Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge

Before our oldest son, Aidan, went to middle school, he attended a private institution known for the arts. The music program was mostly percussions and bells. There was no school band nor jazz ensemble. Whenever my wife, Christine, and I attended a concert, I was struck at how mediocre the students performed which was odd since the kids had to play only one note. I imagined that this private arts school, costing well over $20,000 a year, would be staffed with former pot smoking hippies from the 60's who were all avant guard thinkers. I couldn't have been more wrong. Most of the instructors at one time worked for a parochial school, that is, the only place that pays less than a private institution.

When I attended the first concert, I was ready to be blown away by a high caliber of musicianship. Nine grades plus kindergarten and pre-K performed for the Winter Arts Festival which included some music as well as contemporary modern dance that dragged on for hours. The look of boredom on the parent’s faces was in juxtaposition to the middle school headmaster expressing to the crowded auditorium,

"Your children are soooo talented!"

After an hour I was thinking of a different adjective, something along the lines of uninspiring banality. Being a parent with a first child, I learned to scale back my expectations. A colleague encouraged me to attend a concert at the local public middle school to hear the student jazz band. I went by myself because Christine was home with our newborn, William. I sat in the crowd as a spectator, not a parent. As the concert went through the music program, I was impressed. When the jazz band played, I was mesmerized. I called Christine and held my phone aloft.

"What's going on here?" I thought.

The jazz band was so crisp and vibrant as they played the music my father listen to. I left that night resolved to move Aidan to the local public school. At the time, my boy didn't play an instrument. I wanted him to take piano, but he wasn't interested.

When he started school, he was musically a year behind all the other kids. The music program was mandatory. His music teacher, Mr. Hilbie, suggested that he play the trumpet. Aidan struggled but kept with it. After a few weeks, Mr. Hilbie told Christine that Aidan had "a natural ability and should take private lessons." He called a local music instructor, Jose Cordero, who I heard was hard to get, urging him to fit Aidan into a lesson. I thought trumpet instruction would be just another thing I ferried my son to in which he would be half interested.

While in Mr. Cordero's waiting area to his music studio, I noted the pictures and memorabilia he had on display. Although now retired from the military, he played in the Coast Guard Band on active duty. He seemed strangely familiar to me, then I realized who he was. I had seen him in uniform on television playing at presidential inaugurations. He confirmed what Mr. Hilbie had heard in Aidan.

At the private school, the feedback was always negative. They were sure Aidan suffered from attention deficit disorder having badgered us relentlessly to have him tested. A third of the student body were on Ritalin. Almost all of them were boys. I was incredulous having recognized that my son’s problem was boredom. That and he was in a classroom with over thirty students.

One time at the private school when I was offering help to Aidan’s first grade teacher, she was going over a lesson on making change. She was particularly forward with her assertion that my son had a short attention span. When she noticed as I had that Aidan was staring blankly out the window while his friends were all eager to answer a question, she called on Aidan certain that she would catch him daydreaming.

"How much is it Aidan?"

Without turning from the window, he answered monotonically,

"A dollar thirty-three."

He was correct. Instead of praising him, his teacher ignored his response. Of course she did since it didn't fit her diagnosis. I never doubted my son's abilities. Being a new parent, I just didn't know what to do about it. Sometimes, imperceptible forces push you in the right direction and away from the things that don't work. I was an engineer and computer scientist. The arts were something I thought appreciation for was just as good as participation in. I was never a good musician. I often say that I was pretty bad at the guitar until I got worse. Christine took piano lessons for years and was moderately accomplished.

I experienced music through my eyes rather than my ears. I looked at a staff full of notes, memorized what a symbol meant then learned how to translate each to an instrument. My son learned what a note sounded like rather than how it appeared. When he was in middle school, music was mandatory. In contrast, both Christine and I were not required to take music in school.

Now, I had two accomplished musicians telling me that Aidan had a natural embouchure. I wasn't sure what that was, but I figured it was a good thing. For the first time in eight years a teacher said something positive about my son. A year later, Aidan was trying out for the middle school jazz band. Mr. Hilbie had high expectations of his students. It's no coincidence that most, if not all, the band members were on the honor roll. Aidan was eager to perform trumpet solos which propelled him in other studies resulting in high honors. After a successful audition, he held his trumpet aloft as he exclaimed,

"A year ago I didn't know what end to blow into, and now I'm in the jazz band!”

