Fall Tour 2012 is over, and I didn’t write a single post from the road.
In the immortal words of Disney employee Han Solo: “It’s not my fault!” This tour was the busiest tour I can remember. We all did our best to stay on top of things and do our jobs as well as we could, but personal projects went straight out the window. Anyway, now we’re home, I’ve slept, and it’s time to play catch-up.
Rather than write a chronological weekly journal like I’ve done in the past, I’ve decided to compile this tour into its most important, notable and memorable aspects. My Fall Tour 2012 Playlist. New tracks will go up every day or two. Here are Tracks 1 and 2.
Track 1: New Faces
The first day of tour, the Concert Band and Soldiers’ Chorus flew into Denver and spent the night in Aurora, Colorado. If that sounds familiar, Aurora is home to the Century Aurora 16, where the Dark Knight Rises shooting took place in July. (Read about Alex Teves, one of the heroes of that tragedy, in my previous post here.)
This tour was the first for our three newest members, plus one guest:
Our most senior newbie is our Deputy Commander, Major Scott McKenzie. Major McKenzie was most recently Commander of the U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command Band in Ft. Monroe, Virginia, and is a gifted composer and arranger. The band performed one of his pieces on tour, entitled Black Tie Blu-Bop, a nod to one of his favorite bands, Bela Fleck & The Flecktones. Due to the nature of the Officer/Enlisted relationship, the Major and I didn’t get much hang time on this tour, but any Flecktones fan clearly has admirable qualities.
Heath Sorenson of Salt Lake City is a singer, our first true bass in a long time. He was living in Boston with his wife and infant son and studying at Boston University’s Opera Institute when he came to us. Heath’s features include unnatural tallness and, more importantly, an easy-going, low-maintenance nature, which is always nice in a job like this one. He’s also a fan of MMA (mixed martial arts), the one sport I follow, so he and I will never be entirely without conversation starters.
Becky McLaughlin, our newest horn player, grew up in Columbia, Maryland, fifteen miles from our home base. She graduated from Indiana University and joined the Army Bands program in 2011, initially serving in the 8th Army Band Band in Seoul, Korea. She won her spot with us in August, and like Heath, proved to be the best kind of addition to the band: positive, responsible, low-drama.
Our guest this tour was James Newcomb, a trumpet player from the Army Ground Forces Band at Ft. Bragg, North Carolina. One of our trumpet players recently moved from the Concert Band to the Jazz Ambassadors, so until we hold auditions and select his replacement we’re down a player. We searched other Army Bands for a qualified fill-in, and the Ground Forces Band sent us James. James’s interest in all things trumpet runs deep. He was a good sport on a difficult tour, eager to play, and did a fine job. I just hope his poor wife doesn’t find out about his addiction to gambling. And painkillers. And creepy black-and-white anime. (Just kidding.)
Whenever new people join an ensemble, even just one or two, it changes the group dynamic. You can feel it. Whatever they bring to the job infects everyone around them, to a small degree. The people on their bus (we travel with three) are most affected, and the people that sit around them in the ensemble, and the people they hang out with, but nobody escapes entirely. Working with not-crazy, low-drama people who have an uplifting, optimistic attitude goes a long, long way… especially in this job, where we not only work together but live together much of the time. So thanks, Major McKenzie, Heath, Becky and James, for the energy you brought to a difficult tour. It was most welcome.
Track 2: Self-Loathing in McDonald’s
One of the challenges on this tour was eating well. I’m definitely not on the band’s growing list of vegans, vegetarians and convenientarians, but this fall’s APFT (Army Physical Fitness Test) and Weigh-In fall less than three weeks after tour, and just days after Thanksgiving. It’s a struggle to stay fit on even the best tours, but due to the upcoming test, bandies were hunting for gyms and grocery stores in record numbers, me included.
But I definitely weakened a few times. Once in particular.
After an especially hard week of double-header gigs and abusive workouts and unsatisfying health food, I got some bad news from the family, the kind you dwell on. After that night’s gig, hungry and frustrated, I walked out of the hotel into the rain, looking for food. The only place open at 11:50 p.m. was a McDonald’s, practically next door.
It was one of the big old-fashioned ones, with the Golden Arches built into the exterior walls. I’d completely avoided fast food up until that night, but I didn’t hesitate. If ever there was a night for it, this was it. Head hung low against the rain and my own lameness, I walked in and ordered a Number One.
The cardboard box that held my Big Mac was sealed with the old, familiar stamp of approval: a thick, greasy thumbprint. I popped open the lid and crammed my face full of hamburger. This stuff’ll kill you, but God, does it taste amazing. So much better than protein bars and low-sodium canned soup. I embraced my decision without regret.
Until I reached for a fry.
Hanging out of the fry carton was a long, coarse black hair. Not the one that just falls onto the tray as it’s handed to you at the counter: the one that falls into the drip tray where the fries get salted and becomes one with the food. This hair was a tangled snarl that ran through the whole carton, touching damned near every fry. If I’d tried to pull it free, the whole wad would’ve popped out like a greasy parachute.
Any self-respecting patron would’ve returned it for a fresh batch, but I’d checked my pride at the door. I knew what I was doing when I walked in; one look behind the counter told me this was standard fare in this place. God knows what would end up in there if I complained. I was depressed and starved and humbled by weakness.
Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow I’ll sweat this out.
Resigned to the knowledge that I deserved this, I kept silent and ate my hairy fries.
Stay tune tomorrow for Track 3: The Vending Machine vs. The Army Field Band!