You know that one trumpet player. The one who thinks he's the Brass Gods' gift to all other brass players? That was me. Whenever I picked up an instrument, I believed myself to be the best thing that ever happened in the musical world.
Of course, when I learnt the trumpet – my first instrument and first love – I could barely make a fart noise or even buzz properly. I tried to play it like a freakin' kazoo. That didn't work, obviously.
I believe that I really sucked at that time. I knew it, too. But I didn't care how bad I was. Music was a Challenge. Not like math, not like science or grammar or spelling. Music made sense to me.
I'm not saying it just clicked, because that'd be a downright lie. Worse than a lie! It'd be beyond description, even by me!
But music was a Challenge I could face, could overcome. I never learnt to properly tongue until ninth grade and I had the range of a tuba with asthma. But I didn't care.
I soon learnt all the early songs in the Red Book – you know, the Standard of Excellence book that every little fifth-grader gets – Hot Cross Buns, Twinkle Twinkle, Good King Wenceslas...I started going ahead, memorizing my fingerings the fastest way I could. I started to do my scale, just fingering it, wherever I went, no matter what. As the trumpet is a one-handed instrument, I really didn't draw any attention. I even started practicing with my left hand, out of curiosity spawned from a conversation in band class, where the other trumpets were thinking of all the fun ways to hold and play their horns.
I actually started to work hard on that, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I could do something they'd only absently thought of, I could get their respect. Get higher up in the class ranks of respect.
A few weeks later I switched hands in the middle of a song, switched back, then went to my left hand again.
They paid me no notice.
You know, that time, I didcare.