Best Band (or so we hoped!)
Dinah describes competing with her school band.
“At 6:15 a.m., the stars were still out. I felt like I could grab them right out of the sky. Morning was my favorite part of the day, when the birds sang, the sun tried to peek through the clouds and all was calm. Nobody was upset, the streets were half-empty and the smog had not yet dominated the sky.
As I walked to band practice at San Fernando High with my sister, I’d ask her, “What do you think Gig will say as soon as I walk in right now?”
Before she could answer I’d tell her, “He’s gonna say that I’m shucking, that I still haven’t got my band straight.” Richard Gigger Jr., our band director, wants me to take charge. Shucking was his word for messing up.
I’d walk into the band room. There were most of the band members, bleary-eyed and probably hoping that there was a bed somewhere nearby that they could fall into. “Good morning,” I’d say two or three times until I got an answer.
There would be Gig, in his fluorescent green jacket, blue overalls and golf hat, putting away whatever food he had brought from Vons. If any of the band members were hungry, he’d share it with them. Gig is always doing something, whether it’s working with the band, sweeping the floor, cleaning the tables. I really can’t imagine a day of high school without Gig in it.
“Good morning, babe,” he said. That’s what he called all of us, even the guys. I had lost the bet with my sister—he was in a good mood.
“What’s up, Gig,” I said.
It’s not easy being a Drum Major, the assistant band director. If anything goes wrong, I usually have some fault. We have been the #1 marching band in the Valley for the past 10 years. Everyone in the school respects the band and they expect us to do great field shows and play our music perfectly. The only way we can achieve that is by practice. Hours and hours of it.
We’d all get tired of going to practice every morning, plus nutrition, lunch and after school. While the rest of the school hung out with friends during lunch, we were rehearsing our formations, usually with food in our hands. Even if you’re off-track at our year-round school, you still had to come. I was supposed to motivate everybody even though sometimes I felt sick of it myself.
Luckily I had some help. Each section of the band has a leader. Our librarian takes care of the music and a supply is in charge of getting new reeds or other supplies the band members need.
He was always calling meetings
“I need to see all my leaders, with the saxophone player, during lunch,” Gig would say to us or he would write it on the board. That meant the sax player was in trouble.
“You’re shucking and jiving, you can’t get here on time, you don’t know your part, what’s wrong with you?” he would tell the sax player. “Take over leaders, you straighten him out,” and he would walk out of his office, leaving us to take care of the problem.
“Do you really want to be in the band?” I would say. They usually answered, “Yes.”
“It doesn’t seem like it, are you positive?”
“You’re always coming in late dude, why?” somebody else would say. I tried to give the leaders a chance to talk and say what they felt. I felt I would be the only one talking so sometimes I would stand there and wait to see who would go, instead of me.
“Hey, if you can’t hang, get out, man,” somebody else said.
Sometimes Gig would talk to me privately to tell me what I was doing wrong. “You gotta take charge, babe. Get together with your leaders and straighten out whoever is not contributing to this band.”
“What if the guys don’t listen to me because I’m a girl?” I asked him once.
“The hell with that, babe. You’re in charge.”
I had to learn to tell people what needed to be done, and raise my voice if they didn’t listen. Sometimes they got frustrated with me, but usually they listened because they knew I was doing my job. I had to tell them to respect each other and our work as a band.
We played some great songs, like “Faces,” by Earth, Wind, and Fire. Songs like that make my mind wander, ’till I feel as if I’m running in this huge forest. When the song slows down, I imagine myself sitting on top of a tree branch, watching the river flow, and the sun set. Then Gig would stop us.
“Why did I stop you?” he would say. “Somebody has to know why I stopped you. Come on trumpets, you know why. Tell me.”
One time after school, we were going over a formation and two of the guys were messing around. He got pretty upset and said, “Okay, let’s go home, you don’t want to practice, go home!” so everyone ended up going home mad, a whole day of practice wasted.
Once in a while, not too often, we did everything right. Then Gig would let us know. “Stop! Stop! That was perfect. That was luck! You won’t play it again the way you just played it,” he said, with a smile on his face. He is a REAL teacher. He doesn’t sit on his behind all the time doing nothing. He makes sure things get done, the right way. Not the half-ass way, as he would say it.
It was showtime
All of our blood, sweat and tears were put to the test at the band competition in November.
“San Fernando High School, the judges are ready. You may now begin,” said the judge at the top of the field. Bum! Bum! Bum! the bass drum beat as we jogged onto the field to start off our show. We lined up in one line, band and drill team as I stood facing them, ready to give the whistle as soon as the whole unit came onto the field. Then they faced me as I gave them the whistle to start the silent drill, which had the whole unit walking together in one line. It was very quiet and done very slowly, then I counted 1-2-3-4 and we were off to the beginning of the show. There was the brass with their serapes draped across their shoulders to the side of their hip and their beautiful sombreros, shining as the most original uniform on the field. The rest of the band wore black uniform pants, yellow orange jackets and a black hat. I stood in white pants, a white jacket, and a white cape with a fiery tiger on the back of it. Gigger wore his lucky tiger coat.
My favorite part of the show was when we played “Little Darling.” The band and drill team sat on the floor Indian-style. The brass section sat in a half circle, while the reeds were in front of the brass in diagonal lines. The percussion section was the only one standing. The song was slow, the type of song you would want to slow-dance to. Not only did it look nice but it was different, exactly what our band is.
After all the bands in our division (1A) finished performing, it was time to get together with the leaders from our band and drill team to march up to the field and await the awards announcements. We got together in a line, all 12 of us, facing the crowd, with our backs to our band. We were so nervous, we held hands.
“I have to go pee. I can’t hold it any longer. Oh my God, you guys, I’m serious,” one girl whispered. We tried not to laugh. I felt my hands drip with sweat and wondered if we would win. It was the first time in the whole semester that I doubted. I saw my parents watching from afar. What would they think if we didn’t win? Just then, they started announcing the participation awards, which are given to those bands not placing 1st, 2nd, or 3rd.
Finally after waiting what seemed like hours, they announced 3rd place. I stood looking at the sky, hoping to hear either Lincoln High or Poly High, anything but San Fernando High School. I could feel the hands of the two trumpet players next to me sweating and gripping onto mine tight. Then the judge announced, “in third place we have Lincoln High School.” I then looked over to the leaders on my right side and said, “We got it you guys, this is it, we have to win.” Then the judge said, “second place goes to… Poly High School.”
I jumped, God knows how high, hugging all of the leaders that stood next to me. We had gotten first place! It was a great feeling. Then we all stood back in our line while the judge ended saying, “in first place we have once again San Fernando High School.” We went up, saluted, got our trophy and banner. We turned around and held up the trophy to our band and drill team that stood way on the other side of the field.
As I sat on the bus going home, I started to think about what the band meant to me. I had spent some of the worst times in the band but far more better times. I thought about Gig and what type of person he was. I smiled and in a low voice said to myself, “It pays off, Dinah, it really does.””