Jerks don’t inspire muscians

Sibling rivalry drove me to sign up for clarinet lessons. The rivalry hit the day my little sister dragged home a trombone almost as big as herself. My inborn competition blew away all the excuses I had given the previous year for not joining my brother in band.
I stumbled my way through the squeaks and squawks of early clarinet lessons with kids a year or two behind me in school. At my parents’ insistence I dutifully practiced, but I never enjoyed the clarinet as I did the piano. Eventually Mrs. B, the best band director, allowed me to be third clarinet, last chair – a position I kept for the duration. From that point on Mrs. B’s weekly clarinet lesson included not only new techniques but also a review of current band music.
My sister and brother were asked to join marching band – I wasn’t. They began attending the seasonal round of band contests as members of Mrs. B’s legendary band. Mrs. B’s band placed first or second in everything: Marching, concert and dress review.
Band parents of student in other schools watched Mrs. B’s band with envy and a hint of resignation. Their child’s school would never be that good.
Mrs. B earned every trophy by working through the details with each student. She never cut us any slack. When my parents said we would be moving in a few weeks, my siblings and I all marched into Mr. B’s office to drop out of band. She insisted band practice and lesson continued until we moved. We slumped out of her office still carrying our instruments.
We moved to the school of Mr. J, the jerk of band directors. His band rarely placed high on the contests. I didn’t know I needed help learning to play the ‘dog fight’ of a John Philip Sousa march until he zeroed in on the ranks of the third clarinet players to find out who was ‘off.” He eliminated clarinet players until only I was left. Only then did her review band music as part of my weekly lesson.
During the town’s yearly patriotic parade, Mr. J’s band marched in sweat pants and T-shirts: After all as the hometown band he knew his band was not going to be judged, at least not by the judges. As contest time neared he harangued about how they had missed the dress review “by this much last year.” No names were mentioned, but he always glared at the red-faced clarinet player sitting in front of me.
Perhaps the most telling aspect of his band’s failure to win a first place trophy came when he expected me to march with the band. Me? Concentrate on fingering and blowing a clarinet, marching perfectly in step while the fear of the frowning harangue threatened my every move?
Whatever you say, sir!
I nervously marched in a wool uniform on a hot, humid spring day. Hot and over-excited, I became dizzy and veered out of line. But I made it by the reviewing stand before I decided to report to the nurse’s station My fellow band students said I should have walked away sooner.
The next year, my brother and I took study hall instead of band. Mr. J didn’t even ask why. He was probably too busy yelling at the newest recruits expecting them to shape up while they still hadn’t a clue what shape they were to take.
Mrs. B was a pain-in-the-neck stickler for detail, but she brought out the best in even the untalented, uninterested students like me.