The Triple-Forte Cymbal Solo (OK, it wasn’t a solo, but it felt like a solo!)

(To listen to this story, click on the photo above.)

There are defining moments in every young man’s life. For me, it was the 1982 Iowa High School State Concert Band Competition.

A date with destiny

I could feel myself start to sweat. It was a beautiful late-April Friday night and our concert band was in place on the main stage of the new performing arts center on the campus of North Iowa Area Community College, in Mason City. I was a senior and was moments away from performing in my last state concert-band competition.

From the front of the stage Mr. Sid Stott, legendary band instructor, gave me his infamous stare. His body language was telling me in no uncertain terms to calm the heck down, and keep my nerves under control.  

The challenge before us

The state of Iowa has a rich history of producing great high-school bands. For instance, the academy-award winning movie “The Music Man” was modeled after Meredith Willson’s hometown of Mason City, just 30 miles from Osage, my hometown.

Each year Osage Community High School competed in the Mason City music festival and marching-band competition. Osage always received a superior rating (the highest award possible). Osage also always received a superior rating in the annual Iowa High School State Concert Band Competition. We were that good. It was our tradition. And it was our tradition because of Mr. Sidney (Sid) Stott.

Sid Stott fought in Europe during World War II. Upon returning home he studied piano performance in college and in 1951 earned his master’s degree from Iowa State Teachers College. He taught instrumental music at Cal Community Schools before moving to Osage, where he would spend the next 37 years teaching and inspiring youth.

Sid was the epitome of balance. He was professional, yet not rigid. He was firm, yet compassionate. He knew when to push, when to laugh and when to cry. In short, he was a role model.

I loved band. All 100-plus kids who piled into the band room during third period each day agreed. Sid taught us to love making music. But more importantly, he taught us important life lessons about teamwork, honesty, integrity and sticking with something until you mastered it.  

During the summer before my senior year I decided to quit band. I detested our assistant band instructor and I’d rather give up band than spend the whole marching-band season being berated by that guy. I concluded it was time to hang up my drum sticks. Sid got wind of my plan and talked me out of it. I’m so grateful he did. 

Thunder from heaven

As we had moved onto the NIACC stage I could see the three judges seated at their tables in the auditorium busily filling out their critiques of the band that preceded us. We were settled in, waiting for the signal to begin.

The first of our three pieces would be “Alleluia! Laudamus Te” by Alfred Reed. Sid was a big believer in “Go big or go home,” so we were leading with a piece that was challenging to say the least. What made it so memorable for me was one note – the very first note on the percussion line, indeed, the very first note of the piece – the almost unheard of triple-forte cymbal crash!*

Let’s be honest, most concert-music writers treat percussion at best as a necessary evil – something to keep the beat and once in a while add a little accent to the beauty and majesty of the band – and at worst, as an afterthought. Percussion and percussionists are too often kept at bay, like the dog chained-up in the back yard. They’re acknowledged from a distance, but never allowed inside the house.

Sid didn’t see it that way. He treated percussion like any other section in the band. We had a job to do and he expected nothing less than excellence.

Practice for this competitive performance had begun in earnest immediately upon our return to school in January, after Christmas break. Every day for nearly four months we’d practiced, and practiced and practiced. Honing, refining and fine-tuning some more. But it was worth it. We had our reputation and the reputation of all the Osage High School bands before us to uphold. Hard work was part of the deal.

As part of our preparations, all of the percussion equipment had been given a thorough going over. Sid gave me special permission to take the massive 18-inch Zildjian concert cymbals home for two nights so I could use a special solvent to clean and polish them. By the time I was finished, they shone like the shields of Solomon’s soldiers – blinding.

Two judges signaled to Sid that they were ready for us to begin. Each judge would tape-record comments as well as provide a written ballot. The third kept writing, seemingly oblivious to our need to get the show started.

As I waited I remembered Sid introducing us to this piece back in January. “This song opens with a fanfare,” he explained. “The goal is to paint a picture of the gates of heaven swinging open, filling the universe with thunderous music. And the opening fanfare is accentuated by a thunderclap.” That’s where I came in. Me and my triple-forte cymbal crash.  

