High school band is a curious proposition. Maybe
the performing arts, such as music, tend to attract the
unusual folks among us. Only a very unusual person
could cope with the rigors of school band and claim to
enjoy it. Most of our marching performances were on
Friday nights, at the school football games. After flunking an algebra exam, losing the critical homework assignment for history, blowing up the chemistry lab, and accidently calling the poor long-suffering Spanish teacher something really crude and unprintable, only a real trouper could get up from tripping over the janitor's mop bucket and march that halftime show anyway, sprained ankle or not. Our band, while not particularly gifted musically, had a lovable, bull-dog-like tenacity in the face of adversity.
Paul, our bass drummer, was a good example. He
never did really master any one instrument, but he marched
a steady step and could keep going through Hell itself. The bass drum, one of the least vulnerable instruments, was
well suited for him. Visibility, however, was a problem.
When strapped into the shoulder harness, the bass drum
blocked most of the view downwards. For those who had
not considered the situation, the consequences could be
downright startling. Paul's discovery was brief but
memorable.
We had just finished marching in the homecoming
parade down Central Avenue in Hot Springs. The parade
route being completed, we were allowed to break ranks and
make our own ways back to the school bus. No one was
in any great hurry until we discovered that one of the band
boosters had a barrel full of ice-cold sodas. After that, it was a mad dash and a scramble royal. Carrying my old
trumpet rather carelessly, I ran madly for the cold Cokes
myself and got one early on. With the first cold, hearty
gulp flowing down my overheated esophagus, I turned to
watch the rest of the band members jostling for position.
Paul, with bass drum still securely strapped to his front,
was running flat-out from the rear of the pack and was
making up lost ground rapidly. Suddenly, Paul came to an
abrupt stop with a loud, painful sounding "Crunch!!" He
had a confused and injured expression on his face, and he
wasn't breathing. Worse, he could no longer make any
forward progress. With a weak moan, Paul folded up and
sank backwards on the pavement, the bass drum sticking
straight up. Our director, always on the alert for any
threat to our well-being, released Paul from the drum's
harness and helped him to sit up. His breathing had
started up again, though it was still labored and shallow.
It turned out that, with his forward view blocked, Paul had
run full speed into a parking meter, bending the meter,
denting the drum, and caving in his rib cage. Fortunately,
Paul and the drum were both tough enough to march in the
halftime show later that evening. Years later, we could
still recognize "Paul's parking meter" by its curious tilt.
A year later, Paul forgot this important lesson about his forward visibility. Our band building was at the top of a fairly steep hill with the football field at the bottom. Our director liked to have us form up in the
parking lot and march to the football field with drums all
thundering. This particular evening, Paul was on the
outside of the formation, near the curb. Our drum major
gave us the whistle signal, we stepped off, and the march
to the field began. After we had covered about five yards, Paul stepped down on a small rock, throwing himself out of balance. Falling sideways, his feet churned madly for any solid purchase. Instead, he found the curb of the parking lot. With a wild yell, Paul pitched over and hit the down- sloping ground outside the parking lot. The bass drum, being round and heavy, began to roll down the side of the hill with Paul as its unintended and unwilling passenger. Paul rolled lumpily down that hill for almost a quarter mile, before he fetched up against a tree. He
hit it perfectly upside down, his feet in the air, the
drum sticking out perfectly horizontally, and his arms
poised to drum. He hovered motionless for about two
seconds, then he absolutely melted and flowed around the
drum, exactly like the "Looney Toons" cartoon characters.
Our long-suffering director sent two fellows down to see if
Paul was still alive, and, if so, to bring him and the drum
back. If not, they were still to retrieve the drum, since we would need it that night. To our great suprise, Paul
staggered dizzily to his feet, swayed for a moment, then
wobbled his way to the football field entrance where he
rejoined our formation. Our halftime performance, strange as this may seem, went as planned. Neither Paul nor the drum seemed to have any permanent injuries.
Article complete. Click HERE to return to the Concert Disasters Menu Page.