← Columns

Strike Up the Band!

The Source

Strike Up the Band! “If the guy in front of you faints, just step over him.” Those were the instructions given us in a 1966 mass band at Western Illinois University. The temperature was blazing, our uniforms were pure no-ventilation wool, and the “Stars and Stripes Forever” was in danger of going down in glory. I was a farm boy, not used to stepping over prone bodies. Sure, Viet Nam was raging at the time, but was Macomb, not Hanoi. The Perry High School band had probably just a couple dozen members, but we joined a massed marching orchestra of perhaps 500 that hot day at Western, spending the morning going over marching patterns then throwing in the music after lunch . . .one long, miserable day, but we got free pizza and Pepsi. I’ve spent some time in marching bands in high school, college, and with the Ansar Highlanders bagpipe troupe. My high school band was passable when it came to marching down the street, the marching I.C. group was sloppy, and my bagpipers become completely flummoxed when it comes to making a corner. When the pipers came to an official halt it resembled one of those New Jersey subway cars whose brakes had failed and the passengers end up plastered against the wall. More than once I’ve come to a halt only to find the blowpipe from a following bagpiper making strange intrusions into my kilt. We have a drum major leading us down the street but I think he’s for decoration only since no one seems to pay him the slightest attention. It’s no wonder. He’s confusing. His opening command is always, “By the right. . . quick!. . . march!” Then we step off on our left foot. When he says, “And . . . halt!” you don’t halt. You take eight more steps unless you’re the guy behind me and you take nine. And unfortunately there are those among us with such a lack of rhythm that a simple “Left, right, left!” is beyond them. Then look down and their fellow pipers feet, see they’re out of step, do a little shuffle number to get back in sync then within five more steps they’re off again. No making fun. . . it’s a major affliction that’s not covered by either party’s health care plan. My high school’s crowning glory was winning “Best Precision Marching” at the Pittsfield Fall Festival. When you only have 16 members. . four rows and four in a row, you can be darned precise. Once a few literary society friends and I formed a band on the back of our Homecoming float. We billed ourselves as the World’s Only Marching Band Riding on a Float. I think that our formations consisted of leaning right and left and grabbing the back of the truck. Our driver had started celebrating Homecoming a night early. Sadly, many high schools are cutting back on their music programs and the number of parades they’re marchers are able to attend. If you stand and watch a parade you’ll often hear grousing about the local band not being in attendance. I’ve always been tempted to interrupt them and ask if they’d be willing to foot the bill with a few more taxes. I’ll be they’re season ticket holders to the football games. It is a major production to load thirty to a hundred kids on school buses before dawn, pack their instruments and uniforms, then unload, march several miles on hot streets, all for a $21.97 trophy. But I’ve got to tell you that no part of parade excites me like a marching band. The little fella struggling to keep his bass drum from wandering off his chest, the tiny girl with the Sousaphone, the trumpet player who has to keep one hand on his belt to keep his pants up, the flag team forced to do their routine down a narrow street causing a few Ninja moves with their sticks, and the proud line of drummers who own the street and they know it. Gotta love it. We were sitting in the grass awaiting the start of the Griggsville Apple Festival when my friend Gary saw a tuba lying on the grass. Our tuba player was Jimmy, a lanky kid who sometimes marched in his bare feet during rehearsals. He was a good-natured guy and thus become the butt of many high school pranks, including Gary’s idea at that moment. He convinced us (not my fault) that we put a few sacks of popcorn down the bell of Jimmy’s tuba. . .not stacked tight, but sort of like a mortar. When our director gave us the signal to assemble we dutifully took our places on the hot asphalt. I thought that we’d be safely down the parade route when Jimmy exploded, but the director asked us to all play our tuning note. Oh no! We’d forgotten about the tuning! Unfortunately I marched right behind Jimmy and when he bleated out his first note the heavens opened up and manna fell all around me. The director’s reaction was less than holy. But gosh, I love a marching band!