Let’s just start by saying that if I were you, I wouldn’t
believe a word of what follows. I don’t
blame you. I know, however, that every
bit of this happened in real life, and then every bit of this was presented to
me in the strangest dream ever.
First, I have never had a dream that could have been the
script for and Indie Documentary film.
Until now, that is. I witnessed a
series of vignettes (I couldn’t call them scenes because some were rather brief
and disjointed.) The vignettes were a
little confusing to me because they did not happen in chronological order. The very end, like in a well-produced film,
brought all of the scenes together and made THE POINT. I will try to relate to you, in the dream
order, what I witnessed of my life, as seen through the eyes of a tuba.
Vignette 1
I see myself on a riverboat, playing tuba in a traditional
jazz band. We embarked at a terminal
point on the Mississippi River in Davenport, Iowa. We left about 8:00 pm and will return at
about 2:00 am. The boat was chartered by
the Lions, or the Elks, or some other lodge.
It is apparent that they are there simply to drink beer of the cheapest
variety. We are the
“entertainment.” In my heart I believe
we are a surprise, an added and lucky feature.
The audience seemed to like us. One notable gentleman expresses his delight, partway
into our round trip, by coming to visit my tuba and me. I find myself totally surprised, and not at
all happy, when the gentleman pours most of a pitcher of weak beer into the
bell of my tuba. My pique is nothing
compared to the feelings expressed by my tuba.
Luckily I quickly found the “spit valve” and the tuba relieved himself,
there, on the floor.
Vignette 2
It is the fall of my sophomore year in college. I am a piano major, of course, but I still
enjoy playing my tuba. Fall means
marching band. I figured I could handle
this task, although “sit-down band” is what I really like. They tell me that if I want to play in a good
concert band, I am required to march! When
I find myself marching at a football game, in the middle of South Dakota, and
in a blizzard, I am somewhat less than a “happy camper.”
When my lips freeze to the mouthpiece of the Sousaphone, I
rebel. If you know much about playing a
tuba, you know that your mouth interfaces with the mouthpiece in a manner that
evokes blowing bubbles in a toilet bowl.
This is a not-altogether unpleasant sensation. However, the burning of the chill, the tear
of the lip flesh when you try, unsuccessfully, to pry your mouth away, is a
distinctly unpleasant experience. Then and
there, I decided that my tuba days were done… forever!
Vignette 3
My first tuba lesson!
Mr. Egli sat the beast on my lap.
“Hug it,” he said. If I had not
we both would have heard the crash of brass.
I was shocked how easy it was for me to get a sound from this huge
thing. I wonder if my background of
making rude noises and blowing bubbles has prepared me in some way for this
life experience. I started tuba as a
lark. My sister had expressed interest
in joining the band. When she went to
the meeting to meet the band director she chose the French horn. My mother came back and told me that Mr. Egli
would like me to begin tuba. I felt
neither heavily pro, or con, so I assented.
I could already read notes, as I had been learning piano for about two
years.
I was a little out of my element at the first band
rehearsal. I only knew a few notes, and
they were semi-reliable at best. The
most exciting part of the rehearsal was the end. The tuba and trombone players were required
to take the school-owned mouthpieces out of their horns, and dip them into a two-gallon
glass jar filled with a disinfectant. I
whipped my mouthpiece from my horn, swung it into the jar of purple liquid and
shook! Unfortunately the mouthpiece
slapped against the inside of the jar. A
perfect, circular whole appeared in the jar about 2/3 of the way to the
bottom. The purple liquid poured out
onto the floor. The scowl of the band
director was apparent, and the laughter of almost everyone else echoed in my
ears. Still does, evidently. We never did get another jar of disinfectant.
Vignette 4
I really am not looking forward to commencement. In the spring, the entire faculty of the
university are required to process, complete with cap, gown and the little
colorful thingy that makes it look suspiciously like a bad choir robe. Some love the pomp. I didn’t even go to my own commencements, not
for any degree. I figured that the
actual diplomas were enough. One, I had
to go to the Field House to retrieve.
The other was mailed unceremoniously.
My parents didn’t seem to mind.
They came to my degree recitals and were sufficiently entertained, and
reminded of my acquired genius! So going
to the commencement, as a faculty member, was anathema. I must have mentioned this. Of course I would never complain (where is
that sarcasm font?) but I found out that the instrumental faculty played in the
commencement band, and they didn’t have to gown.
So, after a few years of not playing the tuba, I held the
beast one more time. For rehearsal, and
for gig. Somehow I felt that I won,
because I didn’t wear the gown. I
repeated this quite a few years. Spring
Commencement did offer one additional promise… my lips would NOT freeze to the
tuba mouthpiece in May in Louisiana.
