Feigning nonchalance, my clarinet slung across my shoulder, I knew within seconds of my arrival for the first day of the Sierra Jazz Society’s jazz camp that I was in over my head.

“Is everything cool?” asked a man in a yellow “Tune it or lose it” T-shirt — who I later learned was longtime Nevada City resident Fritz Rector. I had just introduced myself as a reporter and a onetime musician.

“Uh,” I mumbled, stealing glances around the entryway, unsure how to respond.

Fortunately, a kindly lady also standing in the entryway to the Don Baggett Theatre came to my rescue.

“That means welcome,” she said.

Whew, test one of my day at camp passed, or at least survived.

I came to camp expecting challenges, particularly given the woebegone state of my musical abilities, which, even in their prime a decade or so ago, topped out at average.

But really, I came to understand the mysteries of jazz. A tall order for one day in a Nevada Union High School classroom, I realized, but I knew of no better place to start.

The nonprofit’s five-day camp, now in its fourth year, grew out of the momentum of a Wynton Marsalis visit to Nevada County, said Nora Nausbaum, a flutist who along with her husband, bassist Bill Douglass, orchestrate the camp.

The Chicago Park couple devotes nine months each year to prepare for the camp, which features Bay Area professional musicians and attracts aspiring jazz aficionados of all ages.

Their hard work culminates in a final concert, scheduled for Saturday evening.

The camp draws folks of all ages.

Cynthia Yaguda, a Grass Valley acupuncturist who likes to sing jazz in the shower, first attended camp last year.

“I really learned a lot,” Yaguda said, adding that she enjoys the “unintimidating atmosphere.”

Friends Ross Alexander Hart and Walker Davis, students at Bear River High School, have attended the camp for several years.

“The teachers are real, they’re actually in the scene,” said Davis, a tenor saxophonist.

My interest in jazz dates to the first time I watched a jazz band perform, when I was a middle school student visiting the University of Kansas.

Other types of music — the band tunes I grew up with, classical, and even chart-topping pop songs — are fixed. Inscribed on a series of five-lined rectangles, the notes and rhythms of a given song don’t change, regardless of who plays them.

But jazz just materializes. No set rhythms, no set notes. Musicians harmonize, dialogue, trade off, all without written music.

A demonstration of this magic came early in the day. I found a seat in the theater along with my 50 or so campmates and the faculty — primarily Bay Area professional musicians — took the stage.

They launched into several tunes, switching between soloists seamlessly, or so it seemed to me.

As they started their last tune, John Coltrane’s “Afro Blue Impressions,” percussionist Ian Dogole gave sparse instructions to the three horn players.

“Once you feel the rhythm is established, find a starting point and go from there,” Dogole said.

Sure, no problem, just go, wiggle your fingers and blow through your horn. That’s all there is to it, right.

In my case, not quite. After practicing and playing regularly for nine years, not to mention the decade my clarinet spent in the closet, I still had no idea how to improvise, let alone mimic Charlie Parker.

And now, the concert complete, we were being shuffled into separate classrooms for theory and practice.

With another clarinet and 10 or so saxophones, I was directed to a room with Dave Tidball, an affable Welshman who instructs bands in Oakland schools, and theorist Bob Claire.

As chairs were lined in a single row, we assembled our instruments and looked around. There were several high school boys, a middle-school age girl, two older male saxophonists, my fellow clarinetist Jerry Davis, a geography professor at San Francisco State University, and me.

Clearly facing a hodge-podge of abilities, Tidball started to sort us out.

“All right, let’s go around — everyone introduce themselves and play a scale or arpeggio,” Tidball said.

Sure, said the older saxophonist next to me. I’ll play the A-flat Dorian harmonic minor scale, with three extra sharps.

OK, he didn’t really say that or play that, but that’s what his fancy scale sounded like to me, a girl used to plain ol’ major scales.
Then, Tidball’s attention, as well as that of everyone in the room, focused on me.

After introducing myself, I picked up my horn gingerly, all the instructions clarinet teachers ever gave me racing through my head. Breathe deep, chin up, fingers gently curled, don’t squeak, don’t squeak, don’t squeak.

“I’m going to play the F scale,” I said, choosing one of the simplest scales, and an easy, usually squeak-free, lower octave.

With a breath, I was playing, my fingers somehow remembering where to go. And in a few seconds, it was over, done.

Tidball nodded approvingly, “you still have nice chops,” he said, offering a high compliment.

Whew.

Scale mastery is the “first comfort level stage of being able to play jazz,” Tidball said. “You can look at a set of charts that used to be frightening to you before, and basically just figure it out.”

I was beginning to understand, but it wasn’t until after lunch, with a sheet of music in front of me — marked only with chords — that I really got it.

This time, we had been assigned to mixed-instrument ensembles; Jerry Davis — the SF State prof — and I were sent with Tidball along with several saxophones, a trumpet, piano, bass, guitar and drums.

Armed with a sheet of music — refrain across the top, a no-longer-mystifying series of chords across the bottom — we began to play. First with no solos, and then with a few, each solo backed up by the percussionists and guitars.

Davis, fortunately, went first. He launched into a cool riff, catching the chord changes with ease.

My turn was rapidly approaching, as other soloists, several half my age, grooved effortlessly.

“Just take it slow,” Davis advised in a low whisper. “Some of the best solos are mellow.”

As the refrain ended, it was my turn.

I started on a note of the chord, at least. But by the first chord change I was lost, fingers fumbling, face crimson, a tuneless honking coming from my horn.

Yet the rhythm section was still going.

Did they really want me to continue this horrific noise?

Finally, Tidball mercifully signaled the end — more or less intact, I had survived the first improvised solo of my life.

And, right away, I wanted to try it again. This time I would nail the chord changes, gracing the notes with my presence. I would relax into the rhythm — my fingers would fly along the clarinet. I would jam.

But my day at jazz camp was over.

“I’m sorry you can’t stay,” Tidball said. Me too; I wanted to improve.
The other jazz campers would continue through Saturday, when their efforts culminate in a concert, Saturday at 7:30 p.m. at Nevada Union High School.

And as for me, freshly intrigued by jazz, I hope to begin again, rekindling my relationship with my old friend, the clarinet.

<I>To contact staff writer Becky Trout, e-mail beckyt@theunion.com or call 477-4234.</I>