Yay. I managed to write some more. Happy times indeed. Halfway through this, I realized just how heavily I was focusing on the drumline. That'll probably be the trend, just as that's what I know. I'm sure you wind people would be wincing nonstop if I decided to do something about involving various marching reed sizes or breathing and attacks and whatnot, so I'll try to avoid such. Unless I decided to make myself look stupid. Which might happen. Never know.
No, drumlines don't really have battles in parking lots after awards ceremonies at competition in North Carolina. At least the ones I've been to don't, anyway. But we totally should, just because the premise sounds so fun.
Anyway, on with the writing...
"Hey drummers, meet over here for a quick talk if you please." Lance called to us as our band filed off the bleachers. The award ceremony had just finished. We scored... well, we could have done better. Much better. I'll leave it at that for now.
"You are aware that we'd all have to come over here anyway to get our stuff." I pointed out. I normally wasn't one to speak out, subscribing to the don't annoy the upperclassmen, and they'll act somewhat decent to the frosh theory. I guess the competition, or the fact that after all these weeks I was finally beginning to feel like a true part of the line, or something gave me mounds of confidence.
Or at least sparked enough courage to talk back to the all-around-big buzz-cut I''ve-already-enlisted-in-the-armed-forces senior that was our center snare.
"What do you know, you're just a freshmen." He retorted back after a few seconds. Oooh. Big senior doesn't like small freshmen talking back to him.
"Dude. You know she is right though," Came the voice of Gabe, our tenor sub-section leader. I turned to see him resting, drums on, against the chain link fence that bordered the field. "You don't have to act like you're leading a bunch of elementary schoolers around. We do have brains, after all."
"Debateable." A comment from Vincent, a junior snare. A fact that is sadly true.
Once the snickers had resided, Gabe began to speak again. "I can't tell you once in my four years of marching that we haven't met as a section after awards. Why would it change now? I know in theory you're the commander and we're all your troops following your every command, but still, lighten up a bit. This is just high school."
A few seconds passed as the senior's commentary sunk in. While some of the bitterness could be attributed to the average senior vs. senior competition/angst some drumlines seemed to be plauged with (ours was no exception), there was no escaping the fact that Gabe had a valid point. Lance did tend to treat us as though we had yet to develop the capability of thinking for ourselves. And it did get annoying.
"Yeah, really. Just because you've already signed you're life away to the government doesn't mean we have to surrender our youth as well." That came from our bass 4, Rex. While perhaps Rex and Lance might get along fine if it was just their personalities that each had to consider, the whole military thing threw a major wrench in such plans. Rex was majorly against the war, against the president, against pretty much anything others would deem patriotic. With a passion. You can imagine the tension those views caused between the two boys.
Awkward silence. Awkward silence. Awkward silence.
Only to be broken by the wonderfuly loud squeaking of one of our tenors, Yolanda, lowering her drums. You know the sound.
The line dissolved into laughter from the sheer randomness of the moment. I believe it was only half in actual response to the surprising squeak and half in relief of that terribly awkward moment having fallen by the wayside. Either way, it felt good.
"So... who's ready to go see who wants to battle?" Lance.
"I believe you mean: so... who's ready to go kick some other drumline's asses?"
Gabe's comment was met by a rally of enthusiastic cries and cheers. Anyone who hadn't done so already scrambled to put on their equiptment, and off we went.
To the wonderful oasis known as the parking lot. Aka. da lot.
Da lot is a bit of a tradition at most of the competitions our school tended to frequent. And even if it wasn't, odds were that by the time our busses pulled out of the lot, it was a new-founded one. The premise was simple. Since us drumlines couldn't do any type of cool exhibition lot warming up ala, DCI/WGI before our preformances for whatever the reason, we had decided that the next logical time to have such an event would be after the awards. Lines could strut their stuff. Winners show off why they won, losers show off why they were robbed. You know, play your cadences, your groove warm-ups, all that jazz. For those twenty or so minutes you got before your BD said enough was enough, your line was the shizz.