I attended a Catholic school for secondary education so while I was exposed to some music, there wasn't any school bands. When I went to the public high school in my town, I tried out for the jazz band. I played the upright bass. Not only was I tone deaf, I couldn't keep time at all. Making matters worse the school's bass was fretless so I had to hear the notes to play them correctly. None of this deterred me.

Earlier I had taken a composition class which was considered the hardest music course in high school. Many of the band kids avoided that class as they regarded writing an original piece of music as next to impossible. I don't know what made me think I could compose music. Making matters worse I sometimes had to recall that every good boy deserves fudge just to determine which note was represented by a line on the staff. I struggled. My music teacher, Mr. Trevor, helped me tremendously. Somehow I managed to completed my score. It was no masterpiece. A little more sophisticated than a nursery rhyme, it was an easy piece to play. The jazz band got through my score on the second take. Many of the musicians in the band were quite accomplished, and I was proud when they told me that my piece was fun to play.

Pride makes you do stupid things. Fresh off the success of my one and only arrangement, I decided to try out for the jazz band. Mr. Trevor was less than encouraging. He needed a bass player, but his years of experience and sound musical talent led him to believe that I was not up to the task. He was right. I was not a good musician. Given ideal instruction and unlimited practice, I would never be any good. To me the bass was an easy instrument to play because it had less strings than a guitar and was in the background, but don't try to float that by Paul McCartney. For some reason Mr. Trevor wanted me to audition with the jazz band instead of with just him. Undaunted, I practiced night and day in preparation for my performance before the entire musical student body.

On the day of my audition, I first played by myself. When I finished, Mr. Trevor said,

"Okay, try it again, but this time play the notes on the staff."

My second take was better, but he pointed out that I played too slowly as he clapped out 3/8 time like a metrodom. For my third try Mr. Trevor summoned the whole band. I didn't have a full score in front of me so I was unsure when I was to come in. As everyone brought their instruments to bear, I noticed that they all concentrated on the band director. Thats right! Mr. Trevor would tell me when I was to start playing.

Most musicians might recall the first time they played with a brass band. Some of the auditorium seats are better than others when it comes to experiencing sound. When playing an instrument from inside a band, you would think you have the best seat in the house, but the nearest instruments often can be so loud that you are unable to hear the rest of the band. When I took my queue to play, I knew right off I came in too early. When I tied to adjust, I fell behind. As we finished, I was pretty much on time, but I knew the bass line should be driving the beat not following it. The distain on the face on the drummer told me that I screwed up, and everyone knew it.

Mr. Trevor scowled as he shook his head. To this day I think he was hoping I would just quit instead of continuing to punish the ears of the actual musicians surrounding me. Some of the students vocalized their opinion of my poor playing ability to their neighbor. Others whispered as they looked in my direction. Although I knew I was over my head, I don't know why I did what I did next, but for some reason I blurted out,

"One more time."

Everyone readied their instruments as if directed by the conductor rather than the baseless instructions of a lousy bass player. Mr. Trevor followed the familiar routine after the jazz band was locked and loaded. He momentarily looked about oddly before he motioned the band to play. I came in closer to my queue, and played more forcefully. In retrospect, I wasn't angry nor was I stubborn. I just wanted to experience playing from inside a band one more time. On this last go around I did much better, enough to stifle any overt critism. If this had been a play, the contortions culminating in the frown on my Mr. Trevor's face would be described by critics as method acting. The music teacher had just taken direction in front of the whole jazz band from a student, summoned for evaluation as a bassist, who couldn't keep beat to a Devo tune. When he cobbled together some semblance of composure, Mr. Trevor said,

"Again."

After a brief pause, he added,

"Just you."

I readied the school issued, fretless bass as Mr. Trevor stared sternly in my direction. He raised his baton then froze at the apex. His hands sunk unceremoniously to the podium. When they came to rest, Mr. Trevor commanded,

"Sing it."

I was unsure what he wanted. Did he want me to sing the notes? I can barely find where they are supposed to be played on the neck of this bulky string instrument, and he wants me to sing? I don't sing even when I'm alone. Some of the students looked about and smiled broadly. Others were giddy.

"Sing?" I asked.

"Yes," Mr. Trevor replied, "Sing it."