I’d done it hundreds of times in practice: Bend the knees and drop while simultaneously swinging your arms out to their full six-foot span, then stand up briskly and bring the cymbals together with the right-hand disc making initial contact at about a 10-degree angle. The angle was important. If you came in flat you’d create a vacuum that’d suck the cymbals together and the only sound you’d hear would be a dull thud. Follow through by extending the arms straight up for maximum effect. After an appropriate pause, bring them down and clamp them against your body, one under each arm. 

I was ready to go. More than ready. And Sid could see it in my eyes. I got the message in his stare. I would wait.

Now Sid was getting anxious. He kept turning to check on Judge No. 3, only to have to turn to us and mime, “wait.”

Finally, the third judge gave us a dismissive back-handed wave to go ahead, but in what I saw as a very rude affront, kept his head down and continued to write.

Apparently Sid took it the same way. He turned, and just before stepping onto the riser, gave me a smile and a nod. I knew exactly what to do. The dog was off the chain.

Sid stepped up, retrieved his director’s baton, and lifted both his arms -- the ready signal. Two flicks of his wrist transmitted the tempo. As the baton arched up a third time, the band was ready to come alive. I bent my knees, the cymbals went out as far as I could reach. The baton came down and right on cue I gave it everything I had. The explosion that followed was nothing short of cosmic.

The crash was so loud it completely caught Judge No. 3 by surprise. It was like he’d been jolted by electricity. He fell off his chair, his papers hit the floor and his pencil went flying. The other two judges smiled and tried to hide their laughter as they filled out their ballots.

Three days later we filed into the band room to hear the results. Mr. Stott was very proud to report we’d kept the winning streak alive with another superior rating. He’d go on to share specific critiques with each of the sections, but he did want to share one comment for the whole band. It was the recording from Judge No. 3.

We could hear papers being hastily shuffled in the background, then “Yes, Osage High School…first piece, ‘Alleluia! Laudamus Te.’ ..., uh, cymbals, could back it off a little bit.”

Keeping it simple, Sid turned to face the band, looked at me in the back and while unsuccessfully trying to stifle a belly laugh said, “Jim, well done!” Everybody busted out laughing.

My high-school band career was now officially over, and I’m proud to report it ended on a high (OK, loud) note!

God bless all percussionists everywhere!

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 *Triple-forte (fff) is the dynamic cue for "fortississimo" meaning very, very loud. It’s used very sparingly.

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Sid Stott, 1982

Angels In The Storm -- A Story From O'Connor's Standard Service

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(To listen to this story, click on the photo above.)

Each time my foot pressed on the accelerator, the wrecker’s wheels just spun, adding their own desperate howl to a ferocious winter wind that was causing near-whiteout conditions. The rear tires on the little wrecker just couldn’t get a bite on the sheet of sheer ice that covered the top of the steepest gravel road in Mitchell County.

The blowing snow had hidden the ice sheet from view as I tried to ascend the hill, naively thinking I could outrun Mother Nature and her storm that just didn’t seem to want to quit. The lull that had sent me into the country to rescue a stranded motorist was over. It was snowing hard again, the sun was rapidly descending behind the horizon and to make things worse, the wind that had been fueling the snowstorm had picked up again. And now the wrecker was stranded like a turtle on top of a fence post. I was stuck, no two ways about it.

How did I manage to get myself into this frozen pickle of a situation?

I was 17 years old and it was day-three of a snowstorm I’ll never forget. Winter storms like this meant all hands on deck at O’Connor’s Standard Service. My dad took great pride in owning and operating a “real” service station where you could buy gasoline and have your car worked on by qualified mechanics. The operation also included a towing service.

We had two wreckers. The larger of the two, the “big wrecker” was one size short of a semi and could haul semi tractors. The other, aptly named, the “little wrecker,” was used for cars and pickups. Both wreckers and our pickup each carried a commercial generator used for jump-starting cars, and all three were outfitted with business-band and citizen-band (CB) radios so we could communicate with the station, each other, and local law enforcement in emergency situations.

