The Mellophone Monologue
I dedicate a lot of my writing and energy my old marching season adversary, the dread Mellophone. I hated the thing with a passion, and with that hating passion I burnt out any chance of forming a bond with it. I didn't give it a name, or apply a gender when referring to it. That's all it was. It. Mellophone.
Of course, it broke on me, though luckily only once... exactly one week before the final football game of the season. This was going to be the first game that our under-achieving, uncaring band would march the entire field show at. A lot of band addicts complain about their schools not caring about the band, but not one has made a complaint about the BAND not caring. But mine didn't. They didn't even try to learn it, pressured out easy-going director into not holding after-school practices, didn't try to learn the show... as a result, it took us four months to learn a five-page show. Pathetic.
But I digress. Or maybe I don't. I have a habit of talking to myself entirely too much, even though nobody else wants to listen. Where was I? Ah, yes. The dread, albeit broken Mellophone.
I didn't get it fixed. The Director didn't get it fixed. As a matter of fact, rather than get it fixed, the Director went to another school, to borrow their mellophone for me. You might say that it was love at first sight. It was by no means love that could measure up to my feelings for my precious Biff, but the shiny silver mellophone, with its smooth bell, springy valves, lightweight case and broken lyre holder captured my heart in a way that I never expected a mellophone to be able to do.
It was a brief love affair, to say the least. I had little time to practice on this attractive young mellophone, and had little reason to care: after all, marching season is over, I should be practicing Biff. After the weekend was over, I brought the mellophone back to school, gave it to Director, and said goodbye to my new friend forever.
The Director was somewhat sypathetic, but a clarinet-playing band director cannot truly understand the meaning such a mellophone had to me. There was something filling me, as I handed over the elegant, lightweight case, holding the shiny, smooth mellophone and the solid, clean mouthpiece (My own has so many years' worth of gunk in it that by the time I got it the stuff was impossible to clean out. I don't have my own mouthpiece, and none of the trumpet players were willing to loan me one...). I don't really know how to describe it. It could have been loss, but it wasn't, not really. I'm not sure what it was. I hope that I'll never feel it again, whatever it was.
That was four months ago. Most of the band has probably forgotten our short, cheap show. Most of the band still doesn't care about the band. I personally would like to kick all of them out, but then we wouldn't have any trumpets or very many members of our other sections. We wouldn't have a band. That is the only reason we put up with people who don't care, okay?
The dread Mellophone has been fixed, and is stagnating in a cubby. Its valves still stick, its slides still won't move and the mouthpiece is still full of gunk. I haven't touched it since the time it broke. I haven't wanted to, with its folded bell (Don't ask. I don't know how it happened, it was like that when I got it.) and cloud of stench.
The Director ordered two new mellophones, and two new sousaphones several months ago. Our sousaphones are almost in as bad a shape as our mellophone. None of the new instruments have arrived yet. I'm worried.
I hope that the new ones arrive by marching season next year. I hope we have enough people to have a band that really cares. I hope we can get a decent show, with decent music (DIE GREASE DIE!!) and instruments that aren't breaking as we play them.
I hope that some day I'll be able to see my old silver friend again. It was a short love affair, but it left a serious mark on me.
I am such a band nerd.
I dedicate a lot of my writing and energy my old marching season adversary, the dread Mellophone. I hated the thing with a passion, and with that hating passion I burnt out any chance of forming a bond with it. I didn't give it a name, or apply a gender when referring to it. That's all it was. It. Mellophone.
Of course, it broke on me, though luckily only once... exactly one week before the final football game of the season. This was going to be the first game that our under-achieving, uncaring band would march the entire field show at. A lot of band addicts complain about their schools not caring about the band, but not one has made a complaint about the BAND not caring. But mine didn't. They didn't even try to learn it, pressured out easy-going director into not holding after-school practices, didn't try to learn the show... as a result, it took us four months to learn a five-page show. Pathetic.
But I digress. Or maybe I don't. I have a habit of talking to myself entirely too much, even though nobody else wants to listen. Where was I? Ah, yes. The dread, albeit broken Mellophone.
I didn't get it fixed. The Director didn't get it fixed. As a matter of fact, rather than get it fixed, the Director went to another school, to borrow their mellophone for me. You might say that it was love at first sight. It was by no means love that could measure up to my feelings for my precious Biff, but the shiny silver mellophone, with its smooth bell, springy valves, lightweight case and broken lyre holder captured my heart in a way that I never expected a mellophone to be able to do.
It was a brief love affair, to say the least. I had little time to practice on this attractive young mellophone, and had little reason to care: after all, marching season is over, I should be practicing Biff. After the weekend was over, I brought the mellophone back to school, gave it to Director, and said goodbye to my new friend forever.
The Director was somewhat sypathetic, but a clarinet-playing band director cannot truly understand the meaning such a mellophone had to me. There was something filling me, as I handed over the elegant, lightweight case, holding the shiny, smooth mellophone and the solid, clean mouthpiece (My own has so many years' worth of gunk in it that by the time I got it the stuff was impossible to clean out. I don't have my own mouthpiece, and none of the trumpet players were willing to loan me one...). I don't really know how to describe it. It could have been loss, but it wasn't, not really. I'm not sure what it was. I hope that I'll never feel it again, whatever it was.
That was four months ago. Most of the band has probably forgotten our short, cheap show. Most of the band still doesn't care about the band. I personally would like to kick all of them out, but then we wouldn't have any trumpets or very many members of our other sections. We wouldn't have a band. That is the only reason we put up with people who don't care, okay?
The dread Mellophone has been fixed, and is stagnating in a cubby. Its valves still stick, its slides still won't move and the mouthpiece is still full of gunk. I haven't touched it since the time it broke. I haven't wanted to, with its folded bell (Don't ask. I don't know how it happened, it was like that when I got it.) and cloud of stench.
The Director ordered two new mellophones, and two new sousaphones several months ago. Our sousaphones are almost in as bad a shape as our mellophone. None of the new instruments have arrived yet. I'm worried.
I hope that the new ones arrive by marching season next year. I hope we have enough people to have a band that really cares. I hope we can get a decent show, with decent music (DIE GREASE DIE!!) and instruments that aren't breaking as we play them.
I hope that some day I'll be able to see my old silver friend again. It was a short love affair, but it left a serious mark on me.
I am such a band nerd.