Vignette 5
Oh boy! Here I am, a
freshman in high school, and I have just been promoted to 1st
Chair. This is obviously a big
deal. I had no idea. The entire band had to go through “challenges.” We were all given legal-sized sheets of
paper; on each side there were melodies written out in every major and minor
key. The rhythms got increasingly
complex, and every member of the band were required to play melodies with 16th
notes, dotted notes, triplets of varying types, and even changing meters. I was led to believe that these melodies were
designed for the armed forces bands. I
think they were meant to be used as sight-reading for those musicians. We were given a week to prepare and undergo an
audition. The band director would delete
one point for each wrong note and one for each wrong rhythm. The seating arrangement for each section was
to be determined strictly by this audition.
I took my sheet and practiced every day. I lived across the street from the school, so
I could stay after school and make what progress I was able. Of course, with a tuba, your practicing was
normally done in the school building.
The school owned the instrument, and it was not easy to get permission
to take it home, or to even carry the instrument unobtrusively.
I was a little nervous about some of the really tricky keys
and rhythms, so I took the trouble to prop a door open in the school after I
practiced on Friday. Nobody found it,
and I was able to get into the school on both Saturday and Sunday. I had the band room to myself, and my tuba
and me communed! I remember running up
the steps to the top floor to either get a drink or use the facilities. When I was returning to the band room I took
the stairs by twos or threes.
Unfortunately, I slipped and sprained my ankle. That day I have invited a couple of my band
friends to join me. They just laughed at
my enlarged ankle. When my mother
spotted my limp I convinced her that I was auditioning for a role in a play
that required a limp. I was just
practicing.
On audition day I must have done pretty well. When the results were posted, in order of
score, I was at the top. I didn’t miss
any points. The next in line missed
three. She was a junior clarinet player,
and she assumed the 1st chair of the clarinet section. Her brother, the son of my former junior high
social studies teacher, had been first chair tuba. I don’t remember his score, but he remembers
mine to this day. His only comment: “You cheated.
You practiced!” So it goes,
Randy!
Vignette 6
I am in Germany, under the big top of a tent at one of
Germany’s ubiquitous beer festivals.
Tuba in hand… or, if you prefer, wrapped in my arms. The Army Band I am playing with has been
using me as an assistant to the Warrant Officer in charge of the band. I was brought on to keep the top players
busy. I acted as the piano accompanist
to men playing every conceivable Hindemith Sonata, as well as other
literature. I arranged and directed a
men’s chorus, using songs that I had learned through Phi Mu Alpha Sinfonia
professional music fraternity. I played
piano in a jazz trio. We gigged at the
Officer’s Club, and the Holiday Inn of Sindelfingen, W. Germany. AND… I played tuba in the “German Band”
segment of our concerts. We played just
about every evening from April through October at some Festival. We offered segments of traditional American
band music, specialty segments and our own German Band. I got to play tuba many nights in the German
Band. This was really fun. Much to my shock, after I had retired
permanently from playing tuba and freezing my lips, I learned the traditional
versions of Alte Kammeraden, and
other German drinking songs. The
greatest fun was smuggling out all of those liter and half-liter ceramic German
bier steins in my tuba case. I still
have some. I do feel slightly bad, since
all of the bier was free to the band.
All you wanted, all night long. I
came back to the US weighing 190, and brought back many steins! Thank you, tuba. Thank you, Germany!
Vignette 7
My high school band director just telephoned my
parents. The Superintendent of my high
school had called him with some pointed questions. “Why,” he expostulated, “was a school-owned
Sousaphone seen being marched down the middle of the street in broad
daylight?” Mr. Egli was undoubtedly at a
loss for words.
I had been allowed to take my Sousaphone home over the
summer. The band director, despite the
disinfectant incident, liked me and knew that I would make good use of the
instrument. Who would have thought that
recruiting your friends, who played trumpet, trombone, clarinet and drums,
would NOT make a pleasant noise with their own, personal parade. We played all of the school songs. We marched in straight lines. We played in tune. We were the best musicians in the band. When the Superintendent saw us, he didn’t
understand. It now occurs to me that
there is no law that prevents a school district from hiring a true Philistine
as the Superintendent.
The let me keep the tuba, but we weren’t allowed to march in
the streets for the rest of the summer.
Bummer!
What, you may ask, is the thrust of this epistle? Why does a mind-mannered piano teacher, a
retired college professor, have to do with the tuba as a life-guide? Glad you asked. When I auditioned for my job, ultimately as
Associate Professor of Piano at Louisiana Tech University, I was joined by
hundreds of other candidates. I prefer
to think that I was hired because I simply outplayed all of the rest. There may be a shred of truth in that, but I
was told a few years into my tenure that the Department Head put in the
deciding vote. He was a brass man,
himself, and he told the committee that he didn’t want some “practice room
nerd” as a new faculty member. He loved
my playing, thought I would contribute to the department as a whole, but the
final, deciding factor was… the TUBA. He
thought that anyone that played German music, traditional New Orleans Jazz, and
the tuba probably had had the rough-edges knocked off. My whole career as a pianist and a piano
teacher might very well owe itself to my love for the tuba.
There. If you can’t
believe that, I know I’ll never be able to sell you that Brooklyn Bridge.
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