We’re on our way!
Three days a week, last period of the day was band class. The band room and practice areas were always open. The Foon was a big band fan–his son was some big wheel in Michigan State’s marching band, to him, this was akin to having a son in the Vatican. Chorus, who cared. There was no chorus that year–once again, poor planning kills the details. Let’s hear it for the new kids!
You carted your instrument home every other day, plus your books, plus your gym clothes. I’m not saying kids today have it easy (little girls on our street look like they’ll fall backwards from the bookbag weight), but hauling an instrument, 2 or 3 books and pile of clean clothes while you wear a stifling parka was cruel and unusual punishment in the sixties!
Our high school band teacher taught junior high band. A thankless task, for sure. Every June he lost half his players and he had no idea how many band kids were hatching from sixth grade. At least 1/3 of elementary band kids walked after sixth grade. So it’s ‘trumpets over here, clarinets by the windows, saxes by the door’ etc. Grab a creaky chair, pass out music, 8th graders get first chair, seventh graders get 2nd and 3rd chairs. Immediately we begin rehearsing songs for the Christmas concert second week in December. It was a crime against humanity to be playing Sleigh Ride with beads of September sweat in your mouth.
Brass instruments like trumpets sat in the back, which was perfect for us horndogs (no women trumpet players) to get panoramic eyefuls of girls. Eighth grade had some really cute girls, but none of them were in band. Oh, how sad.
Trumpets, please. Let’s hear it.
My friend Bob played baritone sax (he was tall even then) and a kid named George atop our hill played alto sax. Girls always played flutes and clarinets. And those clarinet players were terrible. If the reed wasn’t aligned, it emitted a hideous banshee scream. This in turn caused boys to giggle unashamedly (especially our real smart-assed drum section), followed by yelling by the band director. Often, rehearsals sounded like ‘concerto for farting cows and screaming pigs’.
Okay, saxes, how do you sound?
From our seats in the crow’s nest, we scoped the scene. A local flutist named Karen was really interesting, but she had bad acne, poor thing. (Always eager to find fault, cruel fuckers we be.)
I had my eye on a tall girl right on the end row of clarinets. Very long legs and she didn’t wear a lot of flat shoes. Her name was Alison.
But she came with baggage………………she was Doug Buttkicker’s younger sister.