Band Geekery

From the time I was in fifth grade until the time I graduated high school, I played the clarinet. I had wanted to play the flute originally because that's what all sensible and cute 10-year-old girls wanted to play, but there was an overflow of cuteness, so I got demoted to clarinet. Whatever, I had the foresight enough to see the jokes that would forever plague flute players after the debut of American Pie. I digress.

Many, many fond memories, and even more memorable friendships stemmed from my tenure in band. Fifth grade was the first year band was offered as an elective. Most kids stuck with it at least their first year into middle school, some even into their seventh grade year. I committed my seventh and eighth grade years to band because, duh, the annual Concert in the Parks festival was held at Disneyland and who the heck was I to miss that?! Then freshman year came rolling around, and I decided that I was now too cool for band. Especially since "band" in high school meant having the word "marching" sewn to it. Hell to the no, Cool Jen thought. But then I found myself missing it and missing all the people I knew from middle school because their schedules were all filled with cool stuff like trips to Canada and New York and San Diego. You're not so cool now, Jen, are ya?

So sophomore year comes rolling around. I jump at the chance to join. I was one of about 20 clarinet players, and 100 other band members. Talk about intimidating. I quickly knew what Dorothy meant in the Wizard of Oz when she muttered to ToTo, "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore". What a far cry high school marching band was to the days of middle school concert band. In middle school, all we were held accountable for was preparing for "playing tests", held once a quarter, required to show the teacher that we were capable of having a single sheet of music well-enough practiced to perform in front of the class. Oh yeah, and to show up to concerts twice a year. Up the intensity about twenty-fold and throw in a bunch of other uncoordinated teenagers marching around the field, honking their instruments and that's what high school marching band was like.

To be fair, that's not entirely true. Sure, band camp started in the beginning of August, when the remainder of the population of the school was relishing in the fact that they still had nothing to do with school for another three weeks almost. We had to have memorized four pieces of music by the time band camp started so that we could concentrate on learning drill (our respective points on the field which changed literally 15 times in the course of each 3 minute song). There were times where our instructors (music and drill and our primary teacher alike) were so frustrated with us, I'd be surprised to know if they didn't want to throw their shoes at our heads. Or where we wanted to quit on the spot. But just like anything, there were tons of memorable moments that made all of the hard stuff worth it.

There was something about the competitions that got everyone amped up. You could almost taste the excitement in the air as we changed into our awesome purple and gold sequenced uniforms. Or was that the Aqua-Net that the band moms shellacked the girls' hair with? I'll never know. But getting ready to march onto that field, after all of the work we put into our music and our marching technique, was something to savor.

I remember the last show of my senior year like it was yesterday. Our band director (Mr. Grantham) was phenomenal. We had gone through four directors in the four years I was in high school, but Mr. G really was fantastic. He was young, hip and funny and we all loved him. Most importantly, we respected him. We were in San Diego for championships, and Mr. G pulled aside all the seniors the night before the show. He wanted to tell us how much we meant to him as the first class to graduate in his first year at Amador, and we all echoed his sentiments. He pulled us together, and helped us set an example for the underclassmen. We all had him to thank.

As we took the field, my stomach was in knots. I thought I was going to be sick or cry. Or maybe both. The stands were packed with family members of students from every school in attendance, all donning their band kids' school colors. I don't remember much about the show itself, other than the transition coming into the very last drill movement. In 16 quick counts, we had to march and play our music across approximately 20 yards of field, and end in a perfect arch, right on the home-side sideline. When we got there, we had this move where we had to raise our instruments up to the announcer's box and hold for four counts or something. This is not a move very accurately executed. And when it was well and accurately executed, it certainly was not often. But guess what? That night we nailed it. All I remember is the look on Mr. G's face as he leapt out of his seat, absolutely beaming with pride for us kids. Tears rose to blur my vision, and a smile so consumed my face that my ability to play my clarinet was completely withdrawn. And he wasn't the only one. Kids from other schools' bands were on their feet cheering for us too, having attended competitions at various stages in the marching season and also having seen the progress we'd made. Our parents were on their feet. Instructors. It was a flipping proud moment.

All this to say that I heard my band practicing tonight. It made me proud to continue to admit that I am a band geek. In about ten-seconds' time, seven years of wonderful (yet proudly geeked-out) band kid memories came back to me. I just hope I served these memories well. They really are worth their weight in sequined purple and gold.