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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!
###
*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
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