I'm with the band ... um, where'd they go?

I'm pretty much recovered now from my long weekend chaperoning the marching band at Nationals Competition. It was exhausting, but amazing to see how hard the kids worked. They had a great run in prelims, getting one of their best scores of the season and one of the top ten of 91 bands at prelims. They were pretty tired for their semi-final run Saturday morning, though, and barely missed out on making Finals. Still, 13th in the country is pretty damn good, especially when some of the competition has half again as many musicians in their band. And no one had as cool a show as PCMB this year: watch the video below, and the last 60 seconds will have you shaking your head and wondering, how in the world did they do that? (Click the square box in the lower right to see it full screen.)

Confessions of a Marching Band Mom

Marching Band has taken over my life! At least, it will for the next few days:

• Tuesday: make sure I have all the supplies I need for our Nationals trip. This means trips to the bank (Boy needs cash!), the store (Boy needs socks!), and the vet (cats need daycare!), although since the weather's nice I can make the trip by bicycle and get my daily exercise, killing two birds with one stone. Then I have to do laundry and collect all the things I need to pack, in case I missed something and have to go back to the store. This evening, I have to drop off the boys' bedrolls for the truck, and deliver craft fair signs to people who've agreed to help put them out this weekend. Somewhere in there I have to fit in balancing the checkbook, getting some copyediting done, and not getting behind on NaNoWriMo, before I head to flute choir practice.
• Wednesday: deliver Boy and his luggage to school by 6:30 am. Do my own packing, get in one last TKD training session, maybe some writing work, gas up and wash the car, and meet the boys at school before driving down to Indianapolis in the evening. Arrive by 11 pm and get the cabin ready for 22 girls to arrive around midnight.
• Thursday: Get the girls up before 7 am. (Gack, but at least I'm not on breakfast duty today.) Ride with the kids to the practice field, hang out, maybe get some writing done?, hang out some more, help cook dinner, go back to camp and supervise cabin full of teenage girls.
• Friday: Oh God, why did I volunteer to do this? Up before 5:30 to help cook breakfast, then accompany kids to rehearsal, back to camp, and then out to Lucas Oil Stadium for preliminary competition. Watch most excellent show, maybe a couple others, then accompany kids to mall for the evening. A break! At a mall! Where 98 high school bands will probably be! (Imagine my exclamation points wilting here.) Back to camp and lights out.
• Saturday: More chaperoning, plus more competition—hopefully both semi-finals and Finals. Accompany band back to camp at 11 pm for pizza celebration. Lights out by 1 am if I'm lucky.
• Sunday: Leave camp early (7:30 or 8) to get back home in time to prepare for flute choir concert in the afternoon. Get home and crash. Hopefully, I'll have enough volunteers to put out signs so I won't have to place any myself today.

If you don't hear much from me on the blog this week, you'll understand why. I'm not sure I'll have internet access, let alone time to post. I'm with the band! At least, whatever part of my brain still working is.

"I look a lot like Narcissus...."

Two girls and two guitars (or sometimes a mandolin and a banjo): it's a simple recipe, but it makes some awesome music. Last night TSU and I went to see the Indigo Girls in concert; they're one of our favorites, and we've been buying their CDs for the past 20 years. With that kind of experience, you can imagine that they put on a pretty good live show. Their music focuses on acoustic guitar and beautiful harmonies, and with just one additional musician (a keyboard/accordion player) they played some wonderful live versions of many of our favorites.

One thing I enjoy about the Indigo Girls is their very literate lyrics. They tell stories; they use all sorts of interesting imagery; they refer to writers like Virginia Woolf and historical figures like Galileo and the mythical character cited in this entry's title. So, a long-term acoustic duo with artsy lyrics: you might assume that the average age of the crowd skewed older, and you'd be right. You might also assume that the crowd would be well-behaved and polite.

There you'd be wrong.

