Ritardando

So he's playing his trombone again in the living room -- scales and etudes, getting ready for another competition. He's in there playing, and he gets to the end of an etude that I figure could be spiced up a little.

I stand up from the computer and walk into the living room and stand next to him while he plays. When he stops, I walk over and look at the music and point to the last measure.

What about slowing this way down? I propose.

I sing it to demonstrate what I mean. I'm quite pleased with myself and figure I've given him something to think about.

No, Dad, he says. The judges don't like that kind of thing. There's no ritardando written in the music.

He points the the music to show me. Then he adds, And besides, that's so out of style.

I hang my head in shame and return to the computer room whence I came.

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