Chapter Two
"BAND TEN HUT!" I stood next to Jason as he called the upperclassmen to attention, nearly taking my eardrums out in the process.
"NORTH!" The echoes of twenty upperclassmen shouting at the top of their lungs bounced off the high walls of the school to the right. I loved the looks on the freshman's faces, they looked terrified.
Jason turned and faced me for a moment, "What are you doing up here late again? Give me a lap."
I tried to cover. "I broke my reed on the way out, I'm sorry."
"Well tough, go give me a lap. Better yet, run with your clarinet as well."
I grumbled at the thought but replied, "All right, all right." Grasping my clarinet with both hands like an Olympic runner racing in the final leg of the triathlon. I began my lap around the 'ghetto', as was known to us, and continued to run around the fairly small school. As I ran up the hill to the band parking lot, I noticed the band had already started marching fundamentals. I sat my clarinet down on the "band guardrail" and joined the upperclassmen block.
"Ok, first freshman, we're gonna show you some 8 to 5 marching."
"All right, play us a b-flat scale increasing every 8 beats. Ready?"
The rest of the block nodded.
"BAND TEN HUT!" AS he screamed, the drum major podium seemed to sway uncontrollably . as it often did. Our school's poor.
"NORTH!" I reluctantly shouted. I guess that lap wore me out more than I thought it would.
"Mark , time, mark" The feet of all in the block slowly began to lift up and fall back again, as if walking in place.
"Forward march!" The entire block moved as one unit down the parking lot.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh
It was like clockwork. Every 8th time Jason would lift his hands, the band would switch up the next step in the b-flat scale, and continue this until we all hit high C (well, at least for the b-flat instruments) and we would ascend back to the middle C. It always amazed me that such a bunch of idiots was capable of doing such a high stature manuever.
"Band . halt!"
All the feet suddenly stopped. All the instruments found new homes grasped in the hands of their players in front of their chests, with the exception of the clarinetists and flutes, who held their's below their waists with their wrists locked tightly as to not drop them onto the burning hot tarmac.
"Okay, so now you've seen what marching is about. We don't pick our feet up like those 'ghetto bands' from around here. We roll. Yes, that's right, we roll-step. Did any of you notice how the band was gliding by you? That's because they are simply rolling along. This allows us to put very complex maneuvers in our shows. You've got to practice this like crazy, it has to become second nature to you all. Now, I'd like all of you in this block to line up into one long line by the 40 yard line."
The sad thing was, the 40 yard line was just a row of parking spots marked off with chalk as being the "temporary 40 yard line". Ah, the curse of the music program in private schools. Alas, the young fish all lined up and each of the upperclassmen was assigned a fish to bait and tackle, or in other words, this was their fish to teach the basics too. I got a lil' one called Mary.
"Okay, now, all of you, keep your eyes on YOUR upperclassmen .." okay, now we sound like property . " .. the one who's going to be helping you along in band camp. Watch their feet. Ok, BAND TEN HUT! Forward . march!"
While holding my clarinet face front I began to think harder and harder about my marching . to make it as pristine as possible, damn would I have a guilty conscience if this girl never got marching because I couldn't do it. I just thought, You're walking on a tube of paint, you wanna squish all the paint out. That was what Mr. Kensington taught us last year, it always seemed to work. Left, roll. Right, roll. Left, Right, Left, Right. "BAND HALT!"
Holding my clarinet firmly in front of my nose I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn't off step once, I kept going, I hope this Mary girl gets it.
"Ok, that was very nice. You all noticed how they appear to be rolling on top of a ball, right? When you march, I want you to think 'I'm rolling on a tube of paint, and I want to get ALL the paint out!' ." He took a moment to think, most likely about Mr. Kensington . "Now, upperclassmen, I want you to work with your freshman in separate areas of the lot. Clap beats for them and have them march. We'll all come together in fifteen minutes to see the progress."
Boy, this was my least favorite of the activities we engaged in last year at our first band practice. Mainly because I had the most sarcastic and horny band member as my partner, Bill. It wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't keep shouting random rhyming phrases, "Don't go to the bay, people will think you're gay! Don't procrastinate, masturbate." It was really not helping me keep my embouchure while marching, but I did have great times with that guy.
I led Mary over the far end of the parking lot, by the street. Our band parking lot was nothing to marvel about. Standing towards the school (as we often did while working on the show), to your left you would find Hensley Street, full of avocado green and sky-blue houses, along with the school's small garage, that more often than not, was holding the carts of timpani's and drums for competitions. To the left you found a hill that led about 20 feet down to Mt. Troy road, the street our school was on. The only thing of worth mentioning was the guardrail that stood between the lot and the hill. I've ran into that thing a few times during shows. And to the back was a fence, also a street full of crazy drug dealers. Now you know why we call our school 'ghetto'. It's a running joke.
In the far end of the parking lot, I rested on the guardrail by the garage and asked her what instrument she played (the freshman did not bring their instruments out). She replied that she played flute and piccolo. I thought it was cute, predictable, but cute. She said she dreamt about joining this band for the longest time. When I asked her where she was from, I was kind of surprised. She lived about 45 minutes away from the school. To me, I thought this was lunacy. I lived only 5 minutes away, heck I could walk to school if I had to. I just couldn't see why someone would drive 45 minutes everyday, just to go . here.
Ah, maybe I don't give our school enough credit.
