The monkey made me do it

And a-one...

Still no word about the interview, I guess the hiring-dude-guy is out of town and should be back on Monday. I am taking deep breaths.

I was reading Sarah Vowell last night (she wrote "The Partly Cloudy Patriot", "Take the Cannoli", and probably others) (oooh, she also was one of the voices in Pixar's "The Incredibles"! I cannot convey my geeky happiness at this news) and there is a passage where she describes her marching band days, particularly one number where she is playing the baritone, drops it to go do a marimba solo, and then rushes back to grab a trumpet or break into a complicated series of backflips landing on timpani drum heads in a 6/8 beat. I don't remember the specifics, I only remember her tales of high school band-nerd-dom reaching deep into my subconscious and whispering "hey, didn't you wear a tutu and play a zillion instruments too?".

Piano was the first conquest, beginning at age 5. My parents had an upright piano with questionable heritage (and at least 2 non-working keys) that my mother would use to play an occasional Christmas Carol. When I expressed an early interest, she sent me off to a local mall to learn the basics on keyboards that were larger than three of me combined (this was long, long ago when technology required separate rooms and giant fans and midgets running around with wrenches). I eventually graduated to taking lessons from a series of elderly women and people with multiple cats, ending up at the mercy of Vicki and her sticker book o' validation. Vicki was short and peppy, she had taught choir in our church and had strangely stubby, yet nimble fingers. We never really got along (I lack pep), but she was a patient teacher. I have photos of myself in thick glasses and impossibly frilly Easter outfits, playing in recitals and awkwardly curtseying to the family members forced to attend. The pieces were usually standard fare, though one program my mother has saved features me rocking the "Star Wars Theme". I can only imagine... a tiny little 8-year-old blond girl with glasses and a gigantic yellow poof of a dress solemnly blasting out the Emperor's March on a shiny baby grand while her parents look on deliriously. I quit at the end of Junior High after playing Bach got to be too rigid for me. I tried to get Vicki to let me play blues or jazz, but she didn't like those styles and thought classical was the only way to go. So I said goodbye to the ivories and now only use my skillz for the random Christmas Carol (gotta keep up tradition) and to type like a banshee.

In Junior High I took on the challenge of mastering the clarinet. There are very few instances where a clarinet sounds like anything less than a high-pitched death cry. One, if it is being played by Benny Goodman. Two, in Dixieland music (where every instrument is blaring and the clarinet squawk fits right in). Three, if you are already dead and cannot hear it due to lack of ears and brain. I played it for seven years, in orchestras and band and solo competitions (where for some reason I thought playing modern classical was COOL) (cool in its lack of melody or discernable rhythm, I suppose). I also taught lessons to those unfortunate to attempt the instrument, though most of the lessons ended up being me suggesting maybe they play the trumpet or learn guitar.

I switched to tenor saxophone as soon as I could borrow one from the school (those suckers are spendy! Around $3000 for a playable one) and jumped headfirst into jazz. Bliss followed for the four years of high school and four more years of college (though I changed again to the bari sax in college to avoid improvisational soloing and because I love the sound). Though with the bari sax, I was too short to hold it properly - a.k.a. off the floor - so I developed a way to rest it on the instep of my ankle-crossed feet so that the brass wouldn't scratch. It all looked very demure until I started playing (I am loud).

The only problem arose with the realization that marching with a tenor saxophone strapped to your neck is painful and was beginning to turn me into a hunched-over gnome. Yes, I marched. In formation. Wearing the uniform and snazzy hat. It gets better, I was also in the PEP BAND(!!!) and attended (but didn't watch) every football and basketball game. Sometimes I still wake up playing "Tequila!" in my sleep. I started doing color guard (twirling giant flags) and wearing spandex on the football field. Then I twirled wooden rifles. This is where the tutu came in, since apparently we couldn't dissapoint the sexy underage rifle twirler fetishists.

I am cringing with these recollections that seem to be spiraling into levels of geekiness previously blocked and forgotten.

THEN my friend AM and I decided to form a freelance color guard squad and perform during high school assemblies and basketball half-times. We did it once that I can remember, an edgy psuedo-hip routine to En Vogue's "Free Your Mind" wearing leotard tops and cut-off, frayed jean shorts. We had recruited two other dancers and did gymnastics and sassy twirls with our flags. Dear God.

During all of this I also switched back to do marimba duty (see! Vowell and I could be twins) during particular solos - one for the Little Mermaid's "Under the Sea" - and also played tom-toms and an occasional timpani part. I had rhythm, and piano training, and lacked the ability to be cool enough to turn the conductor down whenever he asked for anything.

I have somewhat redeemed myself lately, by beginning to learn how to play the congas and joining a Brazilian samba band for a couple of years. I played the surdo, which is an enormous bass drum that sets the beat for the entire group. Loads of fun, and we played all over the town for various parties and events. Drums are cool, right?

I also sing, but considering that I'm currently typing this from underneath my desk out of shame thanks to remembering the extent of my dorkiness, maybe I'll save that for another day.

posted by LadyJay @ 9:32 AM