I could've packed it in right there to cut short the torment, but with little hesitation I belted out my best interpretation of the notes on the staff before me, much to the amusement of the entire high school jazz band. When the laughter subsided, I backed away from the music stand before me. Returning the large instrument to the case resting on the floor, I ran my fingers over the strings for the last time before I closed the lid. I collected the sheet music from the stand then retrieved a piece of paper from a notebook in my backpack. As I threaded through my once and only bandmates, I stopped in front of Mr. Trevor's podium where I neatly placed the papers then turned for the exit. Walking down the hallway, the jazz band began to play. The sound was wonderful.

When Aidan climbed into high school, his audition for the jazz band went pretty smoothly. He made it on his first try. Aidan coupled his love of music with technology to streamline the process of writing music. He's remastered arrangements based on the music in video games like the MII Channel and Chemical Plant Zone from Sega's Sonic. He also wrote a score for Memories by the band Lucky Chops which was to be played by the school ochestra. Unfortunately the public concerts were cancelled his senior year due to the pandemic. He spent his time editing individual tracks from students to create virtual performances for the school's online coffee house concerts. Currently, he is working on an orchestral arrangement based on a three part medley from the game Deltarune.

When Aidan learned that the education board in our town was considering dropping the music requirement from the middle school curriculum, he went to the town meeting to tell his story, how mandatory participation brought out the best in him. The board listened to many former students explain that exposure to music at an early age helped shape the kind of student they were now, but unfortuately the music program was pushed off to an after school activity making way for “more important” subjects like environmental science and personal finance.

I've read an article recently that espoused the idea that playing an instrument makes a kid a better public speaker, more of a leader. Studies show that musical kids do better in school. I have a friend who adamantly says that musicians make better STEM students. Even if this is true, I think it's misguided as was my long time belief that appreciation of art is just as good as participation. Some people need to express themselves in music and that is good in itself even though our pragmatic society would only note its value if it helps students with math or science. I believe now that music is important not just to help kids with more practical studies. It is good in itself.

I never again played an instrument after I auditioned for the jazz band in high school and was doubtful of the value of doing so when Aidan took up the trumpet. When I was in the composition class back then, Mr. Trevor once asked us if all the conceivable songs would someday be written. He told us that the number of unique sequences which can be formed by twelve notes was infinite. He was wrong. It's not infinite. There are 479,001,600 permutations which can be made with twelve notes. I know this because when I was in high school, I deduced the formula by listing all the sequences formed from two, three and four notes.

That's what was on the extra piece of paper I added to the sheet music which I left on Mr. Trevor's podium.

Editor's Note: Based on a post originally published on June 19, 2018.

A Musician's Tapestry

Petty Officer Languedoc
Prepares to Sound Taps 

A few years ago my son, Aidan, played trumpet in the school jazz band. On his third year of middle school, he was lucky to have four strong musicians in his section. The band director usually had senior members of the group teach junior members as part of each student's development. Not only were Aidan's colleagues great trumpeters, they were also mature young adults who pulled Aidan up to their level. It was an all round great experience for my son.

The jazz band is not your normal middle school ensemble. It is an audition only endeavor that reigns in the best musicians from the student body. Some of the kids are extraordinarily talented. The band often takes on difficult jazz pieces considered high school, even college level charts. In the last year of middle school, Aidan was expected to mentor new members, an experience he looked forward to.

Half the band changed out and unfortunately for Aidan, one of the new trumpet players, Bryson, who Aidan was expected to mentor, was both a mediocre musician and a bit arrogant. Bryson would get lost during most performances, and Aidan thought he would help him with that first. Bryson informed Aidan that he knew all there was to know about the trumpet and had nothing else to learn. I told Aidan that it was his job to help Bryson understand that no one knows it all, and that it's highly likely that his education was in front, not behind him. In retrospect Bryson was well beyond Aidan's influence. Before long, Bryson's middle school vitriol focused on my son.

It started with some of the oddest criticism. Aidan had auditioned for a state level orchestral band that was very competitive and difficult to get into. He made it along with seven other students from his school. Most middle schools have only one musician who is accepted, but the music director at Aidan's school had high expectations, and that led to high achievement. Bryson didn't audition. Upon learning that Aidan was accepted, he told Aidan with a laugh,

"Now, you have to learn more music."

On the bus ride back from a concert, Bryson organized a vote among the band members to decide if Aidan should be ejected from the jazz band. Unfortunately, most of the senior musicians were not on the bus so a bunch of novices voted out the only experienced member present. Aidan was quiet that night. He eventually told us what happened. Instead of being angry, he was disappointed in himself. He said,

"I' can't teach him anything."

