The Ballad Of The Unsung Hero

My awe towards the band instructor has no bounds. The man must be partially deaf or have the patience of a saint. He doesn't look like a drinker but I wouldn't be surprised or blame him a bit. Because you can get one or two kids that are genius and nurture them and appreciate their gifts but throw them in a roomful of other instrument rentals and it will not matter. They will inevitably be drowned out.

I went to see my daughter in her middle school band and chorus concert tonight. The menu of events alternated between different choruses and bands in accordance to grade. It began with the 5th graders and wrapped up with the blended efforts of 7th and 8th grades. The abilities progressed with the age of the students so the performance quality evolved as we went along. For this reason, I could pay continuous attention.  I mean, besides my daughter's part when she plays drums in the 6th grade band. Because she's good. Just saying.

It was smart to kick things off with the chorus. Bands don't have the saving grace of the sweet voices of children.  You can attribute some kudos to the  lilting sounds emoting from the adorable even with the occasional cracking of puberty. A band...well, my kid can play the shit out of a congo and that's all that really matters.

I played the clarinet for two years when I was her age. Then I played the oboe for several more. It was really hard to march without the oboe going up my nose so I became the drum majorette. The chest on the school's majorette uniform was about two sizes too small. I can't recall how I wound up with the job. I suspect it may have something to do with a conspiracy to stop me from being near reed instruments. Possibly the oboe "disappeared." Maybe the band instructor gave up on my ability to play but I doubt it because that would be like weeding out a cabbage in a garden full of coleslaw. And damned that band teacher loved his coleslaw even though it often smelled like sauerkraut.

There he was up on the borrowed high school stage, waving the heck out of his baton, genuinely enthused by the progress of the children who blew into an instrument that started out sounding like a sick duck and evolved into sounding like a car horn. He taught each one the baby steps and probably can hear where they might be someday if their joy for their new instrument isn't replaced by a MMO.  In the meantime, though, when the rest of us were intently listening, trying to absorb the sweet notes among the tangy ones,  I thanked my daughter for her choice of instrument (nothing fueled by air), her sense of rhythm and the man who has listened to her pounding on it for the last two years.