All marching band sections have their own personality. (Actually, I'm
pretty sure all sections of any ensemble have their own personalities, but this
is about marching band, so… yeah.) Does the section make the personality?
Or are certain personalities attracted to certain instruments? It's sort
of the old "nature or nurture" debate, and as with every other such
discussion, it's probably a bit of both.
We don't need to go into every section here (and I'm sure the personalities
of a particular section often change between bands), but in general, clarinets
are quiet, reliable, and responsible. We're sort of the oldest child of
the band: not necessarily a lot of fun, but dependable. We're not likely
to host many of the post-game parties (in fact, in my rookie year, most
clarinets didn't even participate in the post-game parties! We’re better now), but we're usually pretty
well represented in student-staff positions.
Mix that sort of personality with an instrument that's pretty quiet out on
the marching field and usually on the outside of the formations (because we're
an instrument that's pretty quiet out on the marching field), and it can be
awfully easy to forget about us sometimes. However, there's just your
common neglect, and then there's egregious neglect. Here are a few
stories about the more outrageous times we've been ignored.
(Reminder: Brad = JBrad = Director of Husky Marching Band)
1. Can You Hear Us Now?
During music rehearsals, the band gathers in a series of concentric
semicircles around the director's podium. (Although "concentric
semicircles" makes them sound a lot neater than they really are.
They're really wobbly, discontinuous arcs.) This helps everyone to be
able to hear and minimizes phasing across the band (where you hear the parts
from one section earlier than those from another, due to sound not being
instantaneous). The clarinets are usually up front to the director's
left.
One day, we'd just gotten a new set of sheet music for "Battle Hymn of
the Republic". I don't even remember what the theme was
for the show, aside from it being a bit random. Band day, maybe? It
was early in the year.) Anyways, as we played through it, we clarinets
started giving each other odd looks, stopping playing and looking closely at
the music, and just generally giving off indications of bewilderment. The
reason? This particular version of "Battle Hymn" sounded an
awful lot like an up-beat dirge. (Kind of like it was done by the guy who
does changes songs from major keys to minor keys. If you haven't listened
to any of those, do yourself a favor and do so immediately. You'll be
glad you did; they’re really cool.)
This wasn't completely bizarre; we get some strange arrangements of songs
sometimes. (Or downright lousy arrangements at times. There was one
arrangement of Moon River (itself already a pretty bad song) that was so
terrible that, in an uncustomary display of emotional demonstrativeness, I, in
the middle of practice, tore it from my lyre, flung it to the ground, stomped
on it, ripped it to tiny pieces, and then, when I got home, burned them.
Emily, the librarian at the time, was not pleased with me, but of course
I had spare copies. I still maintain that it deserved it.) And it
wasn't wrong, just different.
We played through it again, with the same result. After the second
play-through, Brad looks down at his score, then announces, "Make sure you
have the right copy, because we changed the key. You should all have
green copies of the music." And then, completely missing the clarinets
(again, right in the front!) giving each other revelatory looks and taking the lavender
sheets of music off of our lyres, he points somewhere off behind us and to our
left, and says, "Something in that area doesn't sound right."
He hadn't even noticed that our entire section was off by a minor third.
2. "I dunno. I say do what you wanna do."
As I've already mentioned, Brad tends to forget that the clarinets exist out
on the field, and sometimes gets a little focused between the 35-yard lines or
so. It's understandable, but it does mean that sometimes, if we're
struggling with a particular move, whether because it's a long move, or the
charts aren't clear, or whatever, he's moving on while we're still trying to
puzzle it out. This is common enough that I can't possibly recount every
incidence of this.
However, there's one incident that occurs every year that deserves mention,
just for being so spectacularly bad and, y’know, happening every year,
regularly, without fail.
The very first part of the pregame show has the band starting in a block,
and pulling out into a Logo W across the field. For most
people, this isn't that difficult: perhaps a small adjustment, and then just
waiting for your turn to start marching downfield. However, for those in
the back, near the top of the W, this is a nightmare.
The drill for these positions (which were usually mostly pics and clarinets)
is a nightmare of unclear charts, finicky and sometimes overlapping positioning,
and odd counts and steps. Combine this
with the fact that you're learning it the first week of the marching season, so
rookies are trying to absorb this with everything else, and it's routinely a
disaster. And since Brad is focused on the people simply marching at
8-to-5 down the field, he doesn't give us long between each move.
The generally accepted solution? Ignore Brad right back.
