
Kate Korting
Per. 3-4 British Lit.
UAHS
The music swelled in my ears, and the chord thrummed inside my brain. My sore diaphragm felt as if it were going to burst, pushing in an effort to make the resounding note crescendo. Chaos in harmony followed as the meter changed twice, hindering a few of the brass players in the semi-circle around me. Contra-basses blatted out the thick bottom notes while baritones provided more buoyancy; my fellow mellophones (marching french horns) wailed out a high note that colleded with the others to give a wrenching descord, and the sopranos spat out pitches with amazingly high squeals; a few faces were turning an odd shade of red under the pressure.
At the head of this semi-circle stood a man wearing a forest green shirt, his arms pumping along with the tempo, dragging us along our path to the next bar line. His face appeared in intense concentration, his movements so decisive and confidant, trained and comfortable with his work. Suddenly, near the peak of the song on a flashy chord, his arms fell to his sides, and his expression changed. He seemed not as intense bust as totally focused as before. As soon as his hands fell, the silver instruments around me fell, as did mine, every person in the semi-circle switching to our standard parade rest, a position much more comfortable to hold than the usual attention.
"Who's got the G there at measure fifty-four? Baritones?" The conductor asked, his "problem-solving mask" spread across his face. A few of the baritones, the thirds, raised their hands meekly. "Alright, third baris, you can bring out that G, and ummm," he paused. "The rest of you guys can shut up." A playful smile spread across his lips and he gave us his "just kidding" face. "But seriously, let the thirds really let go there. That seventh in the chord is really important." We all understood his words, and we would follow his orders because that's what he told us to do. We were machines, and he was the opperator.
Everyone noded, and the conductor's hands flashed up again. Up went the instruments, a collective soul in the band willing the silver up to our lips. One downbeat, and we flew off again through the music; the conductor's hands cued us and led us along our musical journey. When the practice was nearly over, the man took a small toy, a Chihuahua, that was previously pinched between his belt and side, and held the dog aloft. He spoke as if he were Moses leading his people from the perils of the Red Sea.
"Now, whoever has the opener memorized can make the dog talk," he told us, a smirk plastered across his face. Experimentally, he squeezed the almond-colored dog, and was answered with a muffled "Yo Quiero Taco Bell." The semi-circle erupted into snickering and laughter, myself included. He continued, "You know, not everyone can make the dog talk... just those who are privileged enough."
This man's actions spoke far louder than his words. When the time came to try to play the entire opener from memory, he spread a dark green blanket over the floor and placed the dog ceremoniously upon it. "Now, come all ye who believe ye can make the dog speak." Such was the playfulness of the man who stood in front of me. When he conducted, at all times you could see every emotion on his face, and he was a wonder to see conducting, his eyes focused on whatever he was listening to. Most of all, this man spoke the truth about what was happening. If something sounded bad or someone really messed up a solo, he would tell them, and they would know that he spoke the truth. He could tell anyone what was going on, and for this I really admire him. Always, he told our group what was wrong and how to fix it. He was outright blunt, for this, I admired him all the more. Most of all, I believed him to be a passionate man who felt deeply for the music and its voice when he was conducting and teaching.
His mousy brown hair was clipped, his medium brown eyes sometimes covered with a modern pair of thin-wired glasses. he wasn't burly, but he wasn't fat by any means. It seemed as if he was just starting to show the signs of mid-life; he sported a small tummy that only appeared when he slouched, and his build was marred only by other subtle traces of fat that hadn't been worked off lately. But this man was not fat at all; he was actually very average looking.
The blue eyed conductor's name is Glenn Toumaala, pronounced "Too-mah-lah", and he is the brass Caption Head for Capitol Regiment Drum and Bugle Corps, a new corps for kids ages 14-22 based in Columbus. Presently, Glenn is the music director at Marion-Purcell High School in Cincinnati and also heads a prominent adult Cincinnati wind ensemble. He has worked with numerous other drum corps in the United States, including the Madison Scouts and Cincinnati Star. To make a long story short, he knows his stuff.
Glenn's teaching style is completely drifferent from any I've ever seen before; it's so basic and fundamental, it's easy to understand, yet it makes one think on a higher level. His style is so up-in-your-face amazing that I wonder why he's not at the head of a symphony orchestra. Of course, the orchestras already have the training, and he's working where he's most needed.
I feel proud to know that Toumaala (as we call him in the mellophone section) will be at every corps weekend camp cracking the whip for us to be better and better and better, making us think in different ways and teaching us all we need to know to think as a group, act as a group, play as a group, work as a group, and live as a group. He shows us what's inside of us and makes it come out and sing.
At the next weekend camp, I'm sure that all of us will play the opener from heart, the baritones will bring out the G in measure 54, and we will learn even more from Toumaala. Every time I put the silver mellophone mouthpiece to my lips, I know that my eyes will be set upon the man passionately conducting us in the middle of our brass semi-circle. He leads us in every way possible, by example and be his words. He is the railway-conductor behind our bullet train. When we play, it seems the mountains should crumble and bow before us because we have a power he unleashes in us that can not be seen, only heard and felt. The sound that would make the stars rumble and fall from their places in the heavens pours like molten silver from the bells of ouir horns, and Glenn Toumaala is the magician behind the spell.
The grade I got on this paper was a 7 out of 9 on the holistic scale. I dunno. I feel... degraded. I thought this paper was a little more worthy than the last. *pout* Just tell me what you think. Bah. I'll stop typing now.
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