Making Music

The lights dim in the auditorium and I wait as the next school’s Concert Band settles onstage and follows the First Chair’s directions. The young man calls upon each section to play, tuning them confidently, performing his duty as Concertmaster with precision and grace, before sitting back in his chair. This well-trained ensemble rises as the band’s director enters the stage and bows to the audience, receiving a polite round of applause.

The ABODA Festival is the highlight of my year, a time when all the high school bands present their polished pieces for adjudication. Where possible, I attend every session, marveling at what the children can achieve, what levels of accomplishment their directors manage to coax out of their students each year. But this year may be my last. I’m not as young as I once was and the siren’s call to retirement is becoming stronger.

If I were to be honest, there is always that level of dissatisfaction and envy in my heart as I watch these school bands, because I have never been able to develop a band to this level. My small elementary school band has always played beginner music, and the children are happy when we manage to play from the start all the way to the end of a piece, with all the instruments finishing together. Such an event is usually a cause for celebration. Of course, my students are only aged eight through to eleven, and we are lucky to play in time, with some degree of pitch accuracy. The intricacies of full tone, dynamic control, and balance of parts are definitely beyond their limited capabilities.

Wouldn’t it be grand to be the musical director for one of these massive high school bands? I think as the band on stage opens with their first piece. It’s a striking forte, with a heraldic fanfare of trumpets supported by a resounding timpani, that sets my heart pounding and soul soaring. These performers are children, I remind myself as my heart leaps in my throat.

The flutes and oboes soar and bring the first section to a cataclysmic climax, before floating gracefully into the B section, well supported by clarinets- such difficult instruments to wrangle a pleasant tone from in their beginner form, but the band on stage makes it appear effortless. I sit spellbound, my eyes closed, immersed in the beauty for five or so minutes as the music transports me.

As the final crescendo swells and the last notes cry out through the auditorium, there is that moment of breathless silence. It is that silence that any conductor is waiting for, hoping for, that spellbound moment when the last sound has finished, but the music will not release its grip on the hearts of those who listen. That single moment of space where hearts and heads are overwhelmed and need to reboot in order to remember how to send a signal to the hands, reminding them to clap.

I clap.

My eyes are old and I squint at the stage, looking among the sea of faces for any that I might know. I have taught a lot of children, and sometimes there is a face of an ex-student on stage. Unfortunately, I can’t make out any features with clarity anymore.

Once all the bands in this group have played, there is an interval, and I head toward the foyer where a group of parents have set up a tea, coffee and cake stall.

“Miss Jones!”

I myopically squint through the sea of people. A boy, no, a young man, hails me and wrangles his way through the crowded space. As he nears, I recognise the concert uniform of the band that had just performed on stage, and he is carrying a clarinet case.

“Miss Jones, I thought that was you,” he says, his voice a lovely rich tenor that I can’t seem to place. I search his face for clues. I have taught so many children over the years that they blend into one another, and I am unable to recall his name. It’s especially hard with boys. They change much between the ages of eleven and seventeen, much more than girls seem to. After a boy hits puberty, their whole faces seem to undergo a huge transformation, and their voices are totally unrecognisable.

“Hello…” I stumble about through my brain, trying to place him.

“Hey, Mum!” The boy waves towards a woman who weaves her way through the crowded foyer. She is familiar, and I recall her face—Mothers don’t seem to change much in six years—but I struggle to bring her name to mind. “Look who’s here!” The young man says with a radiant smile.

“Miss Jones, so good to see you!” The mother smiles at me.

“How are you both? How is school?” I ask politely, brain still madly churning, trying to place her face in my memory.

“Bradley is doing so well,” the mother says. Bradley, clue number one! Yes, this is Bradley… Bradley Macintosh. The name comes to me in a flash. Mum is Barbara. Funny how just one clue pops all the pieces together in your brain. “I’m so happy to see you here today. Do you have a band of your own performing today?” Barbara asks.

“No, I just come to see all my ex-students perform. It really is lovely to see you still playing.”

