Dun dun dun! My first marching band fic! I am a major marching band-aholic
and frequently my dreams concern marching band. A few nights ago I had a
dream: a marching band with five members. This got me thinking. What would
a band with five members sound like? What instruments would they have? In
what kind of place would there only be five members in a marching band? The
result: My fic. I plan on finishing this plot-driven story (actually, most
of my stories are written without my intent to finish them or even a plot)
but your comments would be GREATLY appreciated. Er, disclaimer…the only
thing I can think of is "Stairway to Heaven" which is property of Led
Zeppelin (hail!) and "Satchmo" (A/N: Satchmo!?!) which is…property I
suppose of Louis Armstrong. Anyway, hope you like "Small Town Band". GO GL
HIGHLANDERS!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kara laughed when she saw the picture of the new school. "What is it, honey?" asked her mom, bewildered.
"It's so small," her daughter replied, taking the photograph from the top of the pile. She studied the picture with a frown. "It's only one story, and it's kindergarten to twelfth?"
"Well, my research shows it has a relatively good school system. Why don't you look at the student handbook and think about your electives?"
"Aw, I already know them," protested Kara, but she took the pamphlet. She flipped through the electives, a much shorter list than she was used to in her outer-city public school. She gasped, and scanned the table of contents again, almost hyperventilating. "No!" she half whispered, half shouted.
"What is it?" asked her mother concernedly.
"They don't have a marching band! They don't even have a band at all!" she cried
"Kara, you know Orville, Washington, has a population of 1,732. What would they need a band for? Besides, I always get concerned during competition season that your schedule is being overpowered. Now you'll have a bunch of free time for getting to know the 356 kids at your school."
"I don't want to get to know the 356 kids at my school unless they can march and play an instrument or twirl a flag at the same time. And during competition season, band IS my schedule," she replied, trying not to get mad at the unfairness. What she said was true. She was a semi-popular person in her current school, but the people she really cried on the shoulders of for leaving were her fellow Color Guard members and bandies.
"Look, honey, there's still a photography elective." Her mother pointed to the handbook. "You like photography, don't you?" Kara shrugged nonchalantly, crossing her arms in defiance. Her mother tried to console her, putting her arm on her shoulder. "Try living without band for a while, okay? Maybe you'll find you like it?"
"'Living without band' is an oxymoron," Kara retorted, storming out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I still can't believe you're doing this, Jake," said Tom, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Hey, if we're going to do a cover of 'Stairway to Heaven', we need a flute."
"We can just skip that. Or synthesize it, or something."
"Tom, if we're going to be touching a Led Zeppelin work, then we're going to do it all the way. I'm actually doing really well on it. Look!" Jake deftly put the flute together and brought it to his lips, playing a fast C-scale.
"Very nice," commented Chris, who was sitting in the corner, reading a rock magazine. "There's no bass in the first part of the song, right?"
"Right," answered Jake. "It'll just be me on flute and Tom, with you on vocals, then you on drums, and finally me on bass later in the song."
"Okay, let's try it." Chris tossed the magazine into a corner of the garage and jumped behind his drum set.
"From the top!" called Jake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tory looked at the innocuous pile of gold-colored metal with a smile on her face. "There, twenty years and it looks none the worse for wear," her father commented, freeing the contrabass from the shoddy packaging wrapped around it. He looked at the brass instrument in the light streaming in from the basement window carefully. "A few dings, a couple scratches, and," He pushed down the three valves, all of which stayed down. "Three valves in serious need of valve oil."
"We can get that in Centralia, right?" asked Tory anxiously.
"Sure! You'll find that valve oil is known as 'the currency of all brass players'. Maybe we can try knocking out a few of these dents and polishing up these scuffs, too. Have you been working on your scales?"
She dutifully raised her fingers in the air and played out a B-flat contrabass scale: open, 1 and 3, 1 and 2, 2, open, 1 and 2, 1, open. "That's my girl!" her father said enthusiastically. "Let's head up to the music center and get you started on the 'road of tuba.'"
"Can I bring it in the car?"
Her father smiled. "Of course you can, sweetie."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sebastian tried the triplet again. Almost, but not quite fast enough. He swallowed and blew into the trumpet again.
Da-da-da!
He did it!
"Right on," he whispered. He played the song again, not stopping for the triplet as he usually did. Perfect!
"Very good, Sebatchmo," called his big brother, annoyed, from two doors down.
"I'm taking that as a compliment!" Sebastian shouted. Satchmo was a nickname of the jazz trumpet great Louis Armstrong. Sebastian's older brother combined "Sebastian" and "Satchmo" to call him "Sebatchmo" whenever his trumpet playing got to him. However, Sebastian never minded the nickname, because Louis was Sebastian's total role model. He was also the reason he was sitting up in his room on a hot summer day, working on an Armstrong solo he found on the Internet.
