band stuff
Jermaine and I were chatting on AIM.
"Did you hear about all-state?" he messaged. He said it as if I had a deep, personal stake at the outcome of an audition for people still in high school in a state I no longer lived in.
"No, did you get first chair?" I typed back.
No, he didn't get first chair; in fact, he was 3rd alternate. "So the all-state judges are trying to tell me that 58 clarinets beat me."
Me: So what did Ted say?
Him: That he thought the results were bullshit. I never heard him cuss before.
Me: Me neither.
He went on for several minutes in an 'injustice to humanity' tone. He had a dozen people making phone calls on his behalf. He was going to get to the bottom of this.
But of course he didn't have the perspective I do now. He didn't have pool auditons each and every quarter. He didn't know about Brian, the top clarinetist in the studio at NU, auditioning for the Marine Band and not getting in. Talk about injustice. Talk about outrage. And he didn't realize how insignificant all-state really was in the big scheme of things. It wasn't like he was auditioning to get a job, to make end's meat. And he hadn't sat through Professor Dagon's Auditon Speech in freshman clarinet class, heard the eminent teacher tell him what it takes to succeed in the cut-throat music world: 'dilligence, and a bit of luck that you have what they're looking for'. One measly little all-state audition doesn't really matter. Or does it?
To answer that, let's think back to 9th grade. Yes, all the way back. When I had my plastic Selmer. Before I had lessons. I was in my county's wussy youth symphony conducted by that bad, ugly man. I was the best player in band class. I played really sharp high C's. Then the all-state audition came up. Dad and I had to wake up real early and drive all the way down to Macon, in the middle of the state. Play for the ghosts behind the trashbag. Come home. Results come a week later, the longest week of my life. Finally, one morning I walk in the band room and Ms. Johns smiles at me. I made 20th chair. Dad said I was the 'penultimate' chair. Only two people in the whole school made all-state and I was one of them.
Thus began the annual family tradition of driving to Savannah each spring for all-state. We'd get a room at Howard Johnson's, we'd eat at 606 East Cafe. Take the trolly tour and see the Spanish moss. After all-state came my $1600 upgrade to a wooden clarinet. Then my first private lessons. Then UGA band camp. Then ASYO--which lead to Ted--and also AYWS. Then principal chair. Then high school musicals and college auditions. Marine band and the Nielsen concerto. Clarinet section drama, drama, and more drama. Tchaik 4 and Shosty 5. Stravinsky. Side-by-side. Scholarships and teacher recommendations. Did I mention drama?
Now I'm fairly certain that if instead of making 20th chair that year I had made no chair at all, none of the stuff in the preceding paragraph would have happened. I would have become a hopeless math geek, or maybe a gymnast. I always wanted to be a gymnast.
"Did you hear about all-state?" he messaged. He said it as if I had a deep, personal stake at the outcome of an audition for people still in high school in a state I no longer lived in.
"No, did you get first chair?" I typed back.
No, he didn't get first chair; in fact, he was 3rd alternate. "So the all-state judges are trying to tell me that 58 clarinets beat me."
Me: So what did Ted say?
Him: That he thought the results were bullshit. I never heard him cuss before.
Me: Me neither.
He went on for several minutes in an 'injustice to humanity' tone. He had a dozen people making phone calls on his behalf. He was going to get to the bottom of this.
But of course he didn't have the perspective I do now. He didn't have pool auditons each and every quarter. He didn't know about Brian, the top clarinetist in the studio at NU, auditioning for the Marine Band and not getting in. Talk about injustice. Talk about outrage. And he didn't realize how insignificant all-state really was in the big scheme of things. It wasn't like he was auditioning to get a job, to make end's meat. And he hadn't sat through Professor Dagon's Auditon Speech in freshman clarinet class, heard the eminent teacher tell him what it takes to succeed in the cut-throat music world: 'dilligence, and a bit of luck that you have what they're looking for'. One measly little all-state audition doesn't really matter. Or does it?
To answer that, let's think back to 9th grade. Yes, all the way back. When I had my plastic Selmer. Before I had lessons. I was in my county's wussy youth symphony conducted by that bad, ugly man. I was the best player in band class. I played really sharp high C's. Then the all-state audition came up. Dad and I had to wake up real early and drive all the way down to Macon, in the middle of the state. Play for the ghosts behind the trashbag. Come home. Results come a week later, the longest week of my life. Finally, one morning I walk in the band room and Ms. Johns smiles at me. I made 20th chair. Dad said I was the 'penultimate' chair. Only two people in the whole school made all-state and I was one of them.
Thus began the annual family tradition of driving to Savannah each spring for all-state. We'd get a room at Howard Johnson's, we'd eat at 606 East Cafe. Take the trolly tour and see the Spanish moss. After all-state came my $1600 upgrade to a wooden clarinet. Then my first private lessons. Then UGA band camp. Then ASYO--which lead to Ted--and also AYWS. Then principal chair. Then high school musicals and college auditions. Marine band and the Nielsen concerto. Clarinet section drama, drama, and more drama. Tchaik 4 and Shosty 5. Stravinsky. Side-by-side. Scholarships and teacher recommendations. Did I mention drama?
Now I'm fairly certain that if instead of making 20th chair that year I had made no chair at all, none of the stuff in the preceding paragraph would have happened. I would have become a hopeless math geek, or maybe a gymnast. I always wanted to be a gymnast.