Mortal Spin: Off Center: I'm With The Band

By BlackJack

When I was attending a Lutheran grade school in Chicago, my parents asked me if I'd like to learn to play an instrument in the school band. I'd already been taking piano and organ lessons for a couple years with mixed results - mostly because I wanted to skip past the lesson where you learn London Bridge and move right onto playing Elton John's Funeral for a Friend. I wanted to take a shortcut from my lessons and get a recording contract.

When the opportunity to play in my grade school band came up I announced I wanted to be a drummer. My parent's bought me a practice pad and some sticks and I started thumping away every chance I had. I became quit proficient and recreating the sound of a tommy-gun and I was very proud. When the day came for us to pick our instruments for the band I was ecstatic. Finally I would be able to play a real drum! I could hardly contain my joy. The band instructor told me I would be playing the trumpet.

Now I don't mean to offend any brass musicians out there but a trumpet is no substitute for a drum. It's the difference between rooty-toot-toot and rummy-tumm-tumm. I just want to bang on the drum all day. The Little drummer boy. Drums are cool. Trumpets are... well... horns. I was disappointed and disillusioned. In one quick swoop they'd destroyed my dreams of being a the next drummer for Derek and the Dominoes.

As I was sulking and plotting the demise of the band leader my father opened the trumpet case and I saw the trumpet. It was gleaming shiny gold. Long and sleek. I could see my reflection in the metal. I held her to my face and her cool exterior seemed to hide a mystery and allure that was undeniable. Just looking at her I could almost hear her soft, sultry tones breathing a sensuous melody into the night air. The call of the trumpet had mesmerized me. I dropped it and dented the bell.

After practicing for 3 weeks, several hours each day, my lips felt like I'd been to see the dentist and I was able to produce a sound not entirely unlike that of a love-sick moose. My parents, thinking they'd avoided years of monotonous drum practice, were probably not entirely pleased with the outcome. With a drum set they could have hidden me away in a corner of the basement, but with a trumpet I was free to wander about the house practicing my moose calls wherever I felt the need.

The days became months, the months became years, and soon I was able to produce a series of moose calls all in a row nearly simulating music. My parents smiled their crooked smiles as I murdered music day after day. Perhaps my father wished he'd pushed me into sports more but he didn't let it show when he listened to me play. "You're coming along nicely," he'd say. And so, I would continue to practice my moose calls.

As I progressed from grade school to junior high I noticed something happening in band. The size of the group was growing as the student bodies from several grade schools came together at a central junior high school. What disturbed me was that as the trumpet section grew I found myself further and further towards the outside of the semi-circle of the orchestra. I was in the last chair. I was the worst trumpeter in the room. The bright and talented musicians were all to my left and I wasn't getting any better.

This trend continued into high school and over time I lost interest in practicing or even playing. During band class at school I would place the instrument to my lips and fake the whole performance. No one seemed to notice or care and I was getting by just fine. Soon I stopped even faking it. Those few occasions when I lost my composure and actually blew a note through my horn the moose calling would return and the band would immediately stop playing and stare at me. My instructor, Mr. Matthews, would get frustrated and throw his baton at my head. This was before parents would sue instructors for this sort of behavior so I just used my trumpet as a shield and didn't let it bother me much. Eventually, during my sophomore year, I dropped band entirely.

One day, a few years ago, I was going through my pile of crap at my parents house and came across the simulated leather trumpet case. I opened it slowly and there was my golden nemesis. Dented and tarnished with the mouthpiece permanently embedded in the stem it mocked me. Figuring I was older and wiser I decided to give it a go and prove once and for all that I could be the master of this simple instrument. I slowly drew the horn to my lips, took a deep breath and blew a simple scale. It took 3 days before the moose would leave my parents yard.