A/N
As has been pointed out in several of my other stories, low brass players have a tendency to, oh, forget things. And, as we all know (or should know, if you've read the rest of my stuff. If you haven't, shame on you! Go read it), I'm the model low brass player, except for the drugs thing. God-damned pothead baritone players who ruin it for the rest of us. Anyway, I was reading chapter two after it was posted and just about kicked myself. I forgot the one pothead baritone player who ruined it all for us. So he'll appear in this chapter, along with an explanation of his nickname. I also forgot to mention what year Fred is. If you're exceptionally smart, you could have figured out that he's a freshman. Chances are, I forgot something else, too. So you'll be getting more of these footnotes in the author's notes. Thanks to Holley, Mae-Lynn Moodle, flutistoutofstep, bouncyflute101, and ellipsis for reviewing this story so far! I love you almost as much as my concert horn! Something that I put in a review of my own story (I dunno how many of you go back and read the reviews after you've written them) : yeah, i know, i'm a dweeb, reviewing my own story, but something didn't upload to the summary and i don't feel like switching to netscape just to change it, so here it is: HUGE bonus points if you can guess where the title for chapter one came from! yeah, that's about it. oh, also, this story i'll try to focus on evil drum major, but it might just turn into anecdotes that i remember with probably a lot of them involving melanie's bitchiness. And now, on with the story!
A Year In Hell – A True Marching Band Story.
Chapter Three – All Hail The Whooping Stick
Band camp music sectionals. The times where Mr. P says, "Kanoi! Take your section and teach them the entire show! That includes all those nasty triplet runs with the octave jumps in fast 12/8! And those funky rhythms in Part Three! And be back in half an hour!" Today, low brass got stuck rehearsing in the outside hallway by the band room – the one that connects the band, choir, orchestra, and guitar rooms and their wing to the rest of the school. It's an open-air hallway with cement rafters ten feet above the floor and the hall's about five feet wide. The acoustics sucked, and low brass was bitching at me as if it were my fault we were the only section to get stuck outside practicing in the humid 105 degree Arizona heat. But I had a distraction planned.
As soon as everyone was settled in a very crooked semi circle around me, I pulled from my pocket a single wooden drumstick and two sharpies. Returning members grinned, knowing damn well what this was all about.
"This, my froshie friends, will be what we low brass folk like to call the Whooping Stick," I said. "Props to Fish for supplying the stick, even if he did steal it."
"Hey! None of that, you bitch." Fish was the third baritone player, a blond sophomore with a habit for marijuana, among other things, but mostly it was the green. He had a mellow nature about him (yeah, and I wonder where that came from), and coming from him, "bitch" was like "buddy," so I took no offense. His unusual name had come from last years' baritones – Faye, Steven, and Eric, all sophomores then. None of them had returned this year, Faye so she could get a job, which would lead to a car, which would lead to eternal happiness; Eric for varsity football; Steven – well, no one's really sure why Steven didn't come back. They had re-named Fish from his real name, Christian, first to Cartoon, because his features were freakishly reminiscent of a cartoon character, and then it was narrowed down to Fish when it was decided he was a cartoon fish. He's called Fish so much it was put on his low brass shirt. Even Mr. P calls him Fish. More on Fish later – he'll be a recurring character in the life of low brass.
"Yeah, whatever Fish. Anyway, the Whooping Stick is a THMS low brass tradition. Some baritone players started it a few years ago. What we do is we all sign it and write a little something – and I mean little – the stick's only so big. Then, we take it out to marching rehearsal tomorrow and throw it into the fifty and hash. Low brass has the god-given right to whack people with it, but only if Mr. P's not watching. If you wish to whack fellow low brass with it, you must first ask me. So while I'm working with a certain section, the rest of you sign it."
"Cool!" said Kirk in his usual non-chalant way.
"My name's Sam!"
"Good, Sam. Write it on the stick while I work with the trombones."
"We're gonna work on Disco Inferno, right?"
"No, Ig, we're not."
I looked up after I heard a snicker. Shit. "Luke! Get down OFF the rafters! You're gonna break your fucking neck!"
"Naw I'm not, Kanoi. Jeez, take a chill pill."
"Down. Now!" I put on my sternest section leader face and pointed to the ground.
"Okay, okay." He jumped down and landed with a loud thump. The vibrations and the fact that he put out a hand on a nearby chair to steady him knocked a trombone that was leaning on the chair over. Luckily, Mikey caught it just in time.
I groaned inwardly. This sucked. The entire section was in hysterics and I put my hands up, about to start clapping and call them to attention, when Melanie walked through the door from the band room into the hall.
A/N I know, I know, I promised the stuff about Melanie and sectionals this chapter, but I'm about too fall asleep in my computer chair and I wanna get something up before the weekend, so here it is! More soon, I promise.
