I was a band nerd when I was growing up in the ’70s. I wasn’t just a garden variety, run of the mill band nerd though; I was the special kind of band uber-nerd who plays the trombone. I wasn’t the kind of trombone player who can pull it off and make it seem like a cool or at least marginally socially acceptable thing to do, either. There was a kid in my 9th grade class named Theo who could absolutely pull that off. I was definitely the other kind…picture a tall, exceedingly thin and gangly dork with big bushy hair and a seemingly guileless demeanor, who skulks around his high school in that kind of self-conscious manner that suggests perpetual embarrassment about everything, but especially about that odd-shaped trombone case with the long round end and the flanged other end. That was my 9th grade year. I was new to the school, and freshly transplanted from Cincinnati to New Jersey. So add a touch of culture shock to the mix, too.
I did find a niche eventually, and some very good friends along the way; and we did some very cool things as a result of being in the band. We marched in the Cherry Blossom parade in Washington, D.C. and in a marching band competition at the U of Penn. football stadium; and the jazz band played in a competition at the Berkeley School of Music in Boston, and played a midday concert on the steps of the Lincoln Center in NYC. We also met Maynard Ferguson and Doc Severinson at jazz clinics, which was very cool.
What does that have to do with today? This: I have been in kind of a blue funk over various issues for the last couple of weeks. I don’t know if it is midlife crisis material (I had that at age 25, in a series of episodes involving illicit substances, undercover FBI employees, a felony conviction and being a guest of the state; all of which I will write about in due time). There has just been an element of uncertainty about many aspects of my life, and I have been really struggling for traction.
On my drive home today after work, I felt one of those undefinable angsty bubbles welling up deep inside my chest. Popular children’s author J. K. Rowling describes characters called “Dementors”, which by their simple presence suck the very life force out of their victims, leaving them drained and bereft of spirit and hope. Dementor was my copilot on the drive home tonight. Winston Churchill called it “the Black Dog”…a wave of depression that is not necessarily “about” anything, but just lurks and looms and colors your thinking dark. The one tonight was sudden onset and very intense, and was accompanied by a physical weariness in the limbs and chest. I was thinking about heading straight to bed to sleep it off, when my cell phone rang…
It was my stepdaughter, and without preamble she asked, “Do you have a trombone?” As a matter of fact, as a former trombonist I do have one, and said as much. When I asked why, she said it was a long story. I got home, and found out that it is surprisingly easy to misplace a trombone case in our house. I also found my mood strangely buoyed by the addition of a goal, however oddball and out of the blue it was. We looked in the basement, the garage, and several other places, and finally found it upstairs in one of the bedrooms. I assembled the ol’ slushpump for the first time in several years, and played a Bb scale. Little rusty there. Tone sounded, in Leo Kottke’s words, like a goose fart on a muggy day.
The story was, my stepdaughter, who by the way is an extremely gifted pianist, had tried out for the high school jazz band. Her background is not in jazz, and she did not make the cut. The band director then mentioned that all his trombone players were graduating and asked if any of the incoming students wanted to try out for their spots. She raised her hand instantly, figuring (I suppose) that the rest of the minor details such as getting a trombone and learning how to play it and whatnot, would all take care of themselves at some future point.
That future point being the phone call to me, which led to a feverish search for the long-dormant instrument. All of which subsequently led to me offering some rudimentary instruction on trombone assembly and slide positions and embrochure and the Bb scale and finally, the proper use of a spitvalve. That activity seemed to forestall the personal emotional slump I had been in just minutes before, which was an unexpected bonus. And it felt kind of cool that the same trombone that led to so many interesting and fun experiences in my life, may yet play a similar role in the formative experiences of a lovely and talented young lady. I hope she enjoys it.
July 8, 2009 at 7:15 pm |
Charming post, although trombones were so much cooler than tuba players, of whom I was one. We were so anti-cool that it led to a sort of coolness. At least in our own minds.
I think I want to read Passages by Gail Sheey and see if I’m in a midlife crisis although I don’t know if I have the energy for it.