That's not even mentioning the drum battles. You know the concept. Line A approaches Line B. Drum captains do their thing. Line A plays cadence/whatever challenging Line B. Line B retaliates with cadence/whatever of their own. If deemed necessary, the battle goes on. And on. And on.
Fun crap.
Our line lived for these battles. We spent extra hours of practice going over various routines. In the off season, anyone who was anyone, wrote at least a few good pages worth of scores that they thought could be used for lot battles. We collaborated in the summer to choose which we would actually rehearse, but that's a whole 'nother story in itself. We would practice in front of others any chance we got - football games, pep rallys, for the few wayward trumpets who would rather wander around by the drumline during sectionals than actually play with their section. While we might not score first out on the field, if we could show up one other line by playing some sweet lick then it would all be worth it. The thought of going out there and kicking tail exciting our line so much that for those few moments we actually forgot our differences and seriously and truly played as one.
I could feel that excitement twirling around the mid-October night's air, mixed with just a bit of anticipation and nerves. The feelings combined formed a cocktail whose taste I had already become addicted to, despite my limited expierence in da lot. Only one time prior, at my first competition.
We were in line in step in our chevron, or whatever you would call the figure we formed to accompany our twenty-one member battery, as we approched our first predesignated chalengee. As we drew closer, Lance began to tap out a beat. First in time with our feet as quarter notes, then eights, then sixteenths, then finally thirty-secondths. Each other drummer then joined in. Basses on unison with 32nds, and all others pounding out the notes in time with our captain. Cymbals split sixteenth crashes. The whole thing wasn't awesomly clean, but that wasn't really the goal with our mad ramming of notes. We just wanted to create as much noise as possible while scaring the crap out of whoever we were advancing upon.
I suppose it worked, as as we drew nearer and nearer to the opposing line, it seemed almost as though they began to take a few steps backwards. I even caught a few of them placing their hands close to thier ears in what looked like a concealed attempt to shield thier ear drums from the massive amount of sound we were creating.
Then, as we reached the point where we could even read the word SOUTH emblazoned on the front of their uniforms, I heard Lance give the cuttoff signal. Four rimshots, each a quarter note appart. One count after the fourth rimshot we appruptbly cut the noise.
"DUT!" Was the single cry that we let fly into the air. That was the unquestionable sign that the Bartius High School drumline had arrived.
Still standing tall at attention, Lance advanced forward towards the snare player who I assumed was the opposing line's drum captain. The two's drums weren't but a foot from each other when he stopped. Seconds passed as the two sized each other up. I took the oppritunity to size up the other line.
We were challenging a high school from the southern part of the county we were competing in now. Their band was in the division below ours, but their percussion section was quite large. Better known plainly as South, the high school had become known over the years for at least having an awesome tech with top-level drum corps expirence. When a rural high school band could boast that on their resume, it was assumed that they were good. Which they were. At least according to the judges we had just faced. They'd won high drums in their division.
"I, drum captain Lance Bennet of the Bartius High School Drumline, challenge you, the South High School Drumline." With his booming voice and imposing stare, there were a few perks to having a military man as your drum captian.
"I, drum captian Bert Renfield of the South High School Drumline, accept your challenge," He turned back to face his line. "What're you waiting for? Put 'em on and let's do this."
They stacked up pretty well. Two cymbals, four snares, three tenors, and five basses. We were larger, though. Six cymbals, six snares, four tenors, and five basses. The biggest line our school has ever had. We would also like to think that whenever we really got in the zone and played together, one of the best lines our school has ever had as well. Sadly, we just never seemed to totally jell together during times that weren't practices or in da lot, ie; competions.
Our first score was written to totally fool our opposing line into thinking that we were a whole lot more medicore than we actually were. It started out at an incredebly slow tempo. Snares did some sixteenth note accent patterns, tenors did sixteenth stuff as well between the drums, basses made a huge deal out of splitting eights and some sixteenths, and the plate line played lots of unison crashes and hi-hat chicks. After a few measures of this, any band that hadn't seen our routine before was sold on the idea that we were nothing but a big line that could barely play cleanly.