Lately I've been hearing a lot about how this new millenial generation is self-absorbed and proud of it, raised to believe they are the center of the universe and thus don't need to consider the feelings of others. Well, the people sitting in front of us last night seemed bent on proving that 40 is the new 20, if their behavior were any indication. Let's just take inventory of the ways they demonstrated their rudeness—and note, all these happened during songs, not guitar changes or other breaks:

• talked LOUDLY through a soft song
• texted and surfed using their glowing phones (one time three of them in a row, like tic-tac-toe in front of me)
• passed a phone among six of them, so they could all read and giggle at a text message (twice)
• tried to put lipstick on their neighbor/tried to fight off lipstick from their neighbor (with much pushing and arm waving)/accepted lipstick from their neighbor with a big hug
• tried to give their neighbor a lollipop/tried to fight off lollipop from their neighbor (again with the pushing and arm waving)
• talked even more LOUDLY through not-so-soft songs

Of course, when one of their favorite songs came on they didn't just sing along, they shouted the lyrics to each other, like they were singing karaoke in a bad romantic comedy. Normally I don't mind if people are inspired to sing or clap or stand or dance; they're just enjoying the music. These idiots looked like they were performing for some non-existent camera, the star of their own reality show, perhaps. Maybe it wouldn't have been so annoying if they had seemed interested in listening to the rest of the songs. Just because it's not your favorite doesn't mean I don't want to hear it.

It got so bad that the woman sitting next to me, who seemed a rather quiet, shy type, finally exploded with a loud "SSHHHHH!" during one bout of chatter. I have to admit she beat me to it because I was still trying to figure out the snappiest way to suggest that some of us paid money to listen to the singing, not chat with our buddies. Though the tickets weren't exorbitant, by the time you add in all the facility fees and service charges it's a hefty chunk of change. Why would you buy a ticket if you're not going to enjoy the show? If you want to chat with your friends, go to a bar, spend the money on several drinks, and then people expect you to behave like morons.

Sigh. Other than that, it was a great concert. And I can take comfort in the fact that if there's a special circle in hell for rude concert/theatergoers, those jerks are all headed straight there.

Come pick me up ...

... okay, I haven't landed yet after seeing Ben Folds in concert last night. (He is my favorite recording artist, and if you hear my cell phone ring that's him singing.) First of all, he puts on a great show, totally rocking out on the piano. Second, I took Boy to the concert and for once I could sing along with the music without complaints from the peanut gallery. Usually I am told I am embarrassing myself (and him, of course, that's a given), but last night I wasn't the only one singing along. It was an interesting mix last night at the Michigan Theater; lots of college kids, of course, but I saw a few kids younger than Boy, and quite a few fans older than myself.

It's interesting to consider the songs that an artist picks to perform in concert. You always hear a lot from the new album, and last night was no exception: eight songs, plus two variations coming from an upcoming release of remixes. Interesting, though: no songs at all from his penultimate album, but three from his first ... and none of the radio hits that helped him break through in the 1990s. People often call out suggestions during his concerts, and he often riffs on that, making jokes about being a "wind-up automaton." I think a lot depends on the backup band; two years ago he only had a drummer and bassist, but this year he added a couple extra percussionist/keyboard/all-purpose musicians, and it made for a different sound. I was fine with that; he played my favorite song and a couple of Boy's favorite songs, and even had a whole section of the show where he played "waltzes" (ie, 3/4 time) solo on the piano. Since I'm freaky enough to build a whole playlist on iTunes of just songs in 3/4 time, I ate that up.

One last thought: how hard must it be to serve as the warmup band? No one's heard of you, they're all waiting for the main act, they talk while you sing, and they're glad when you're done. Rough gig, that. Still, they get to see the main act perform every night, so maybe it's worth it.

If you want a sampling of what we heard last night (warning, one song has R-rated language; the title gives it away), you can try this awesome little gadget below. You might recognize one song that appeared on "Grey's Anatomy" a few weeks ago; in any case, it's an interesting assortment to sample.

How to train your cat to talk

It's an occupational hazard of being a stay-at-home mom/writer, I suppose, but I spend a lot of time talking to my cats. Lately, Boy has been objecting very strongly anytime he catches me saying anything to them, even if it's something accurate, like "you're such a silly kitty." Here's how these conversations typically go:

ME (to cat, while scritching her ears): Calli, you're such a sweet kitty.

BOY: Intervention! Mom, you're turning into a crazy cat lady.

ME: I am not. Why can't I talk to the cat?

BOY: She's not going to talk back, you know.

ME: She could someday. After all, I talked to you when you were a baby and you couldn't talk back. And look at you now! You talk back to me all the time.

BOY: Grrrrr!

