While it’s still fresh in my mind, let me release my tension.
The pressures of high school band have taken too big a toll for me to turn back now.
When you’re a clarinet in beginner band, there’s not really much you can screw up on – in terms of music, at least. A glorified recorder. That’s what I joke about, but I’ve not touched a recorder in years. Plastic, $15, and about a foot long? I would’ve assumed that you were talking about something else that you might put in your mouth.
It’s easy to play well. You don’t listen to the badn teacher. You don’t actually ahve to practice 15 minutes a day, every day.
You get by with faking it by carrying it home, because it’s light. You’re not playing a trombone, or a saxophone, or anything larger than a lunch box.
Of course I practiced. I diligently played my hot cross buns, and even racked up one hour in a day at some point. It was more than I’d ever done before. I was improving rather quickly as well. I could even play a higher octave.
But you know how it is. Group projects. Teams. Cooperation. Merit. Hypocrisy. Sorting out the pieces of the pie. The ever-present meme of high school bands; the chronic headache of the all-too-caring parent.
What is this? This grandiose description of mine – what possibly could it be?
I couldn’t fucking believe – I still can’t fucking believe that this was a thing. I’d already gone through elementary school. Trombone, dropped out because we sounded like shit. I was pretty bad too, so I was able to blame it on myself.
This time, I couldn’t blame myself. No, I’m sorry, but if you don’t even know what the fuck a “legato” is, then you shouldn’t be in here. No, I’m not going to speak up for you when you’re screaming to the band teacher, tears and snot raining down your face like an Indian monsoon. Yes, I think he was a little harsh, but what the fuck is he supposed to do when you can’t fucking play your shit?
All you had to do was learn 4 notes. That’s it. 4 fucking notes. We’re not going above the bar line. We’re all fucking patiently sitting here, waiting for the teacher to sort your shit out. Bitch, shut the fuck up. Don’t argue fucking philosophy in my band class. I just want to blow shit. If you’re going to suck, at least do it with dignity.
Don’t get me started on the saxophones. Fucking assholes. Just because they have a thicker reed, they think it’s fine to play at MAX VELOCITY the entire fucking time.
Nobody knows how to control their air. Neither did I, but I fucking tried to fix it, right? You’re just sitting there, fucking farting into the mouthpiece.
I respect the Bb instruments. The trumpet is hard. It’s a beautiful instrument, and it has a high barrier of entry.
At least, that’s what I could tell. Man, if you can’t bother to look over your music, at least shut the fuck up. Adrian. Fuck you, Adrian. Stop interrupting –
Ah. Well, he’s gone now, so –
It doesn’t mean I can’t get pissed off over that little shit. He didn’t do anything bad, but he wasted my time. That’s something the teacher always said. Really hushed the class when he first said it. When he said it twice, it was pretty silent after as well.
After the twelfth time, well… Most of us who would actually listen stopped bothering at this point.