As has been pointed out in several of my other stories, low brass players have a tendency to, oh, forget things. And, as we all know (or should know, if you've read the rest of my stuff. If you haven't, shame on you! Go read it), I'm the model low brass player, except for the drugs thing. God-damned pothead baritone players who ruin it for the rest of us. Anyway, I was reading chapter two after it was posted and just about kicked myself. I forgot the one pothead baritone player who ruined it all for us. So he'll appear in this chapter, along with an explanation of his nickname. I also forgot to mention what year Fred is. If you're exceptionally smart, you could have figured out that he's a freshman. Chances are, I forgot something else, too. So you'll be getting more of these footnotes in the author's notes. Thanks to Holley, Mae-Lynn Moodle, flutistoutofstep, bouncyflute101, and ellipsis for reviewing this story so far! I love you almost as much as my concert horn! Something that I put in a review of my own story (I dunno how many of you go back and read the reviews after you've written them) : yeah, i know, i'm a dweeb, reviewing my own story, but something didn't upload to the summary and i don't feel like switching to netscape just to change it, so here it is: HUGE bonus points if you can guess where the title for chapter one came from! yeah, that's about it. oh, also, this story i'll try to focus on evil drum major, but it might just turn into anecdotes that i remember with probably a lot of them involving melanie's bitchiness. And now, on with the story!
A Year In Hell – A True Marching Band Story.
Chapter Three – All Hail The Whooping Stick
Band camp music sectionals. The times where Mr. P says, "Kanoi! Take your section and teach them the entire show! That includes all those nasty triplet runs with the octave jumps in fast 12/8! And those funky rhythms in Part Three! And be back in half an hour!" Today, low brass got stuck rehearsing in the outside hallway by the band room – the one that connects the band, choir, orchestra, and guitar rooms and their wing to the rest of the school. It's an open-air hallway with cement rafters ten feet above the floor and the hall's about five feet wide. The acoustics sucked, and low brass was bitching at me as if it were my fault we were the only section to get stuck outside practicing in the humid 105 degree Arizona heat. But I had a distraction planned.
As soon as everyone was settled in a very crooked semi circle around me, I pulled from my pocket a single wooden drumstick and two sharpies. Returning members grinned, knowing damn well what this was all about.
"This, my froshie friends, will be what we low brass folk like to call the Whooping Stick," I said. "Props to Fish for supplying the stick, even if he did steal it."
"Hey! None of that, you bitch." Fish was the third baritone player, a blond sophomore with a habit for marijuana, among other things, but mostly it was the green. He had a mellow nature about him (yeah, and I wonder where that came from), and coming from him, "bitch" was like "buddy," so I took no offense. His unusual name had come from last years' baritones – Faye, Steven, and Eric, all sophomores then. None of them had returned this year, Faye so she could get a job, which would lead to a car, which would lead to eternal happiness; Eric for varsity football; Steven – well, no one's really sure why Steven didn't come back. They had re-named Fish from his real name, Christian, first to Cartoon, because his features were freakishly reminiscent of a cartoon character, and then it was narrowed down to Fish when it was decided he was a cartoon fish. He's called Fish so much it was put on his low brass shirt. Even Mr. P calls him Fish. More on Fish later – he'll be a recurring character in the life of low brass.
"Yeah, whatever Fish. Anyway, the Whooping Stick is a THMS low brass tradition. Some baritone players started it a few years ago. What we do is we all sign it and write a little something – and I mean little – the stick's only so big. Then, we take it out to marching rehearsal tomorrow and throw it into the fifty and hash. Low brass has the god-given right to whack people with it, but only if Mr. P's not watching. If you wish to whack fellow low brass with it, you must first ask me. So while I'm working with a certain section, the rest of you sign it."
"Cool!" said Kirk in his usual non-chalant way.
"My name's Sam!"
"Good, Sam. Write it on the stick while I work with the trombones."
"We're gonna work on Disco Inferno, right?"
"No, Ig, we're not."
I looked up after I heard a snicker. Shit. "Luke! Get down OFF the rafters! You're gonna break your fucking neck!"
"Naw I'm not, Kanoi. Jeez, take a chill pill."
"Down. Now!" I put on my sternest section leader face and pointed to the ground.
"Okay, okay." He jumped down and landed with a loud thump. The vibrations and the fact that he put out a hand on a nearby chair to steady him knocked a trombone that was leaning on the chair over. Luckily, Mikey caught it just in time.
I groaned inwardly. This sucked. The entire section was in hysterics and I put my hands up, about to start clapping and call them to attention, when Melanie walked through the door from the band room into the hall.
A/N I know, I know, I promised the stuff about Melanie and sectionals this chapter, but I'm about too fall asleep in my computer chair and I wanna get something up before the weekend, so here it is! More soon, I promise.