Here I must confess that I not only talk to my cats, I often sing to them. Worse, I make up lyrics and sing them to the tune of something else. So Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus" becomes: "Monnnn-ster kitty! Monnnn-ster kitty! Monster kitty! Monster kitty! Mon-ster-er kitty!" The French folk tune "Alouette" turns into: "Calliope*, silly Calliope, Calliope, she's my precious cat!" Even TV theme songs provide fodder for my nonsense, as the "Spongebob Squarepants" theme transforms into: "Whoooooo lived in a hidey-hole under the deck? GIGI Round-eyes! If you try to pet her then she'll give you heck! GIGI Round-eyes!"

Surveying this list of songs, I think I have discovered my error in singing to my cats: I'm using the wrong kind of music. After all, when Boy was a baby, I often sang to him while I changed his diaper, and he eventually learned to talk. It must have been due to the power of DISCO!

Original version (Wild Cherry):	My version:
Play that funky music white boy	Change that dirty diaper, mama
Play that funky music right	Change that dirty diaper right!
Play that funky music white boy	Change that dirty diaper, mama
Lay down the boogie	Lay me down and change me,
And play that funky music till you die	Oh, change that dirty diaper till I'm dry
Till you die!	Till I'm dry!
Original version (Rick James):	My version:
She's a very kinky girl	He's a very poopy boy
The kind you don't take home to mother	And I should know cause I'm his mother!
She will never let your spirits down	You can never keep his diaper clean
Once you get her off the street	That boy is super poopy
She's a very special girl	He's a very special boy
From her head down to her toenails	From his head down to his toenails
?????**	I'm going to change his diaper now
?????	That boy is super poopy
She's a super freak, super freak	He's a super poop! super poop!
She's super-freaky, yow	He's super-poopy, yow!

Okay, I'll admit maybe I need an intervention.

*Remember, my Calliope is pronounced like the Greek goddess, "Cal-ee-OH-pee."
**I never paid that much attention to the verses.

Untitled post about music

Actually, I had a couple of potential titles for this blog entry, which is in praise of the pipe organ. But I thought heading my post with "I love the organ!" might attract the wrong kind of indexing on Google. Same with "I love the pipe!" {Sigh.}

I'm not sure why I decided to write about this today. Maybe it's because I'm seeking escape from all the Chicken Christmas music that is inundating the air. By this weekend I will have played in two Christmas concerts, and Christmas Eve I'm spending playing at my friend's church. And that's a nice way to spend Christmas Eve, but it would feel more special if I hadn't been stuffed full of holiday songs for the past month. Even the usually reliable XM "Symphony Hall" classical channel is filled with Christmas oratorios and other things too unbearable to mention.

So I guess I felt like turning to the one kind of music that always moves me to turn up the volume: the pipe organ. If you read my review of the film Battleship Potemkin, you know a big factor in my enjoyment was the live organ music that accompanied this silent film. One of my favorite pieces of classical music is Saint-Saens's Third Symphony, whose final movement is grandly completed with pipe organ. (They used this movement's musical theme in the film Babe, strangely enough; but the sight of James Cromwell dancing for a pig to this music wasn't enough to dampen my enjoyment of the piece. Hearing it performed live, a couple shades too slow, was more of a disappointment.)

Occasionally pop music has made great use of the organ; Elton John's "Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding" is another favorite of mine, and to hear it live in a huge arena was a highlight when I saw him in concert around 20 years ago. Of course, the organ is meant to be heard in a grand space, and I've been lucky enough to hear the organ performed in some of the most beautiful churches in Europe. On a visit to Bath, England, in 1990 we were lucky enough to hear a whole concert of organ music. While living in London, I also took the opportunity to catch the occasional organ recital, including one at the St. Albans Cathedral and Abbey, parts of which date to the 11th century. One time I was even lucky enough to perform with pipe organ, when the honors band I was in played Weinberger's "Polka and Fugue from Schwanda, the Bagpiper" in a grand hall.

So I do love the pipe organ. And here is one of my favorite pieces, Widor's Toccata from his Symphony for Organ #5. It's not the kind of sound quality I prefer (ie, turned up to 11 on my surround-sound system), but it gives you an idea:

Marching band kicks my sash!

It's all my fault, Boy insists. All the concerts I dragged him to; all the times I told him that I had the most fun and made some of my best high school friends in marching band. So when he entered high school at the Plymouth-Canton Educational Park this year, he decided to join the marching band. I was pleased. I thought he'd have fun and make friends, and his school's band has a great reputation, with numerous national top-10 finishes (and 3 championships) over the past 20 years.

