One drum at a time

As a “band wife,” I’ve attended hundreds and hundreds of band concerts, band festivals, and marching band performances because my husband is a high school and college band director. I miss very few performances. I don’t go because I’m obligated, but because I love it.

In my estimation, it’s no exaggeration to say that Mr. Band Director’s job has two primary components: 1) leading and educating his students in pursuit of excellent musicianship; and 2) moving equipment. He wraps extension cords as expertly as a cowboy throwing a lasso. He can assemble a drum set in nothing flat. He can set up music stands straight and tall, their faces all angled the same way. There is nothing dainty about band equipment, either. There are chairs, risers, music stands, instruments, amplifiers, and lots of extension cords and electrical tape. There is not only setting up before the performance, but there is often a bit of shuffling and re-setting the stage between group performances. Then, of course, there’s the breaking down and putting everything away again.

The busiest time for a school band director is during concert season, when the months of work culminate in a performance for adoring parents and grandparents, who often sit front and center, beaming proudly at their student.

The winter band concert at my husband’s newest position, at a small local university, is quickly approaching. Last weekend, when I thought I was going to attend a basketball game, I found myself getting roped into moving equipment for the upcoming concert. He’s tricky like that. He’ll say, “You wanna help me move some equipment?” with such a warm smile and a boyish look of hopefulness on his face that I can’t find it in me to say no. “Of course I’ll help,” I tell him. “More hands make light work.”

A sigh escapes me when I grasped the job in front of us: we had a slew of percussion instruments, in varying sizes and delicate conditions, that needed to be lugged across campus: Out the door of the music department, around one building, across the quad, down an uneven sidewalk leading between two brick dorms before finally, the auditorium.

I carried cymbals, which rang and vibrated in such a way that made my brain vibrate in a fuzzy way. I rolled a bass drum, then a timpani, carefully watching the ground for large cracks or holes.

A few students joined us. Even more hands! Even lighter work! We were a slow processional marching slowly back and forth: band room to auditorium; auditorium to band room. We leaned into the chilly winter air. The first few trips, I zipped my coat up tight to keep out the cold air; after a few more trips, staying warm wasn’t a problem.

“Isn’t there a cart we could use?” I complained. “Couldn’t someone load these into a truck and move them that way?” (“Couldn’t someone else do this?” I thought to myself.)

I was sure there was an easier way. There had to be an easy button somewhere that we overlooked. Mr. Band Director looked at me almost with pity. “Sorry,” he said. “This is the way it’s done: one drum at a time.” 

Each instrument is fragile. Each instrument is expensive. In some cases, instruments are irreplaceable, like the marimba that has cardboard pipes instead of the usual metal ones because it was manufactured during the rations of WWII. I treated that thing with kid gloves, determined not to have it fall apart on my watch.

This silent parade of ours is like so many other experiences I can think of: there is no quick or easy way to get it done. No fanfare or accolades come from the sidelines. We simply move one drum at a time, putting our heads down and doing the work, no easy shortcuts available. Musicians are familiar with this process; they learn the score note by note, master their instrument scale by scale, in lonely practice rooms with the door closed, no applause ringing out from any direction.

Much of the work we do, the good work, is done slowly, over a great deal of time. We have moments when we want to stop; we get distracted along the way. There are moments of discouragement. But the only direction is forward! You can push through all those obstacles and before you know it, the work is done. Or, if not done, the work is at least far enough ahead that you can rest, look behind you, and see all the progress you’ve made.

Inside the auditorium, there is a peaceful reverence. The woodwork is dark and polished. The stage floor is immaculate. The upholstered seats look empty and expectant. There is a dark, heavy curtain hanging behind the performance space, until a switch is flipped and the curtains part, revealing a wall made entirely of glass and wood that overlooks a stand of trees outside. It makes me gasp because I didn’t know it was there.

My husband and his students arrange chairs and music stands, count, adjust, stand back, then tweak by measures of an inch or less. The percussion instruments line the back row, positioned with the same detail and care. 

I sigh a little bit, because I suspect I will be enlisted to help, drum by drum, after the concert is over. At least my weather app indicates mild temperatures on concert day. But first things first: I will take my seat among the proud parents in the audience, the lights will lower, and an expectant silence will fall throughout the hall. Then, my favorite part: the gleam of the brass instruments under the stage lights, and the collective breath of young musicians just before the first note is played.

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