We then went into a cymbal ride part with the snares playing in the bell of the cymbal. This continued for a measure or two before Randy abbruptly stopped playing and dampened my cymbal with his hand. The others snares shot him questioning looks while there own playing began slowing to a stop. Some great staged facial expressions were passed between Randy and Lance.
"Oookay then..." Lance said slowly as he raised his sticks. Immediately the plate line ran back to our spot beside the tenors. We reached it just in time for the new rim-shot tap-off. This was about fifty BPM faster than what we had been playing at prior. Here was where we really showed off what the BHS drumline could do.
The bass drums were splitting atoms - sixteenths and thirty-seconds were running up and down that line. Tenors incorporated some awesome scrapes and crossovers into their music for added visual effect. Snares were all about ramming, playing crazy hybrid rudiments left and right. Even the cymbal line got in on the act. We got some good eighth and even sixteenth note splits in, really utilizing a range of different sound techniques.
While it may sound as though what we played was nothing more than random notes throw together with a common beat, it did fit together. The music locked, and not to sound concieted or anything, but dang - we were hot!
What would South play to match what we had just served up? The curiosity was high. We watched as the drum captian and second bass - no doubt a fellow senior - exchanged glances. A few mouthed words, distored to us by the darkness of the night, and some gestures with drumsticks later, the center snare seemed to have reached the decision as to what to play.
He pulled his sticks out and began a complicated solo tap-off. It sounded as though he could very well be playing nothing more than whatever the line was preparing to play, but at an extremely fast speed. He slowed to quarters to set the tempo, and the rest of the line began to mark time.
"SOUTH!" Shouted by bass 1.
"HIGH!" Bass 2.
"SCHOOL!" Bass 3.
"DRUM!" Bass 4.
"LINE!" Bass 5.
"GO!" The center snare, Bert if I remember correctly, began to yell. But before he could even get the full sylabull from his mouth, a renegade pair of hands reached from behind him and clamped tightly over his clapper. Bert looked deeply distressed for a moment or two before the controller of the hands emerged from behind the snare line. A tall and somewhat plump girl with average features who looked to be about his age.
"Hey honey," She drawled in a southern accent. At this time, all semblances of playing that the South drumline had once been exhibiting were now gone. From the expressions on the other member's faces, it seemed as though intrusions from this woman were not terribly uncommon. "What's going all with y'all?"
"We're just about to return this drumline's challenge. They sound might good." He pointed a stick to us.
The teen regarded us for a moment before a look of excitement crossed her face. "Oh my sweet-Jesus, that's the Barney band!"
God. The companion of that terribly annoying townie was actually involved in a relationship with the captain of the South drumline? And she would have to show up during our battle, as well.
I exchanged glances with the cymbalists beside me. It was easy to tell that they couldn't quite believe it, either.
At least we'd get a good chance to show off in front of her. Show her that Barney playing percussion could be a forced to be reconded with. And after all, it's not like our drumline's favorite spectator was around.
"What now, Norma-Jean? Did you just say that Barney band is over here?" That voice. It couldnt' be. But it was. Seconds later, who else but Dimwit emerged into the center of our drum circle. Tommy was with him. Of course.
"Now Tommy, how 'bout you show that big drummer boy what you learned while you was practicing with you coke glass straws?" Dimwit said to the boy. He drew a pair of sticks from Lance's bag, and handed them to Tommy. I couldn't believe this was happening again. But this time there was no order to remain at attention to restrain us.
I could feel in the rest of the line as well as myself the readiness to move in on and remove the two. We were only waiting for our drum captian to give the signal. Yet Lance made no such gesture. He only stood still as a stone as Tommy walked up to his drum. The boy raised the sticks. Still no movement. Lance must have something special planned for this, I thought.
Suddenly, Tommy began to play note after note on Lance's drum. Each more loud and painfull to listen to than the last. This continued for a few seconds, until Tommy ended his drumming spasm with a few rimshots. Rimshots from a good eight inches above the drum, at the top of the youth's reach. Right into the drummer's face.
Lance just smiled. Then began to laugh. Hysterically so. Uh-oh.