"BAND TEN HUT!" I stood next to Jason as he called the upperclassmen to attention, nearly taking my eardrums out in the process.
"NORTH!" The echoes of twenty upperclassmen shouting at the top of their lungs bounced off the high walls of the school to the right. I loved the looks on the freshman's faces, they looked terrified.
Jason turned and faced me for a moment, "What are you doing up here late again? Give me a lap."
I tried to cover. "I broke my reed on the way out, I'm sorry."
"Well tough, go give me a lap. Better yet, run with your clarinet as well."
I grumbled at the thought but replied, "All right, all right." Grasping my clarinet with both hands like an Olympic runner racing in the final leg of the triathlon. I began my lap around the 'ghetto', as was known to us, and continued to run around the fairly small school. As I ran up the hill to the band parking lot, I noticed the band had already started marching fundamentals. I sat my clarinet down on the "band guardrail" and joined the upperclassmen block.
"Ok, first freshman, we're gonna show you some 8 to 5 marching."
"All right, play us a b-flat scale increasing every 8 beats. Ready?"
The rest of the block nodded.
"BAND TEN HUT!" AS he screamed, the drum major podium seemed to sway uncontrollably . as it often did. Our school's poor.
"NORTH!" I reluctantly shouted. I guess that lap wore me out more than I thought it would.
"Mark , time, mark" The feet of all in the block slowly began to lift up and fall back again, as if walking in place.
"Forward march!" The entire block moved as one unit down the parking lot.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh
It was like clockwork. Every 8th time Jason would lift his hands, the band would switch up the next step in the b-flat scale, and continue this until we all hit high C (well, at least for the b-flat instruments) and we would ascend back to the middle C. It always amazed me that such a bunch of idiots was capable of doing such a high stature manuever.
"Band . halt!"
All the feet suddenly stopped. All the instruments found new homes grasped in the hands of their players in front of their chests, with the exception of the clarinetists and flutes, who held their's below their waists with their wrists locked tightly as to not drop them onto the burning hot tarmac.
"Okay, so now you've seen what marching is about. We don't pick our feet up like those 'ghetto bands' from around here. We roll. Yes, that's right, we roll-step. Did any of you notice how the band was gliding by you? That's because they are simply rolling along. This allows us to put very complex maneuvers in our shows. You've got to practice this like crazy, it has to become second nature to you all. Now, I'd like all of you in this block to line up into one long line by the 40 yard line."
The sad thing was, the 40 yard line was just a row of parking spots marked off with chalk as being the "temporary 40 yard line". Ah, the curse of the music program in private schools. Alas, the young fish all lined up and each of the upperclassmen was assigned a fish to bait and tackle, or in other words, this was their fish to teach the basics too. I got a lil' one called Mary.
"Okay, now, all of you, keep your eyes on YOUR upperclassmen .." okay, now we sound like property . " .. the one who's going to be helping you along in band camp. Watch their feet. Ok, BAND TEN HUT! Forward . march!"
While holding my clarinet face front I began to think harder and harder about my marching . to make it as pristine as possible, damn would I have a guilty conscience if this girl never got marching because I couldn't do it. I just thought, You're walking on a tube of paint, you wanna squish all the paint out. That was what Mr. Kensington taught us last year, it always seemed to work. Left, roll. Right, roll. Left, Right, Left, Right. "BAND HALT!"
Holding my clarinet firmly in front of my nose I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn't off step once, I kept going, I hope this Mary girl gets it.
"Ok, that was very nice. You all noticed how they appear to be rolling on top of a ball, right? When you march, I want you to think 'I'm rolling on a tube of paint, and I want to get ALL the paint out!' ." He took a moment to think, most likely about Mr. Kensington . "Now, upperclassmen, I want you to work with your freshman in separate areas of the lot. Clap beats for them and have them march. We'll all come together in fifteen minutes to see the progress."
Boy, this was my least favorite of the activities we engaged in last year at our first band practice. Mainly because I had the most sarcastic and horny band member as my partner, Bill. It wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't keep shouting random rhyming phrases, "Don't go to the bay, people will think you're gay! Don't procrastinate, masturbate." It was really not helping me keep my embouchure while marching, but I did have great times with that guy.
I led Mary over the far end of the parking lot, by the street. Our band parking lot was nothing to marvel about. Standing towards the school (as we often did while working on the show), to your left you would find Hensley Street, full of avocado green and sky-blue houses, along with the school's small garage, that more often than not, was holding the carts of timpani's and drums for competitions. To the left you found a hill that led about 20 feet down to Mt. Troy road, the street our school was on. The only thing of worth mentioning was the guardrail that stood between the lot and the hill. I've ran into that thing a few times during shows. And to the back was a fence, also a street full of crazy drug dealers. Now you know why we call our school 'ghetto'. It's a running joke.
In the far end of the parking lot, I rested on the guardrail by the garage and asked her what instrument she played (the freshman did not bring their instruments out). She replied that she played flute and piccolo. I thought it was cute, predictable, but cute. She said she dreamt about joining this band for the longest time. When I asked her where she was from, I was kind of surprised. She lived about 45 minutes away from the school. To me, I thought this was lunacy. I lived only 5 minutes away, heck I could walk to school if I had to. I just couldn't see why someone would drive 45 minutes everyday, just to go . here.
Ah, maybe I don't give our school enough credit.