When middle schoolers are in a group, they all lean towards the lowest form of behavior. Rallying the crowd against someone gives them all a sense of power. There is no equivalent for this misguided behavior in the adult world. Bullying is a middle school phenomena that ironically makes students feel empowered, but in reality they're exercising their immaturity. Aidan's music instructor is a renowned trumpet player. He often imparts grandfatherly advice. When Aidan asked him what he should do, he said,

"Sometimes, all you have to work with is the threads on the back of the tapestry."

Aidan tried to make sense of this, but he was too preoccupied with the immediate situation to think it through. Historically, the concert we had just attended was the event when the music director would point out all the kids who made it into the regional band. For whatever reason, he didn't do it this year. He chose to focus on the achievements of his fellow teachers. Overlooking the students who were actually performing that night was a real misstep. The bus ride home, which included the ostracizing vote, topped off Aidan's night of misery. I was hoping the next performance at a local retirement facility would be better.

The concert went off without a hitch. The audience was mostly retirees. Some danced stylishly to the jazz tunes. At the end of the concert, the band director took the microphone and announced all the students by name who got into the regional orchestra. The crowd applauded vigorously. He also pointed out what an honor and how difficult an achievement it is to get in. As he finished and the applause dissipated, he added one last comment.

"One of our students is the second youngest bugler in Bugles Across America."

Aidan had long wanted to perform Taps at military funerals after reading an article about the nationwide shortage of competent musicians needed to honor veterans. He read about Bugles Across America (BAA), an organization that provides buglers for veteran services. He learned Taps and other bugle calls on his own. We travelled to an outdoor park in the fall to meet our state BAA director where Aidan auditioned in front of a group of people, enjoying the park. I listened to Aidan play from a distance as a small crowd gathered. When I saw that he and the director were talking, I approached. We learned together that he had made it. It was one of those moments of pride that a parent gets to experience which is unmatched by anything else in life. Afterwards, Aidan joined the Naval Sea Cadets so he could sound Taps in uniform.

Now, he was being singled out in front of what surely was a room full of veterans. The band director continued,

"Taps is played on a bugle, so no valves. It's done all with breath control. Breath for the pitches, breath for duration."

An elderly gentleman asked emphatically,

"Can he play it right now?"

Taps at services must be rendered away from everyone. You're supposed to hear it as if played from a distance which is why the bugler does not stand with the color guard. The bugler is allowed to play the first and last notes for volume only. They're not allowed to practice at the site. They have to stand alone then deliver the twenty-four notes when the time comes. This is how Aidan is trained. So when asked, he picked up his trumpet then moved away from the rest of the band.

The crowd grew quiet as he began playing. I closed my eyes and listened to the notes fill the room. When Aidan finished, the silence was broken by the gentle sound of weeping. I opened my eyes. An elderly woman to my right was quietly crying into her hands. Several veterans were standing with their hands on their hearts. Others stood at attention and saluted. Aidan returned his trumpet to his side with military precision, then something happened that was unexpected. The crowd began to move forward. First, the people who were standing, then others rose solemnly and joined the procession making their way to my son.

When the first man reached Aidan, he outstretched his arm. Aidan and the man shook hands. The man said nothing. He didn't have to. You could see what he wanted to say on his face. Another man took Aidan's hand once it was free. A woman reached Aidan and told him that it brought back memories of her father. Still another gentlemen said that Aidan had returned him to a time when his son had played Taps almost fifty years ago at a summer camp. As the crowd receded, the applause flooded the space.

Aidan remained composed and respectful through the entire event. He later told me that he witnessed the elderly gentlemen slowly rising to their feet, one by one, as he played the twenty-four notes flawlessly. His band members rallied around him in congratulations. Two days earlier, the threads of the tapestry seemed to be so tangled. And on this night, one in which few in attendance will soon forget, Aidan played Taps and brought a room full of people back to a time when they remembered their family and friends. And I finally understood what his music instructor meant.

You work with what you have even if that is the discarded threads on the back of the tapestry, and sometimes that makes the best weave.

Editors Note: Originally posted on January 3, 2017. Aidan is a high school junior who plays trumpet in the school jazz band. He has sounded Taps in uniform for over 40 military events. Auditioning each year, he was selected four times for the Connecticut Eastern Regional Band.