BOA National Championship at Johnson City, TN.
Marching Dukes of Marlington 1982.
They
rolled into Worlthess Valley in the late afternoon with three buses loaded
with the Marching Dukes of Marlington and one heavy equipment bus. The marching
band had competed successfully there in Worlthess Valley before, but on this night,
something happened, something that changed the course of the future of this
band for years to come.
Settle This on The Field
The Marlington band members arrived already dressed and emerged from the long bus ride to adjust and tighten up their uniforms to present an appearance that was worthy of a serious competition. The band members emerging from these busses in the crowded parking lot of Worlthess Valley High School in the waning light of that summer afternoon were also emerging from a ten-year program that started in 1973, when many of these young men and women first picked up musical instruments and started their elementary studies in instrumental music.
This was the first wave of a competitive musical and marching program about to come to fruition, and many remember this night as the night that it all came together.
“You guys really think you are something... I mean look at you... just give me a break.”
He said it loud enough for most of the Marlington percussion section to hear it -- and it wasn’t just envy that motivated these comments: it was something uglier and darker.
“You come in here, looking like you are something so special. Please, you can’t march worth crap. You aren’t half as good as you think you are, just pathetic... snobs.”
Those last words he was spitting with a tone that was hurtful, the kind of hurt and pain that usually comes from an adult -- the kind of adult that carries a lot of wounds. He was holding a clipboard as he walked away shaking his head. He had taken his verbal shots and retreated, and he didn’t feel any better inside as he walked away.
“Who the heck was that?!” The Marlington snare drummers asked, not believing what they had just heard, not understanding what he had just seen, and busting in their stomachs at the outrage of all of it.
“I think it was one of the directors, or maybe a parent from the Worlthess Valley band.” One of the Marlington assistant directors said this from a state of genuine disbelief, a state that was a mixture of shock and denial. He had said it to answer the peppering questions he had heard -- and regretted it almost immediately.
Half of the snare drummers began unhooking their drums, dropping them onto the ground to confront the other band’s director, if possible, they were going to hit him with everything they had in their fists before anyone pulled them off him. It was rage, it was more than anger -- it was time to rumble. The Marlington assistant director acted quickly and grabbed a few collars pulling away from him, and managed to corral his drummers into an incensed, red face huddle to avert the imminent physical altercation.
“Let’s settle this on the field... settle this on the field, ok?”
The assistant director had the last words with this, and under pursed lips the band went back to their instruments, tightening their uniform collars back up and there was fire burning in their guts. Some new kind of line had been crossed, a new element of motivation introduced, and new zeal had blossomed suddenly by these unexpected insults.
Parade Of Insults
Before the on-field competition, there was a parade of the competing bands that late afternoon. Along the route of the parade, members of the Worlthess Valley band took that ugly cue and performed their own blatant show of disrespect for the marching Marlington Band columns passing them by. Over the drum cadences and musical sequences, the occasional call from the crowd could be heard.
“You suck!”
“Rich snobs!”
But the tone of these calls wasn’t like the funny kind you can laugh at. They had that darker tone, the kind that you hear from people yelling with spittle in the corners of their mouths. It was the kind of minor-chord cacophony from different directions that disorients, that makes you want to cover your ears, that makes you want to fight.
“Stupid snobs!”
More jeers from an older group in the crowd. Some of them were wearing other band uniforms, others were faceless and lost in the crowds of people lining the parade route. As the sun descended into the horizon that night, the sounds of the first bands now competing could be heard, and the jeering subsided.
What Is That Sound?
There was an anger there that night in the Marlington band that hadn’t been there before. There was a passion in what they were doing that was not there before because of what had happened. They were good from a technical perspective, but it was this night that their collective passion caught up with their musical talents. They had never just thought of themselves as something ‘different,’ something ‘special’ -- they were expressing their love for their music by being as excellent as they could be -- always pushing the bar up higher with every practice, with every performance. It was this collective love, this collective passion for their art form that made them different, that made them clearly special. For someone to mock them, to insult this love of theirs -- it was the kind of insult that you never forget, no matter how long you live. They had to fight to protect this thing of beauty that they had created in their music. Instead of using fists and violence to retaliate, they used the very thing they loved the most, their music, their artistry, their bond of mutual respect and friendship.
As the competition in the stadium was underway, the Marlington band started their warm-up exercises on a hilltop parking lot nearby. The volume, the anger and intensity, the purity of the music they poured out of their hearts during their warm-ups caught the attention of many in the stadium -- they stopped watching the band performing on the field and went looking for the sound coming from the distance --out in the dark parking lot.
When It All Came Together
There is a moment of charged silence on the field, before every performance starts, that is magical. It is like when the pendulum on a giant clock swings, shifting between velocity and acceleration vectors -- there is a minuscule point when the energy of the pendulum is suspended, like a deep breath of air inhaling, and then holding… and then exhaling energy. At that point of suspension, at the point where energy shifts, at that point where practice and preparation transforms mystically into a real performance, in those few seconds before the first note is played and before the first step is taken everything clicks into place, everything comes into focus, everything is suspended momentarily and then the musical and visual creation emerges new into the world for the first time -- those performing on the field and those watching from the stands are taken away together into this power, this force of nature, this new beautiful way of life.
"Give it away!"
The Marlington band directors on the front sideline yelled this together in that silent moment before the first notes were played. Their voices echoed out over the hushed crowd and the sound of it moved into the night air illuminated by stadium lighting.
The Marlington band wore burnished orange coats with white trim, positioned over black pants, presenting an almost surreal and bold glow in the nighttime stadium lighting. The green grass around them marked with white lines was now blocked with the uniform spacing of their shining black shoes ready to march. Across their chests they wore a broad sash of Stewart of Atholl ancient tartan. They snapped their instruments into position, instantly, simultaneously with the signal from their field commander - like a hundred swords being drawn from sheaths together in one motion. There was a sharp singular sparkle of light in this movement as the stadium lighting bent and christened their musical instruments in spectacular reflections.
When they took the field to perform their show, it was decided within the first moments -- they were going to win everything in every category.
When the band director’s namesake-son played his trumpet solo from 'Argentina' that night, it was if the final mechanism of their musical machinery clicked into place. He was a quiet kid, a precocious and self-correcting redhead that did things with the trumpet that his peers didn’t know were even possible. Calling him a virtuoso was not enough to capture what he was to the band. Add ‘prodigy’ to ‘virtuoso’ and you still couldn’t capture what he was musically. His abilities made everyone around him better. Some called him an ‘old soul,’ others a ‘band of one.’ He made it look easy, effortless, as if the trumpet was a seamless extension of his soul. When he played that night, he carried his final top-octave notes with his trumpet in one hand – his other hand pumping a fist in triumph. It wasn’t a planned gesture. It was just his natural emotional response to the crowd. Those there on the field with him that that night can still hear and feel the passion of it, the clarity and range-immensity of the performance – it moved this band from being merely good to those next levels that led to a series of local, state, regional and national championships that are now a part of marching band history.
The trophies they brought home, the ribbons that they wore, the titles that they earned -- all of these things paled in comparison to the real reward they received -- that reward of knowing that they had given it all away in their music, that they had held nothing back, that they had poured everything they were into this -- it was more than music, it was a new way of life that they were all learning and growing in.
They’re Ready
They marched off the field that night and there was no anger left. This level of performance was different, it was new for them, and this became the mark for them to achieve every time they would take the competition field in the future.
There was noise as they started loading up the busses that night. Trophies were spread around, being held by different sections, musical instruments were being tucked away into a variety of different cases. The sound of the idling busses all running together mixed with the din of traffic passing by them. It was a chaotic sound, mixed with the laughter of children and teenagers, equipment, stray sounds from a variety of musical instruments and it was infused with a joy that is felt more than it can be heard.
As the Marlington Band filed into their busses, as the doors of the equipment bus were closed, and final attendance checks were being performed -- everyone being accounted for, the band director and his assistant directors came together briefly outside the busses, under the streetlights piercing through the dark night.
“They’re ready.”
The percussion director said this, but he was not referring only to their departure from Worlthess Valley High School that night. He was talking about something much broader. He was talking about everything coming together, about how they were now ready to perform on a national level with bands from the largest schools in the country; they could now compete and win, and for this they were now ready.
Thus began a winning streak of 196 consecutive marching band competitions, including 12 regional, and five national championships. Not to mention thousands of individual and smaller group awards. To put this into perspective, this would be the equivalent of a high school football or basketball team having an undefeated season for the next twenty consecutive years.
The band busses drove home that night back to their small rural school situated in the cornfields outside of Alliance, Ohio. They unpacked their busses and drove away in separate cars and trucks back to their homes far away in the dark.
The Key
The trophies were left in the band room, the doors were closed, the lights turned off; silence once again settled on a day long with new experiences and rich drama -- spectacular things had happened on this day. A new course had been set, a new destination of excellence had been sighted on the horizon, a dream had been given new flight and they would hold this dream together as the Marching Dukes of Marlington. On this night they learned that the key to having it all, was by giving it all away.
Settle This on The Field
The Marlington band members arrived already dressed and emerged from the long bus ride to adjust and tighten up their uniforms to present an appearance that was worthy of a serious competition. The band members emerging from these busses in the crowded parking lot of Worlthess Valley High School in the waning light of that summer afternoon were also emerging from a ten-year program that started in 1973, when many of these young men and women first picked up musical instruments and started their elementary studies in instrumental music.
This was the first wave of a competitive musical and marching program about to come to fruition, and many remember this night as the night that it all came together.
“You guys really think you are something... I mean look at you... just give me a break.”
He said it loud enough for most of the Marlington percussion section to hear it -- and it wasn’t just envy that motivated these comments: it was something uglier and darker.
“You come in here, looking like you are something so special. Please, you can’t march worth crap. You aren’t half as good as you think you are, just pathetic... snobs.”
Those last words he was spitting with a tone that was hurtful, the kind of hurt and pain that usually comes from an adult -- the kind of adult that carries a lot of wounds. He was holding a clipboard as he walked away shaking his head. He had taken his verbal shots and retreated, and he didn’t feel any better inside as he walked away.
“Who the heck was that?!” The Marlington snare drummers asked, not believing what they had just heard, not understanding what he had just seen, and busting in their stomachs at the outrage of all of it.
“I think it was one of the directors, or maybe a parent from the Worlthess Valley band.” One of the Marlington assistant directors said this from a state of genuine disbelief, a state that was a mixture of shock and denial. He had said it to answer the peppering questions he had heard -- and regretted it almost immediately.
Half of the snare drummers began unhooking their drums, dropping them onto the ground to confront the other band’s director, if possible, they were going to hit him with everything they had in their fists before anyone pulled them off him. It was rage, it was more than anger -- it was time to rumble. The Marlington assistant director acted quickly and grabbed a few collars pulling away from him, and managed to corral his drummers into an incensed, red face huddle to avert the imminent physical altercation.
“Let’s settle this on the field... settle this on the field, ok?”
The assistant director had the last words with this, and under pursed lips the band went back to their instruments, tightening their uniform collars back up and there was fire burning in their guts. Some new kind of line had been crossed, a new element of motivation introduced, and new zeal had blossomed suddenly by these unexpected insults.
Parade Of Insults
Before the on-field competition, there was a parade of the competing bands that late afternoon. Along the route of the parade, members of the Worlthess Valley band took that ugly cue and performed their own blatant show of disrespect for the marching Marlington Band columns passing them by. Over the drum cadences and musical sequences, the occasional call from the crowd could be heard.
“You suck!”
“Rich snobs!”
But the tone of these calls wasn’t like the funny kind you can laugh at. They had that darker tone, the kind that you hear from people yelling with spittle in the corners of their mouths. It was the kind of minor-chord cacophony from different directions that disorients, that makes you want to cover your ears, that makes you want to fight.
“Stupid snobs!”
More jeers from an older group in the crowd. Some of them were wearing other band uniforms, others were faceless and lost in the crowds of people lining the parade route. As the sun descended into the horizon that night, the sounds of the first bands now competing could be heard, and the jeering subsided.
What Is That Sound?
There was an anger there that night in the Marlington band that hadn’t been there before. There was a passion in what they were doing that was not there before because of what had happened. They were good from a technical perspective, but it was this night that their collective passion caught up with their musical talents. They had never just thought of themselves as something ‘different,’ something ‘special’ -- they were expressing their love for their music by being as excellent as they could be -- always pushing the bar up higher with every practice, with every performance. It was this collective love, this collective passion for their art form that made them different, that made them clearly special. For someone to mock them, to insult this love of theirs -- it was the kind of insult that you never forget, no matter how long you live. They had to fight to protect this thing of beauty that they had created in their music. Instead of using fists and violence to retaliate, they used the very thing they loved the most, their music, their artistry, their bond of mutual respect and friendship.
As the competition in the stadium was underway, the Marlington band started their warm-up exercises on a hilltop parking lot nearby. The volume, the anger and intensity, the purity of the music they poured out of their hearts during their warm-ups caught the attention of many in the stadium -- they stopped watching the band performing on the field and went looking for the sound coming from the distance --out in the dark parking lot.
When It All Came Together
There is a moment of charged silence on the field, before every performance starts, that is magical. It is like when the pendulum on a giant clock swings, shifting between velocity and acceleration vectors -- there is a minuscule point when the energy of the pendulum is suspended, like a deep breath of air inhaling, and then holding… and then exhaling energy. At that point of suspension, at the point where energy shifts, at that point where practice and preparation transforms mystically into a real performance, in those few seconds before the first note is played and before the first step is taken everything clicks into place, everything comes into focus, everything is suspended momentarily and then the musical and visual creation emerges new into the world for the first time -- those performing on the field and those watching from the stands are taken away together into this power, this force of nature, this new beautiful way of life.
"Give it away!"
The Marlington band directors on the front sideline yelled this together in that silent moment before the first notes were played. Their voices echoed out over the hushed crowd and the sound of it moved into the night air illuminated by stadium lighting.
The Marlington band wore burnished orange coats with white trim, positioned over black pants, presenting an almost surreal and bold glow in the nighttime stadium lighting. The green grass around them marked with white lines was now blocked with the uniform spacing of their shining black shoes ready to march. Across their chests they wore a broad sash of Stewart of Atholl ancient tartan. They snapped their instruments into position, instantly, simultaneously with the signal from their field commander - like a hundred swords being drawn from sheaths together in one motion. There was a sharp singular sparkle of light in this movement as the stadium lighting bent and christened their musical instruments in spectacular reflections.
When they took the field to perform their show, it was decided within the first moments -- they were going to win everything in every category.
When the band director’s namesake-son played his trumpet solo from 'Argentina' that night, it was if the final mechanism of their musical machinery clicked into place. He was a quiet kid, a precocious and self-correcting redhead that did things with the trumpet that his peers didn’t know were even possible. Calling him a virtuoso was not enough to capture what he was to the band. Add ‘prodigy’ to ‘virtuoso’ and you still couldn’t capture what he was musically. His abilities made everyone around him better. Some called him an ‘old soul,’ others a ‘band of one.’ He made it look easy, effortless, as if the trumpet was a seamless extension of his soul. When he played that night, he carried his final top-octave notes with his trumpet in one hand – his other hand pumping a fist in triumph. It wasn’t a planned gesture. It was just his natural emotional response to the crowd. Those there on the field with him that that night can still hear and feel the passion of it, the clarity and range-immensity of the performance – it moved this band from being merely good to those next levels that led to a series of local, state, regional and national championships that are now a part of marching band history.
The trophies they brought home, the ribbons that they wore, the titles that they earned -- all of these things paled in comparison to the real reward they received -- that reward of knowing that they had given it all away in their music, that they had held nothing back, that they had poured everything they were into this -- it was more than music, it was a new way of life that they were all learning and growing in.
They’re Ready
They marched off the field that night and there was no anger left. This level of performance was different, it was new for them, and this became the mark for them to achieve every time they would take the competition field in the future.
There was noise as they started loading up the busses that night. Trophies were spread around, being held by different sections, musical instruments were being tucked away into a variety of different cases. The sound of the idling busses all running together mixed with the din of traffic passing by them. It was a chaotic sound, mixed with the laughter of children and teenagers, equipment, stray sounds from a variety of musical instruments and it was infused with a joy that is felt more than it can be heard.
As the Marlington Band filed into their busses, as the doors of the equipment bus were closed, and final attendance checks were being performed -- everyone being accounted for, the band director and his assistant directors came together briefly outside the busses, under the streetlights piercing through the dark night.
“They’re ready.”
The percussion director said this, but he was not referring only to their departure from Worlthess Valley High School that night. He was talking about something much broader. He was talking about everything coming together, about how they were now ready to perform on a national level with bands from the largest schools in the country; they could now compete and win, and for this they were now ready.
Thus began a winning streak of 196 consecutive marching band competitions, including 12 regional, and five national championships. Not to mention thousands of individual and smaller group awards. To put this into perspective, this would be the equivalent of a high school football or basketball team having an undefeated season for the next twenty consecutive years.
The band busses drove home that night back to their small rural school situated in the cornfields outside of Alliance, Ohio. They unpacked their busses and drove away in separate cars and trucks back to their homes far away in the dark.
The Key
The trophies were left in the band room, the doors were closed, the lights turned off; silence once again settled on a day long with new experiences and rich drama -- spectacular things had happened on this day. A new course had been set, a new destination of excellence had been sighted on the horizon, a dream had been given new flight and they would hold this dream together as the Marching Dukes of Marlington. On this night they learned that the key to having it all, was by giving it all away.
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