“Let’s
start from the top.” Becky said and positioned her flute so that she could
direct and play at the same time.
She
offered a metric with an audible “And a one, two, three, four...”
The
first notes we played were cautious and our timing was clumsy, but our pitch
was clean and steady. In a reverent tone, we offered a rendition of ‘God Save
The Queen.’ I could feel the vibration of my horn in my hands and felt the
sound of the glorious trumpet to my left, the base of the weighty trombone
before me, and the christening of the graceful flute of our humble chorus from
my right. The cadence of the snare drum gave us a pulse and reference for each
of our notes. The only audience for our performance was that small victory bell
that blended a shadow on the concrete beside us.
With
each note we painted a picture, one stroke of the musical brush at a time -- a
picture of our musical heritage at Marlington. Our first run-through was messy
on the edges, and choppy in terms of timing and meter. But on our second and third pass, our
painting began to take a cleaner shape in the sound that both came from within
us and descended upon us, touching us in that old blending of feelings: of
wonder and artistry and beauty. We
rested in that last note, and I felt it pass away from us and out into the
empty parking lot beside us. A small
flock of sparrows passed by at that moment and that cold wind took our last
notes away and up into the trail of those sparrows who were soon soaring over
trees and newly planted corn fields around the high school on Moulin Avenue.
There
was a moment of silence as we all took a moment and looked around at our
surroundings.
“That
didn’t sound terrible.” Becky said, and we all nodded in agreement.
In
my mind I could see the picture we had just painted with our music. It was more than an anthem that we composed
in those moments. In my mind and in my heart,
I could see the vivid colors of our Stewart of Atholl ancient tartan in long
parades, all the uniforms that we ever wore, and the glistening luster of how
stadium lighting in the night reflected on the brass of our many musical
instruments. In some way I could see the beautiful colors of every color guard
that ever marched around us. I could
also see the depiction of every rifle line in all their grace, and discipline,
and synchronicity. I could see how light seemed to bounce off the director’s
baton at a distance and how stadium crowds would respond and stir when we played
from our hearts. We used the notes of that British anthem to paint this picture
that can’t be seen with eyes, it can only be understood from the heart.
We
talked a lot between playing and memories were a delightful fare that we shared
like a banquet set before us. Each of us
contributed to this meal, and each of us were nourished, and blessed, and
strengthened from the exchange.
We
worked our way through ‘Scotland the Brave’ and allowed our music to move us
into the past, and back to the present; for some of us being transported over
the span of three decades with each passing musical phrase and with each breath
of air that moved from within our bodies. I watched shadows flicker around us
as cars would pass, and the occasional student would walk around us haplessly.
In
the distance I could see a fleet of yellow school busses parked together. The vehicles were in a straight formation,
devoid of drivers and passengers. They
stood in a lonely vigil over our practice field, where we once learned to play
and march Romanian Rhapsody, and British Band Classics. I noticed there were no more field lines to
guide marching feet painted on that concrete surface; the director’s tower
where Mr. Frenz looked down on us is missing.
But between the shadows, I can still see them all there. I can see where we baked under the summer
sun, where we froze in early winter gales, where we drilled our movements over
and over and over again until we could understand and feel and depict every
note, every step, every phrase with perfect clarity in our minds. And in the
echoes that faded from our practice, I can hear all of what we accomplished
beckoning us, calling to us, telling us to never forget, and to always give it
away.
We
worked through the phrases of the new fight song, and I found myself thinking
about all of those who could not be here with me, those with much greater
talents and abilities than I have. I was humbled to represent them, and that
knowledge drives me to play even better than I ever have before so that they
will not be ashamed. I thought back to my first trumpet lessons in the autumn
of 1980 when Mr. John Weitzel sat with me in the music room in North Lincoln
Elementary and showed me how to play the C scale. I wanted to play for him and
let him know that I had not forgotten what he had taught me. I thought back to
Mr. Frenz, about the respect that he commanded from us, about the compassion he
showed to us. I wanted to play for him and let him know that I would never
forget what he had taught me.
We
all have learned how difficult life can be. For some of us, we have endured
broken marriages, broken hearts, broken bank accounts, broken bodies -- it's
like the world is meat grinder at times tearing up people, shredding dreams,
breaking down upon us in dark waves. But
we have found a way to do something remarkable, we have learned to adapt and
endure through seasons of storm. We can
reach back over the decades and touch the magic of our musical experiences and
bring it back into the present with every note we play, with every musical
phrase we perform.
Dylan Thomas famously wrote:
"Do not go gentle into that
good night,
Old age should burn and rave at
close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of
the light."
We
have not gone gently into that night of injury and mediocrity and surrender; we
are still playing our music together. We raged against the dying light of day
in our sound by the victory bell; we are still giving it away.
“I’m
freezing, I think that should be a wrap,” I said, and we agreed to move back
into the band room inside the high school. We took turns holding the door for
each other as we moved our equipment back into the band room. We worked again
on the last phrases of the fight song and agreed to finish up our session.
I
looked around the band room and saw everything that was familiar to me from
thirty years ago.
The
trophies were still there -- around the top shelf surrounding the room. A little dusty. Sun faded. The 1986 Class A MBA National Championship
Trophy was there, a little smaller now than I once remembered it. It stood as a testament to a time in Marching
Bands of America history when the smaller schools with homemade props, carwash
fundraising budgets, and a lot of dented instruments could compete on a level
playing field with the larger schools.
This was the time before corporate sponsorships, amplified electronics,
and on-field props had distorted the competition into something that looked
less like a marching band competition every year. That trophy reminded me of a
time when it was about the music, about the marching and color guard – and that
was it. The sound that was sent out in
performance was from the heart, not from a computer hard drive sitting on the
sideline.
I
saw how the practice room doors were still open; and the same director’s office
door was there, also still open. I thought about the new director that occupies that
office, about their challenges, about their vision for this music program at Marlington
and my heart stirred for that person. I
want to help them pass this musical heritage on to another generation of men
and women. I want them to know what it means to ‘give it away.’
As
we put our instruments away, we agreed that this was still important, this
heritage, what happened to us here, what transformed us here, what made our
young lives so rich -- that it was still important and that it mattered.
Missing Bench
As
I walked down the hallway to leave, I noticed that the large wooden bench by
the door was gone. I had sat on that bench many times after shows,
competitions, and practices waiting for my ride to take me home. It was a home
that I never wanted to go back to. I would sit there on that bench and hate it
when my ride wouldn’t show and hate it when my ride would show. I’m glad that bench is gone now, I always
hated it.
We
walked away in the twilight, each to our separate lives. Most of us have experienced a lot of
heartache since our days at Marlington, and we agree that what didn’t kill us,
made us all stronger.
“See
you next month.” They said and I waved as they all drove away.
I
looked back over the school and thought that I could see two seagulls drifting
along together in lonely dusk air currents high above the old school building.
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