"I'm going to Frank's house, Sebatchmo." The elder brother poked his head into Sebastian's room and jangled his car keys. "Tell Mom when she comes home, okay?"
"Sure," replied Sebastian, massaging his practice-worn lips. "What if I want to come?"
"We're playing football."
"Never mind." Sebastian oiled his valves and watched, through the window, his brother drive down the street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Kara laughed when she saw the picture of the new school. "What is it, honey?" asked her mom, bewildered.
"It's so small," her daughter replied, taking the photograph from the top of the pile. She studied the picture with a frown. "It's only one story, and it's kindergarten to twelfth?"
"Well, my research shows it has a relatively good school system. Why don't you look at the student handbook and think about your electives?"
"Aw, I already know them," protested Kara, but she took the pamphlet. She flipped through the electives, a much shorter list than she was used to in her outer-city public school. She gasped, and scanned the table of contents again, almost hyperventilating. "No!" she half whispered, half shouted.
"What is it?" asked her mother concernedly.
"They don't have a marching band! They don't even have a band at all!" she cried
"Kara, you know Orville, Washington, has a population of 1,732. What would they need a band for? Besides, I always get concerned during competition season that your schedule is being overpowered. Now you'll have a bunch of free time for getting to know the 356 kids at your school."
"I don't want to get to know the 356 kids at my school unless they can march and play an instrument or twirl a flag at the same time. And during competition season, band IS my schedule," she replied, trying not to get mad at the unfairness. What she said was true. She was a semi-popular person in her current school, but the people she really cried on the shoulders of for leaving were her fellow Color Guard members and bandies.
"Look, honey, there's still a photography elective." Her mother pointed to the handbook. "You like photography, don't you?" Kara shrugged nonchalantly, crossing her arms in defiance. Her mother tried to console her, putting her arm on her shoulder. "Try living without band for a while, okay? Maybe you'll find you like it?"
"'Living without band' is an oxymoron," Kara retorted, storming out of the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I still can't believe you're doing this, Jake," said Tom, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Hey, if we're going to do a cover of 'Stairway to Heaven', we need a flute."
"We can just skip that. Or synthesize it, or something."
"Tom, if we're going to be touching a Led Zeppelin work, then we're going to do it all the way. I'm actually doing really well on it. Look!" Jake deftly put the flute together and brought it to his lips, playing a fast C-scale.
"Very nice," commented Chris, who was sitting in the corner, reading a rock magazine. "There's no bass in the first part of the song, right?"
"Right," answered Jake. "It'll just be me on flute and Tom, with you on vocals, then you on drums, and finally me on bass later in the song."
"Okay, let's try it." Chris tossed the magazine into a corner of the garage and jumped behind his drum set.
"From the top!" called Jake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tory looked at the innocuous pile of gold-colored metal with a smile on her face. "There, twenty years and it looks none the worse for wear," her father commented, freeing the contrabass from the shoddy packaging wrapped around it. He looked at the brass instrument in the light streaming in from the basement window carefully. "A few dings, a couple scratches, and," He pushed down the three valves, all of which stayed down. "Three valves in serious need of valve oil."
"We can get that in Centralia, right?" asked Tory anxiously.
"Sure! You'll find that valve oil is known as 'the currency of all brass players'. Maybe we can try knocking out a few of these dents and polishing up these scuffs, too. Have you been working on your scales?"
She dutifully raised her fingers in the air and played out a B-flat contrabass scale: open, 1 and 3, 1 and 2, 2, open, 1 and 2, 1, open. "That's my girl!" her father said enthusiastically. "Let's head up to the music center and get you started on the 'road of tuba.'"
"Can I bring it in the car?"
Her father smiled. "Of course you can, sweetie."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sebastian tried the triplet again. Almost, but not quite fast enough. He swallowed and blew into the trumpet again.
Da-da-da!
He did it!
"Right on," he whispered. He played the song again, not stopping for the triplet as he usually did. Perfect!
"Very good, Sebatchmo," called his big brother, annoyed, from two doors down.
"I'm taking that as a compliment!" Sebastian shouted. Satchmo was a nickname of the jazz trumpet great Louis Armstrong. Sebastian's older brother combined "Sebastian" and "Satchmo" to call him "Sebatchmo" whenever his trumpet playing got to him. However, Sebastian never minded the nickname, because Louis was Sebastian's total role model. He was also the reason he was sitting up in his room on a hot summer day, working on an Armstrong solo he found on the Internet.
"I'm going to Frank's house, Sebatchmo." The elder brother poked his head into Sebastian's room and jangled his car keys. "Tell Mom when she comes home, okay?"
"Sure," replied Sebastian, massaging his practice-worn lips. "What if I want to come?"
"We're playing football."
"Never mind." Sebastian oiled his valves and watched, through the window, his brother drive down the street.
