(PART 6) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(make sure you read Part 5 before reading this.)

I was being lame. After all that i'd gone through up until this point, I was going to let "hard work" change my mind? That's what I signed up for! You don't just become excellent by just wanting to be excellent. Why did I let doubt into my fortress of autonomy? I had to shake this off. I had to go back to what the "prize" was. I had to remember the TV broadcast. I had to remember that I wanted my grandmother to look at the screen and see her grandson being among the best in the world at something. I had to prove to myself that you can come from the Mississippi Delta, the poorest region of the United States, and conquer the World! Ok. I'm back to my senses. 

We all face the inevitable. We have to go back out. Collectively, the pit realized that we have been childish in our resistance to going back out into the elements. We started taking the equipment back outside to much better weather conditions. I don't know if it was because of our attitude change or not, but it almost seemed pleasant outside. We set up in a quarter of the time it took us to set up the first time. We were ready. "C'mon, let's go, breeeeeeaaaaass!" said this brute East Coast, tough guy voice. I knew this voice well. This was Barry Hudson, the soprano tech. The guy who made it harder for me to get to these camps by being scaring off my rides. All the players were here: the brass, the color guard, the battery, the pit and all staff members. I knew something special was about to happen because even the kitchen staff was outside. 


The sharp, staccato squeal of the metronome starts from back field. By this time, most of the staff had trekked their way up to the top of the observation tower. "Ok, Bobby, let's do it. The top to "Letter A," shouts Dubie from the tower at the drum major Bobby Hullett. Bobby was an all-American looking, guy-next-door, kind of guy. This was his first year as drum major although it was his third year in the corps. I found it easier to relate to him because he had a Southern accent that I was all too familiar with. I was always impressed with his leadership skills. Being drum major is a difficult task that puts you in the lonely place of rarely being in great favor with the staff and having to get your friends in line. I thought Bobby handled this task flawlessly. He got a lot of crap from the corps members, myself included. In a later post I will tell a hilarious story about the incident that launched our 20+ year friendship. 


Bobby raised his hands to the conducting position. The horns come up to playing position in perfect unison. The conducting pattern begins. Off we go. Star of Indiana's first attempt at "Roman Images" was on the move. I... was transformed. I was addicted. I knew at this moment that: "yes," it was worth it. This was the experience i'd been chasing for 18 years of my life. This WAS worth while. It all played out as if it were in slow motion. I couldn't help but smile the entire time. I got into it. I performed as if I were at DCI Finals. I could see the camera slowly panning across the pit. And, there I was; just like promised Granny. As I could hear the cascading horn riffs, the dynamic intensity of the battery percussion and the swift, yet graceful, movement of the colorguard; I knew I had arrived. I had arrived at my purpose. And to think, I let "physical work" and selfishness breech my focus of this wonderful thing. I knew I was in a much greater family... and right here, in Bloomington, Indiana, was my home. 


It became a challenge EVERY camp to get to Bloomington. The next camp, in February, fell right on top of The Southern Miss Wind Ensemble's debut performance at the College Band Directors National Association Convention in Kansas City, Missouri. I was not going to skip out on that. My college education was priority and it was a major performance. The wind ensemble was premiering a new piece by Gunther Schuller with the internationally famous German trombone soloist, Christian Lindberg. I knew if I mentioned the words "drum corps" to our conductor, Dr. Tom Fraschillo, I would be murdered on spot. I had to figure out how I was going to do this, yet again. This cut me out of my Hattiesburg-Columbus-Bloomington connection. Well, Kansas City was closer to Bloomington than Hattiesburg. Although we were in Kansas City for the entire weekend, the actual performance was on Friday. I could possibly get to Bloomington for Saturday and Sunday. All I had to do was to convince Dr. Fraschillo to excuse me after the performance, hop on a Greyhound to Bloomington and BOOM, i'm good. That "convincing Dr. Fraschillo" thing was a MAJOR hurdle. He would certainly blow his top and take away my scholarship for merely asking. I was one of three Freshmen in the Wind Ensemble stocked with graduate students and doctoral candidates. I couldn't show my "greenness" by asking to bail out on the biggest gig the Wind Ensemble had EVER played. 

But, I had to. Nothing was going to stand in my way of making this happen. If I didn't come to that camp they could get tired of me missing things. I didn't want to do anything to get on the wrong side of the coin with the powers-that-be at Star. There was no harm in asking Dr. F. Actually, there was, but I had to risk it. I had to risk the possibility of him gutting me like a freshly killed deer. I think this was the first instance, outside of a Quentin Tarantino movie, that a young, large black teen was afraid of a short, middle-aged Italian guy. It was more than that. Dr. Fraschillo was THE reason I was at Southern Miss. He is the one who plucked my from the throes of Mississippi Delta obscurity and gave me the means to improve my life with a fine college education. HE is the one who recruited me. I didn't want to let him down on this most important occasion. But, I had to give it a go. 


I waited outside of his office for what seemed to be an eternity. I made nervous small talk with the band secretary, Mrs. Denise Casey. She always had the unique ability to neutralize any situation with a cheerful anecdote or a quirky saying. She was always on your side, no matter how bad you'd screwed up. Chances are if you were "waiting" in her office, you've screwed up somehow and had to face "the man." She was The Pride's female version of St. Peter. She could tell you which way the wind was blowing right before your imminent demise. I was so nervous, I couldn't get a vibe from her on how Dr. F's day was going. Before I could get a good conversation going with her, