Thanks to Laura's friend, Lovey, I remembered that I'd completely forgotten to include any Latin-infused Gloria Estefan tracks on my "worst songs" blog.
I have no idea how I could have been so remiss... especially given the fact that one of my most traumatic teen memories occurred in conjunction with the following MSM song...
The Rhythm Is Gonna Get You!
Watch out everybody... it's contagious! My legs... I can't control the rhythm in my legs, and now my feet... they're tapping, ooo, they're tapping... and my fingers are starting to snap involuntarily... the rhythm, is, in fact, getting me!
First of all, before I begin to tell my tale of woe, I want you to know I really do have nice parents. I love them very much, and they provided for us well... but, they just didn't understand that high school band is the equivalent of a social death sentence for a young teenager.
My older brother was in band. He played the drums. If there were to be a cool instrument in marching band, it was the drums. These were the guys that sat in the back of the school bus on the way to "band tournaments." They drank in the back, they had private jokes, they were the "cool kids" of band.
A typical all-male drumline, bordering on cool.
Now, I had always wanted to play clarinet, flute or piccolo. But my father, bless his heart, thought these instruments "too wimpy" for his daughter. Oh, no... he wanted a girl with attitude... a girl who wasn't afraid to make some noise... a girl who could jam in a jazz band. Therefore, I was talked into the saxophone, which I knew absolutely nothing about when I started playing it in fifth grade except that it was damn heavy to lug home from the school bus, and I was the only girl playing it. In sum, I wasn't really very into it.
Lisa Simpson, I was not...
However, my father (having been a band nerd -- trombonist -- in his younger years) was convinced that this experience was a good thing for me. So, I continued honking away through eighth grade band, always a rather average player, and forever jealous of the popular girls having fun up in the clarinet and flute sections. Instead, I was stuck next to a bunch of pimple-faced adolescent boys, who I had nothing in common with and no desire to be friends with, in the back center of the band.
When it was time to enter high school, I decided to make my move: I was quitting band once and for all. For one, not one of my friends was in the band. They were all in the chorus. Second, I hated the saxophone. Third, I didn't want to go to band camp in the summer. Fourth, I wanted to have fun with my cool non-band friends during football games. And finally, I did not want to wear my high school's god-awful bright orange marching band uniform in front of my cool friends at very cool football games. Umm, this was not cool. You see, our school colors were black and orange, but some genius decided that orange polyester would be much classier than, say, black wool.
So -- you have probably already figured out that my father would not even consider letting me quit band. I was told that I had to play "at least one year" since my parents had bought my saxophone and paid for lessons all those years. Apparently, it was the least I could do to repay my debt, and most importantly, our family didn't raise "quitters." But oh god, it was such a blow to my fragile teen self. Just the thought of hanging out at half time in orange polyester was more than I could handle. However, there was no arguing with my dad.
And so, this was my future in the fall of 1988... except
imagine bright orange with white plumed helmets.
I went to summer band camp and met the truly seasoned saxophonists, the juniors and seniors, (dorks, all of them) who lived and breathed the MHS Knights marching band. While at camp, we had to learn the marching patterns for the songs we were going to play that fall season... which were... ohhhh!!! A whole medley of Miami Sound Machine music!!!!!! That's right... just imagine "The Conga" and "The Rhythm is Gonna Get You" re-scored for marching band. Yes, it was very edgy. I do remember vividly having to sway my sax to the beat, while forming a "conga line," and then engaging in some exotic Latin footwork while marching on the field.
If you can believe this, I still haven't gotten to the traumatic memory yet ...
Well, it was toward the end of fall and the end (thank god) of marching band season. Our band had secured a position at the Annual Mid-Atlantic Marching Band Show and Competition in Allentown, PA. The morning of the show, my brother, who was a senior, drove us from home over to the school around 6 am. I didn't really want to be there. Disgruntled, I boarded one of the school buses and plopped down in the first seat. (My brother, of course, went to a different bus with his "drum crew"). I must have chatted with a few flag corps girls (ie: overweight wannabe cheerleaders), the only people I recall talking much to, and then shut my eyes for a few moments until the bus left the parking lot.
We got to the first traffic light in town when I popped my eyes open in horror. I suddenly realized that I never went into the school to get my saxophone. It was still sitting back in the band room. OMG, I was on my way to the biggest band competition of the year without an instrument.
For those of you who know me, this is a classic Kit sort of predicament. I hollered up to the school bus driver to see if she would stop the bus and take me back a quarter-mile to the school. No, she said, she could not turn around.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fucking fuck. I was in a total panic, mainly because I was trying to imagine how I was going to tell the band director, Mr. Rupert, who was one of the meanest, anal retentive, asshat teachers I've ever had in my life. He was on one of the other buses so I had the whole drive to Allentown to imagine the scenario playing out... "ahh, Hi Mr. Rupert, I sort of forgot"... no no, how about... "Mr. Rupert, you know I've never done anything this dumb before"... or perhaps... "Hi Mr. Rupert! How was your bus ride? Let's see, I have something to tell you"...
Imagine a perm-haired young woman in orange
polyester freaking out in a seat behind the driver...
Once we finally got to Allentown, my stomach was in a series of knots. I gathered some deep breaths and approached my bearded nemesis teacher, Mr. Rupert. To be honest, I really don't remember what I said, but I do remember the look of incredulity on his face as he sputtered, "You, you, you... what?!?" After I shamefully repeated my bad news, he curtly told me to "figure out a solution" to my problem.
Although I tried to find a saxophone to "borrow" from another band, there was little time to go gallavanting around the stadium chatting up saxophonists, and frankly, I was far too embarrassed to tell anyone in another band what I had done. I was secretly hoping that I just wouldn't have to participate.
However, give it to Mr. Rupert... when our turn came to play, he made me go out on the field with the band holding "an invisible saxophone." Mmhmmm, I had to march around to the Miami Sound Machine pretending to play an instrument that didn't exist. I've never felt like such a moron in all of my life.
It was almost like air guitar... except 100 times as lame.
And that, my friends, is the story of marching band, the Miami Sound Machine, and me.
1 comment:
oh, that's just terrible. really. that is way worse that i expected!
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