Then I discovered why the band has such a great reputation. They work extremely hard: a week of full-day practices in June and July, and two weeks' worth in August, including band camp. Once school starts, they rehearse around 25 hours a week. Saturday is either a full day of practice, or a competition day with rehearsal, travel, and performance. And the result is amazing. I remember marching band as doing three, maybe four, songs at halftime of football games, with a single formation for each song. I was in the flag corps, and we twirled and spun our one flag in a routine for each song

The PCEP band, though, is to my high school band what the Rockette's Christmas Extravaganza is to a middle-school holiday concert. They memorize ten minutes of music, and they're moving around almost the entire time. The patterns are intricate, and the music is challenging (no movie themes or pop songs here!). And the color guard is—well, out of this world. They change flags. They change costumes. They have props! They dance and move around and generally make things look even cooler.

The other thing I discovered is that to have the band look so good, it takes a lot of volunteer effort. (And money, too, but the fundraising is so well organized it's not annoying.) So I thought I'd stick an oar into volunteer waters; I've got a flexible schedule and brains, so why not? I offered to help with publicity for the charity craft fair they're hosting in November, the week after Nationals. So I spent most of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday generating address lists, mailing labels, and letters so we can get local businesses to post signs promoting the event. Great! Now I thought I'd get back to writing, but then I saw they needed help making new sashes for the uniforms. The theme of this season's show is "Kaleidoscope," and they needed more pops of color/shine. Well, I can sew, I thought. I showed up Wednesday night and helped cut out material for the 170+ sashes they needed to make. Then I took some home and spent most of yesterday and this morning sewing them together. They weren't that hard (baste and topstitch seam binding), but they were time-consuming. Then tonight I'm going to help the uniform genies velcro the new sashes to the uniforms. They do look pretty, don't they? (Callie wouldn't cooperate and be a sash model, which is just as well; I can imagine putting the sash on an allergic tuba player and having them sneeze the instrument clear off their shoulders. Disaster would ensue.)

But, of course, I haven't done diddly with my writing this week. Final score of this lopsided defeat? Marching Band: 150 contacts, 17 sashes; Novel, 0 words. But at least the band will look great!

My office soundtrack

As I was driving in my car last night, contemplating what I could possibly write about today, a song came on the radio. One of my favorites, in fact, and I realized that while I've blogged about many of my favorite obsessions (writing, taekwondo, cats, quilting), I've overlooked the one that permeates almost everything I do: music. Part of that is because it's summer, when I don't have regular rehearsals and I give my flute a rest. But part of that is because "listening to music" is my default mode, so it's a given, almost beneath my notice. It's like air—I don't think about it, I just inhale it.

I have to have music when I write, even if I'm trying to explain something complex, like quantum physics. (That was an actual assignment once, writing about Nobel physicist Richard Feynman and trying to simplify his life's work for a middle-school audience.) I have my CD collection loaded into iTunes, over 2600 songs, and I usually listen to it on shuffle. I have everything from classic rock to pop, from the 1960s (the Beatles, Hendrix) through the 70s (Elton John, Boston), 80s (Billy Joel, Eurythmics), 90s (Sarah McLachlan, Indigo Girls), and into the 21st century (Coldplay, Kelly Clarkson). Being slightly anal-retentive, sometimes I listen to the list alphabetically ("Abacab" through "Ziggy Stardust") or even by order of song length ("Miracle Cure" from Tommy, 12 seconds, through Elton's live "Burn Down the Mission," 18 minutes.) I have a special fondness for progressive rock bands of the 70s (Genesis, Rush) and piano-based rock (and if you don't think piano can rock, I suggest you check out Ben Folds). Also, because I lived in London from 1998-2002, I have a fondness for some British artists who aren't big names over here (Robbie Williams, Stereophonics).

Most of the time, the music is background as I work. But sometimes I have to stop, turn up the music, and just listen. It always puts me in a better mood and I resume writing with more energy. Some songs get an automatic (loud) replay; my current obsession is Keane, one of those lesser-known Brit bands (who also happen to play piano-based rock); their lead singer has an angel's pure tenor. They do kind of remind me of some of those old progressive rock bands; they might be a wee bit pretentious, but the music makes me forgive all: