Notes From An Accidental Band Geek (3 page)

“You’re going to have to write the fingerings under the notes in your music until you get the hang of it,” Steve told me. “We all play horn and mellophone too—except for Punk—so you’ll learn.” Of
course
Punk only played mellophone. Weirdo.

I’d never felt so frustrated behind a musical instrument before. Actually, forget frustration, this was downright betrayal! My confidence, my talent, my musicality, my
me-ness
, all of it deserted me. Even a simple scale was next to impossible—I’d gak every note or get it flat-out wrong. Punk tried to help, whispering the valve numbers to me before we hit each note: “One, three.” “Two, three.” “Open.” But even with that, I’d first try to do the fingering with my left hand, realize I was holding the valves with my right, depress them, and then we’d be on to the next step in the scale.

And so on. Pain City.

How was this torture ever going to help me get into Shining Birches? My aggravation level was sky high.

“Well,” Steve said when we were done, “looks like you’re going to need a fingering chart.”

“Right, genius,” I muttered, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.

Who
was
this craptastic player? I felt like a stranger in my own skin. I’d get through today, then go home and quit. There had to be some other wind orchestra in the greater Boston area that had a practice schedule that would work for me. No way was I coming back here tomorrow.

“Let’s run through a few basic commands before ensemble. I want high brass to be
the
example for the rest of the band. Freshmen, step out and watch the returning members.”

I had no idea what he meant by commands, but I did what he said. At least it didn’t involve playing. Jake and I stood next to each other. He gave me a sympathetic smile. I scowled.

“High brass, ah-ten-
hut
!” Steve yelled. I jumped.

So did the upperclassmen. All of a sudden, they went from standing slouched and loose, horns dangling in one hand, relaxed, to a military-straight brigade. Each of them stood with their shoulders back, chin up, horns slightly away from their bodies, shiny bells pointed at the ground, mouthpieces just below chin height, both hands on the instrument.

“Notice their feet,” Steve said. He stepped away from his post at the center of the arc and gestured at Shaka. “Toes forty-five degrees apart, heels together. Knees slightly bent.
Not
locked.
Never
lock your knees. And nothing will break their gaze.” All of the brass players stared straight ahead, barely blinking. Steve stepped forward and threw a fake punch at Punk’s face. Punk didn’t even flinch.

Steve explained that this was the command used to bring the band together, to focus and start marching. We’d better get used to it, he said, because we’d be standing at attention a lot. “And it’ll cost us points in competition if you break form.”

“Since when is making music about earning points?” I grumbled softly, still knotted inside from my failed attempt at the mellophone. This had nothing to do with the hours of practice I’d put in to achieve expertise on my instrument—it had nothing to do with music. The commands were silly rules to a goofy game.
Ensemble variety?
I hated Shining Birches for putting me through this.

“At ease.” At this command, the upperclassmen relaxed into the disjointed bunch that had been goofing around and laughing with one another.

“Think the frosh can execute?” Steve asked them.

“They’d better,” Punk responded. “High brass has a rep to maintain.”

I caught Jake’s eye. He raised an eyebrow at me. It was a “this can’t be too hard, right?” look. I half shrugged. Standing still was easy. But just because it was easy didn’t mean I wanted to do it. I glanced longingly at my soft case, with my horn snuggled up inside. I was losing precious practice hours—
sitting down
practice hours, on the right instrument—to do this. I toyed with the idea of just walking away, but contrary to what had happened in the band room, making a scene isn’t my style.

Steve put us in a line facing the returning members. Jake stood next to me and raised that eyebrow again. In spite of my crabby mood, I smiled.

“Okay, when I call the command, you move on the next beat—just like it’s a piece of music. Make the move as a tight snap, as a group. Ready?”

We nodded.

“Ah-ten-
hut
!” Steve called.

I snapped my heels together and stared straight ahead, clutching the mellophone with both hands. The instrument was getting a little heavy. Not as heavy as my horn, but I didn’t walk around or stand with my horn. I peered at Jake out of the corner of one eye.

“Eyes forward!” Steve snapped. I jumped, and did what he said.

Steve walked up and down in front of our line, making
tsk-tsk
noises. “You people need help,” he said. “Fix this,” he said, gesturing to the returning members.

Punk came up behind me.

“Your elbows aren’t right,” he said, and adjusted them so I was holding the now even heavier mellophone out from my body. He tweaked my feet, showing me how to position them so my toes pointed out a little, and pushed down on my shoulders.

“There. Hold that.” He stepped away.

After a few seconds, my lower back started to ache. Sitting down, playing, I have great posture. But when I stand? Mom’s always correcting me and says that I slouch.

Steve taught us a few other commands, keeping us at attention between each one. Finally—

“At ease.” Steve’s voice reached me from the end of the line. I relaxed, muscles aching slightly. Next to me, Jake shook his arms.

“You’ll build up during the season,” Steve said, joining us. A whistle tweeted in the distance.

“Almost time for ensemble,” Steve said. “And I expect you to make me proud. Chicken—don’t play. We’ll get you a chart.”

I gasped. Never in my life had I been told
not
to play. To fake it. The shock was so overwhelming it overshadowed Steve calling me Chicken.

“We have to do one more thing before we go,” Steve said. “Frosh, you need to learn the high brass chant. Upperclassmen, please do the honors.”

A trumpet player stepped forward to start them off:

“One-two-three-four!

High brass makes you beg for more!

Screaming Hellcats in your face!

Blowin’ the roof off this place ! ”

Then came a series of grunts, some cheering, and everyone waving their horns. Still stung from the admonishment not to play, I barely paid attention.

“Get to ensemble! Run!” shouted Steve.

Did I mention I only run if chased?

4

Ensemble was just as torturous. For some reason—you’d think I would have figured it out by now—I expected to see chairs set up for practice.

Uh, no.

At least one hundred of us stood, in yet another arc, on the football field. The drummers were behind the instrumentalists, and in front, at the edge of the field, was the “pit” Sarah had mentioned when we were sitting in the band room: two xylophones, a pair of timpani drums, and some other percussion that I didn’t recognize. Off to the side, on the soccer field, I could see a group of girls spinning bright colored flags. Well,
some
were spinning—I guessed the freshmen color guard members were the ones doing all the dropping. I spotted Sarah’s blond hair and winced as she nearly hit herself in the head with her pole. The color guard equivalent of bad articulation, I thought, and snickered.

The kid with the sunglasses, the one who’d assigned me my locker and started the clucking humiliation, stood in the center of our arc on a podium above the xylophones.

Was
he
the conductor? They let a student conduct a musical group of this size?

“Totally,” said Punk. “Students run nearly every part of the band.”

Embarrassed and not realizing that I’d spoken out loud, I glued my lips together.

“Ah-ten-
hut
!” The kid called in a loud, deep voice. Immediately, talking stopped and the upperclassmen snapped into position—as did the whole high brass section.

“Saxes! Flutes, clarinets, and low brass—
what
did you do during sectionals? Get these freshmen to attention!”

Upperclassmen in those sections scurried to help, and the ache settled into my lower back and arms. Steve wasn’t kidding when he said we’d be spending a lot of time like this.

When we’d been practicing in the parking lot, we’d had the benefit of the shade of the oak tree. Now, exposed, in the middle of the football field, late summer sun was scorching as it approached noon. The bright sun reflected off the metal bleachers, creating a supersized wok. I was thirsty, hot, and grateful for the sunscreen I’d smeared on before leaving the house.

And still standing at attention.

The conductor put us in parade rest, and then called us to attention again. We did this several times, until I guess he was satisfied with how we looked and moved. Finally, he put us at ease.

“Welcome to the Screaming Hellcats Marching Band!” he yelled. “I’m AJ, your drum major. We have an intense week ahead of us. Freshmen: You will learn how to be proper members of this group. Returning students: You will help the frosh and memorize your music first, so we can get our field show up and running—and maybe have a shot at beating the Minutemen at our first competition this year! ” The band whooped and hollered.

He continued his speech, mentioning something about being too small to audition for the Darcy’s Thanksgiving parade in New York, but we’d have a great season anyway, blah blah blah. I tuned him out. I was too hot. And the stupid mellophone was conducting heat like it was made of brass. Ha-ha. I wished for a cold drink and a pair of sunglasses.

“Okay, let’s do a concert B-flat scale to get going,” AJ said. He put us at attention and yelled, “Instruments
up
!” as he raised his hands.

Five years of playing an instrument, plus eight years of attending concerts, did
not
prepare me for what followed. It was a simple note, but the group was so big there was
power
to it. It was
loud
. My breastbone shook. The note filled me up, pushing against my ears and eyes and
at
me, like a wave. No, not a wave—more like an
envelope
of sound, something that wrapped around me from all sides.

In the orchestras and student groups that I’d played in, making music was all about control: controlling how well you blended in with others, paying attention to the markings in the music to add drama to the piece. Not this. Not now. This was about pure, face-blasting sound.

And it was so cool.

Each time the note changed, I got the same feeling all over again.

We played some scales—well, everyone else played. I took Steve’s advice and just faked it, keeping one eye on Punk to learn the fingerings, still basking in the raw power of the whole group.

However, standing and holding my instrument for so long started to get to me. I felt a little light-headed, and my ears pounded with a sound that had nothing to do with the percussion. A bead of sweat rolled down my back and hit the top of my shorts. My stomach gurgled. It was lunchtime, but thinking of food made me want to hurl.

More sweat popped up on my forehead and back. The band was playing whole notes, holding each one for eight counts.

Why did my breathing feel funny? I wasn’t playing.

A gray cloud appeared at the edges of my vision.

Was it going to rain? That’d be nice.

“Chicken? Chicken!”

“Elsie?”

“You all right?”

“What happened?”

“She locked her knees.”

The voices came from far away, and at first I didn’t realize that they were talking about me. My head throbbed. What the heck happened?

I opened my eyes and saw a halo of shadowy heads. I shut my eyes. Was I lying down?

“She’s awake!” That came from Punk.

“Chicken?” AJ, the drum major, chimed in.

“Stop that! Elsie! You okay?” Mr. Sebastian, the band director, said.

I squinched my eyes, then opened them. Six or eight people hovered over me. I was most definitely lying on my back.

“Wha—what happened?” I croaked. I tried to sit up.

“No, no!” Mr. Sebastian gently pushed me back down. “Stay still. You passed out.”

I
what
?

“I told them not to lock their knees!” A very worried Steve, dreads drooping, came into view. “It traps the blood in your lower body. You faint.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I guess you do.”

Someone passed Steve a cup of water, and Mr. Sebastian held a hand out to me.

“Let’s sit you up. Slowly, okay?”

I nodded as best I could from my lying-down position. I took Mr. Sebastian’s outstretched hand, felt someone else’s arm wrap around my shoulders, and let them guide me into a sitting position. The world whirled. I closed my eyes.