Sibilance of seasonal sounds
Another year, another child, another concert, another joining of like minds in a local pizza place. As a parent-in-training (is there any other kind?), I’ve been blessed by three boys who have followed, unwittingly, in my own footsteps, now faded after years of windy weather. Musicians, trained under the hard hand of a band director that will retire from service in the summer, leaving behind hundreds of students who have learned a lesson; nothing comes without lots of practice.
Tonight was the seasonal concert; not much Xmas content, but a hearty helping of jazzed tunes. I did my level best to record the show using that jack-0f-all-recorders; a MP3 player. Now I have a second set of .wav files, overdriven; ready to be stuffed back into the case like a jack-in-the-box. Later. Maybe next week.
The experience of sitting with hundreds of others in a large church while various permutations of band groupings perform pieces they’ve been practicing for far too many hours is wonderful. It brings back, in a tone poem, my own years in training. Hundreds of hours in front of a music stand, eyes trained simultaneously on the staff and on the baton. Oh yes, I miss it. My nerves are on edge throughout the concert, wondering how I’d handle those passages. If I had to do it again; one rarely does.
The list of hits is without importance. Every performer there will remember those phrasings throughout their lifetime. A simple melody heard in an elevator will prove that time travel is possible, if only you will believe. My three sons don’t play together, nor should I expect them to do so. Their moments on stage weren’t spent together, so why would they improvise? Later. Maybe next week.
As for me, I still sneak sessions on their instruments, and if the opportunity to sit in for a band practice came along, well, I’d be there, with bells on (I used to be a percussionist, so it’s occupational). The weekend is coming, so is vacation. Some private tootling… Later. Maybe next week.