Every year, the marchers in these unenviable positions* spend the first few
run-throughs actually trying to keep up, only to realize (or remember) that
this is completely, hopelessly, utterly futile. Then we all look at each
other, collectively say "Screw it", and huddle up to figure out where
exactly everyone is supposed to be when, including all those times where that
involves people simultaneously inhabiting the same small parcel of space-time
(and not in the fun way). It usually takes a couple days to figure
everything out, and every year the solution is slightly different, but we get
there in the end.
* Not that the other clarinet positions during pregame were particularly
enviable, either (although it’s gotten much better recently). Back when I
was marching, we were still doing what we called the long run-on, which is
where the band came running onto the field single-file to fill in the pregame
block. The clarinet spots are typically the first ones onto the field
from either side. In fact, my rookie year, I was the first one on the
field after the drum majors.
This is less exciting than it sounds.
See, to get 200+ people onto the field and in their spots, one at a time,
takes a couple minutes. And once you get to your spot, you don’t just
stop. Oh, no, no, no. You get to run in place, high-stepping
the whole time, at a very uptempo pace, until everyone is in place. And
that’s after running (not just jogging) 50+ yards just to get to your spot (~26
yards into the center of the field, 20 yards upfield, plus the distance from
back next to the stands). As you can imagine, this leaves you a bit tired.
It’s also rather high-visibility, being right in front of the block and one of
the only ones on the field at first, so you can’t slack.
After the run-on ends, you get roughly 7-10 seconds (depending on how
quickly the PA announcer speaks) to stand at attention before proceeding to
march (and play, don’t forget the playing) roughly 80 yards downfield, mark
time while finishing the first song, and launch directly into the second song.
It’s… a workout, especially for your lung capacity. And especially when
you get to rehearse it several times in a row.
Fortunately for the marchers now, the long run-on is apparently gone,
there’s a fanfare thing that starts the positioning for the pull-out Logo W
(and probably helps the folks in the back with the finicky positioning, too),
and there’s a break between the first and second songs. They don’t know
how easy they have it.
3. Manus Celer Dei
My rookie year in band, Husky Stadium was also playing host to the Seahawks
while (then) Seahawks Stadium was being built. One benefit of this was
brand-new FieldTurf to replace the old Astroturf. (Another benefit was
both college and pro markings on the field, which is a HUGE boon for marching.)
However, rather than do what any sensible organization would do and getting
rid of the vile, abrasive stuff as quickly as possible (heck, I’d have a
bonfire, never mind the fumes), someone decided that it would be a good idea to
put strips of it down around the field, partially covering the track
surrounding the field. These strips were dozens of yards long and maybe
ten yards wide. It looked pretty tacky, and I’m not sure what purpose it
served, but we all just kind of shrugged and went on with our lives.
Until one fateful November day.
I can’t tell you the exact day, but I do remember that we were rehearsing
our Broadway show. We were playing either Mean Green Mother from Outer
Space or Oklahoma. The day wasn’t actually too cold, as I recall, but it
was insanely windy. And the way Husky Stadium is built, with one open end
and one closed end, wind tends to swirl a bit.
So there we were, struggling to march through the wind, in a very wide-set
formation. I was out past the 10-yard line in the closed end, and there
were people outside of me, although I don’t think we quite got all the way out
to the end zone, and of course the formation was symmetrical, so there are
marchers out that far on the other end of the field, too. We’re in the
middle of a move, which has me pointed in more or less in the direction of the
podium, when I catch a strange motion out of the corner of my eye.
I turn to look (I know, bad discipline), and realize that what I’m seeing is
a bench from off the sideline, flying through the air down at the open
end of the stadium. My gaze turns a bit farther, and I see that what has
provided the propulsive power to the airborne bench is a strip of the turf,
which the wind has picked up off the ground, and which is now crashing like a
giant (remember, the strips are ten yards wide, and at least parts of the strip
are nearly vertical) green wave over the far end of the field near the
sideline, swallowing everyone in its path.
And Brad doesn’t notice. He just keeps on conducting.
I’m not sure if it was the vanishing of a sousa into the devouring turf or the
people running from it that finally got his attention, but Brad calls a halt
just as the last of the Astroturf smashes to the ground, and we all run over
and start trying to pull the turf off of our fallen comrades.
Fortunately, no one was seriously injured, but the sousaphone itself was
nearly flattened.
And the strips of Astroturf vanished from the sidelines shortly thereafter.
So there you have it. Three of the most egregious times I can remember
when the clarinet section was ignored. I’m sure there are plenty of other
good stories out there, whether you’re a clarinet or not. Anyone else
want to share?
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