Blow!

Blow!

Let's turn the way back machine to the year the summer of 1982. I had recently graduated from junior high school and in the hottest month of August, I would be transitioning to high school and also the high school band.

My mom woke me up one morning, banging on my bedroom door, yelling "WAKE UP!! GET DRESSED and pack your things!”

I peered from underneath the covers, trying figure out if I was in dream or a nightmare or something. I vaguely saw some sunlight in the room and then I let my head hit the pillow again.

"WAKE UP!!"

That moment was enough. The shouting was so close to me, it felt like an electric shock and I was suddenly sitting up in bed almost hyperventilating.

"Mom?! What, what?!"

"COME ON! Band Camp starts today! We gotta get going!!"

Band Camp. The thought ran through my mind for a moment as if it were lost as I yawned. Then it clicked. Band Camp. Oh yeah, we had talked about that last week. 

It was my first experience at band camp. I had been to church camp, of course but this was completely different. I would be playing with a totally new group of people, including upper classmen.

How would they treat me? Would I have to bow to them?  

What about marching? How would I do that? I'd never done that before. 

I remember my grandfather telling me that it would be somewhat similar to basic training in the army and that conjured images of Sergeant Carter from Gomer Pyle, being forced to do pushups etc.

These were the thoughts tumbling around my brain while I wheezed continually while getting dressed.

I did finally manage to get dressed and packed, in spite of the asthma attack. It finally subsided enough for me to gather everything including my trusty Conn Director trumpet and made my way to the car where my mother was waiting, albeit irritably.

With everything finally packed, Mom started the old 71 Impala and we headed out to the college where the band Camp was to take place.

The car radio came to life briefly and I heard the announcer say that a heatwave was coming during the week. "Hunh! When is it NOT hot in Tennessee?"

The ride itself took about an hour or so until we arrived at the college and I met with the band director, the trumpet section leader and the RA who directed me to my room.

After I settled in and left my room and headed to the cafeteria for an afternoon meeting with the rest of the band. When I got there, the place was filled with unfamiliar faces, some of them were standing, practicing some routines, others were sitting down and waiting.

I looked around for a seat and picked one by the counter.  

“Hey!”

I turned to my left and saw a guy with light brown hair and small moustache, looking at me.

“Oh, hi!” I managed to stammer out.

He laughed. “It's okay, man! You're new here. I’m Bill! I'm a TA.”

“I'm Andy”, I mumbled.  

“I think I saw you when your mom, drove up. You're a trumpet player?”

I looked at him and nodded my head, then looked down as I hunched over, pretending to be interested in the floor.

“That's good, man.”, he responded patting me on the back. “I’m assisting with the band and sectional rehearsals as well. During this week, I will be meeting with all of the trumpet section and getting you guys into shape. Whatever you learned in junior high will be put to the test here! You ever marched before?”

I shook my head as I continued to absorb what he was saying.

“You’ll learn how fast. You’ll also learn to blow air in that horn. When you’re outside, all the sound just goes out there, so you can't hide! You gotta blow that horn to make sure you're heard!”

I nodded my head, not sure what to think of all this. Did I make a mistake in coming here? Can I really do this? I felt my stomach sink to the floor.  

At the front of the entrance, our band director welcomed everyone back to band camp and acknowledged the incoming freshman. He then introduced his supporting staff, including the man I just met, Bill. After that, he discussed the itinerary for the week.

After the meeting, we all left cafeteria and went to the dormitories for the night.  

I lay upon the unfamiliar bed in the little square room and looked at the ceiling wondering if I was ready for this.

The next morning, I woke up and got ready for the day. According to the schedule, we had time to shower, get dressed, have breakfast and then head to the practice field to work on the marching drill in the heat. That took about 2 to 3 hours at least.

The next session, we practiced the 4 pieces the show itself, such as “One More Time”, “Comedian's Galop”, and the Lionel Richie song, “Still”.

Bill stood silently behind the trumpet section listening to everything we played. I couldn't see him and look at the sheet music, but I could still feel him behind me and reminded me of a culture waiting for it's prey to die. I think my playing was dying too. I heard myself play some tentative notes during “Still”. My tone quality was as unsure as a teenager on their first driver's test. Bill had since moved to face us and he was shaking his head.

After a break, the trumpet section met with the leader and Bil, the TA and he didn't look too happy with us. He had us all lined up in front of one of the older buildings, near the archway and he paced the sidewalk as he ran his fingers through his coarse hair.

“Man! Trumpets are a bunch of wimps! What's the matter? Are y'all asleep or just scared? Come on!! Put some air into those horns!!”

He stopped pacing for a moment and looked at us. “Again!”

I dutifully put my horn to my lips and started playing the same passage from “Still” along with all the others. Somehow, we managed to stumble all over ourselves in just one phrase. We sounded like a collection of broken car horns that would be found in a junkyard.

Bill put his face in his hands and started walking away from us and threw some of the sheet music in the air.

We kept up the practice most of the last few hours as Bill shook his head and kept saying that there was a lot of work to be done.

I collapsed in my room that night wondering how I was going to make it through the rest of the week at band camp,. marching in the hot sun, the full music rehearsals and the dreaded sectional rehearsals.

I dreamed that night that I was going through the entire routine the same way as I did before except I was the only one without any clothes.

The next few days, we learned more marching drill and eventually learned enough that we could put the music with the marching, so by Thursday, we had memorized the entire show.

That Thursday evening, we happened to be working on the last song "still" and we had just made the final push forward to the front. Just as we played the last 3 long notes of the piece, I heard Bill's voice shout from.behind me, "BLOOWW!"

I felt as if I had leaped 2 feet in the air when I heard that shout from behind me but instead, I managed to sound out a loud "BLAAAPP!, on my horn. I think it was the right note at least and I didn't wet my pants, that was something, anyway.

Later that evening, I talked with Bill about the incident over dinner.

"Dude, I just about had a heart attack, there! "

He smirked and chuckled a bit and continued to eat.

"I mean, was it really necessary?"

Bill looked at me after taking another drink of soda. Setting it down, he finally spoke.

"Look, Andy. When you're playing out there,.you can't be timid and you can't hide. It's a show! You can't just show up and not play! You gotta actually play! Even if you suck, you gotta play! Besides, half of your whole problem was just not pushing air through the horn. The other problems, we can fix, but the first part is to get the air through the horn first. So if I scare you a bit, that's okay! At least you get air through the horn."

Bill was right, of course. For the first few years that I had been playing, I had basically played but I was hiding as well. To really move forward i .this, I had to learn to blow air in horn without worrying about how it sounded.

After band camp had concluded, my mom picked me up and we went home. I found myself grateful for the experience and Bill's little scare tactic. I guess I really did need an extra push.