It was late afternoon on the third 16-hour-day in a row. Minds and bodies were weary. Storms like this were hard on equipment and harder on people. My dad and a helper were north of town on U.S. Highway 218 pulling a semi out of the ditch. Another two-man crew in the pickup was in town moving from call to call feverishly attempting to jump-start car engines that were frozen stiff by temperatures in the teens, while drifting snow threatened to cover the cars, temporarily interring them in graves of snow and ice.

I too had been crisscrossing the city of Osage jump-starting cars with the starting unit on the little wrecker when a call came in from a woman who was stuck out by Sunny Brae Golf & Country Club. She owned a cabin down by the river and thought it would be a good idea to drive out and make sure the storm hadn’t caused any damage. The cabin was fine, but she got stuck in a snow drift as she tried to get on the road from her driveway. Hence her desperate call for a wrecker.   

Sunny Brae is located two miles south of Osage in a valley bordered by soaring limestone bluffs and the Cedar River. You have two routes to choose from. Back in 1981, both involved gravel roads, which could be really dicey during storms.* The “back way” from the north, or Mitchell County Road T-38, which runs south of Osage and connected with a gravel road running west down to the river and Sunny Brae.

The “back way” took longer as you had to drive through town and then meander south on a gravel road through the countryside. On a normal day it was a pretty drive and the plus was that the final hill that took you down into the valley was more gradual than the hill on the east.  

Taking T-38 was much faster and only required a half-mile of driving on gravel, but that route meant negotiating a very steep down-hill slope. Even on a clear summer day people slowed down for that hill. It was what my dad liked to call “a real booger.”

I had come in via the “back way.” After about 30 minutes of digging, positioning and re-positioning, I was able to extricate the woman and her Chevy Luv from the deep snow. I watched the little car drive up the smaller of the two hills as I re-spooled the winch cable and stowed the heavy “J hook” used for attaching the winch cable to a car’s axle.

The snow and wind had both picked up. The road was rapidly filling up with snow, making it very difficult to judge where the road-edge stopped and the ditch started. The last thing I wanted to do was put the wrecker in the ditch and incur my dad’s wrath. I was already pointed toward the east, so I thought I’d just put it in low gear and “let ‘er buck” as Dad always said.

That decision had placed me squarely in my current frozen-pickle of a situation.

I peered into the over-sized rear-view mirrors. It was 50 yards to the bottom of the hill. On my left was the hill face. On my right, a 30-foot drop. And to top it off, the road curved slightly to the left as it descended.

My only choice was to try to back down the hill. I knew full well that no one in their right mind would even think about backing down that hill on a dry, sunny summer day. This was the complete opposite. I had no expectation of making it to the bottom without going over the cliff. I just hoped the wrecker wouldn’t be too damaged in the crash that was to come. I also hoped I’d survive.  

I took a deep breath and let it out as I shifted into neutral. I was concerned that putting it in gear would cause the wheels to spin and cause added control problems. As I popped the clutch and slowly released the break, I remember saying out loud, “Please God, be with me.”

The wind went from strong to gale-force. Within seconds I knew I was in trouble. I couldn’t see the end of the wrecker’s hood. It was a white out.

The wrecker picked up speed as gravity took over. Then my fears came true. The truck began to weave left and right, at one point bouncing into snow drifts on the left, sending me sliding directly toward the cliff edge. Then the passenger side-wheels hit something, causing the wrecker to go into a full 180-degree spin. I braced for impact.

Suddenly the wild ride stopped. The wind paused. All was still. As I looked out of the windshield I realized I was safely back at the bottom of the hill, right where I started, but now facing north and the smaller of the two hills. It was nothing short of a miracle! I took it as a sign from heaven and carefully took the “back way” into town just as the sun dropped behind the horizon.

On a cold and snowy night 20 years later I read the book, “Where Angels Walk,” by Joan Anderson. The author tells multiple stories about supposed real-life encounters with angels. In each case, the person who was helped or guided by angels had literally asked God to send help.

I immediately thought of that very cold and scary day. In my mind nothing but divine intervention can explain my wild trip down that hill.

Were there angels in the storm protecting me that day? I have no doubt.

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Ed O'Connor and the "little wrecker," circa 1980.

*Both roads are now paved and both hill grades were reduced in the process. 
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