me still today, and feel somewhat vindicated that if I was miserable it was not because I was immature, or just generally not good enough, but that there were people who wanted me miserable.