A Boy and his Music
Going into fifth grade, I sat through a presentation by the elementary school band ‘guy’ (not to be confused with the music teacher, the snotty pathetic weasel of several prior posts).
I decided to take up the trumpet. Almost immediately, I was enrolled in private lessons 15 minutes away.
My tutor, Gary H, was a very kind man who was also a high school principal in the city. He was well versed in both classical and jazz, but to my knowledge, he only got occasional gigs in pick up orchestras when singers or circuses came to town needing musicians. The last I heard of him in the late seventies he had cancer.
The elementary school band guy must have been born with nerves of steel. As years have passed, I’ve attended many concerts with little kids feverishly struggling to play, and they all sound like creatively designed instruments of aural torture. Wrong notes, unplayed passages, and kids getting thoroughly lost or playing something at the wrong place.
What we thought we sounded like:
But it actually sounded like:
Clarinets were always played by girls, and the trouble with the instrument often came from issues with the reed, which caused a high pitch squeal resembling the brakes of an ancient semi and the dying howl of some unearthly hell spawn demon. Or, as someone later summed it: “Honky-squeaky, honky-squeaky!” Frequently, a clarinet’s amped-up scream caused those of us on brass instruments to lose it and giggle into our horns.
I don’t remember much, except us determinedly limping through “Moon River” and our national anthem. While we never heard Henry Mancini had suffered cardiac arrest, I was frightened that Francis Scott Key would rise from the grave and track us down like rabid dogs. I also recall playing some Christmas songs, playing joyfully if not triumphantly.
I enjoyed the experience, though, and committed to joining the band in 7th grade………….important decision, as you will see.