And it is lovely. Bradley was one of those students that was really difficult to forget. School work was hard for him. He struggled through all his subjects and Barbara was constantly up at the school, working with the teachers to help him catch up. I remember when he asked to join the recorder ensemble. It had been an initiative by a small group of students who wanted more challenging pieces to play, and so a regular lunchtime rehearsal began. My heart sank a little when Bradley showed up with one of the boys and asked to play. It was not because I didn’t want him to join, but knowing how he struggled, and how challenging the pieces we were working on, I didn’t want to put him off music. I didn’t want him to fail. So I wrote out simplified parts just for him and taught him to play the bass recorder. He could play one note in each bar, providing the very important foundation for our playing. He went on to take up clarinet, but he graduated to high school before he had enough skill to join my school band.

“I blame you, Miss Jones,” Barbara says with a twinkling smile. “You are the reason for all the running around I have to do. Do you know Bradley is in three ensembles? That’s after school rehearsals three nights a week, plus multiple performances throughout the year.”

“Oh dear,” I commiserate with a smile. “I am so sorry. Music will keep you busy and poor!”

“Yes, it certainly does!”

“But you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you, Mum?” Bradley asks her. She smiles back up at her son. I remember him as a tiny little thing. Now he towers head and shoulders above me.

“No, I love every minute.” She turns to look back at me. “And it’s all because of you, Miss Jones.”

“Me? Bradley was never in my school band. You really can’t blame me.”

“You set him on this path when you believed in him enough and let him join that little recorder ensemble.”

I feel ashamed because I didn’t believe in Bradley. I just allowed him to participate and made sure that he could participate in a way that he would be able to succeed. So, I modified his part; simplified it, because I really didn’t believe that he could play it as written in the score, but I worked hard to make sure that he could play something.

“It was a big thing for me to be part of that group,” Bradley says. “Do you remember Paul and Jason? I really wanted to be like them, and they were in the ensemble.”

Paul and Jason Parker, the twins. I hadn’t thought about them in years. They were prodigies in everything, gifted and talented beyond their years. It was due to them and their requests that the recorder ensemble began that year. They wanted to challenge themselves beyond classroom music and play some pieces with increased difficulty.

“And do you know what, Miss Jones? We’re in the same music class now and we all play in the concert band together. And you’ll never believe it, now that I’m a senior, I’m First Chair clarinet.”

“You were the Concertmaster? That’s fantastic, Bradley.” And it is. From a little boy who struggled with everything in school, to one who is leading the concert band. “I am so proud of you!”

“I’m also in WAYSO, but I’m only clarinet two.”

“You’re in the Youth Symphony Orchestra? That is very impressive. I will have to look out for you when they play next.”

“We’re playing at the Concert Hall in two weeks, which is why I’ve got to rush off now. I have an afternoon rehearsal. I’m so happy that I saw you here and hopefully I will see you again at the next concert. Thank you, Miss Jones.” He smiled expansively and waved as he left.

Before she followed her son, Barbara took my hand in both of hers and leaned close to whisper. “Thank you for being the first person to believe in him. You helped him to believe in himself.” There were tears in her eyes. “He had been going through such a bad time, his self esteem was so low, that he had begun to believe the world would be better without him in it. Then one day he came home and said he’d joined your music group. You have no idea how surprised Frank and I were. We had no idea he wanted to play an instrument. Now look at him.” We both turned to watch the confident young man stop to exchange laughing chats with friends as he wove his way through the crowd. He seemed to shine, exuding self assurance and importance.

I don’t know what to say, so I just smile and thank her before she leaves, following Bradley into the crowd. I take my cup of tea to a small plastic chair and sit, watching people as they come and go. So many children, so many parents. So much music making.

“Hey, Miss Jones!” I hear my name called and look up. Three boys are making their way toward me. “Bradley said you were here. Do you remember us?”

Do I remember? Two identical faces. I hadn’t taught that many identical twins. “Paul and Jason Parker, and is that Aldo Coloutti?” Aldo had always been the third wheel of their party, and it would seem nothing had changed. “How are you boys going?”

The boys take turns in telling me how they are working hard at school, what their future plans are, and as the bell rings to enter the auditorium for the second session of the day, they take their leave.

“It’s been great to see you, Miss Jones.”

I smile as they bound away, young men with big futures, and I am still smiling as I make my way back to the auditorium. I won’t ever be the one conducting these amazing students, I sigh to myself. But I have helped some of them to get where they are, and really what more could any teacher ask for. 

Maybe retirement will wait, just one more year.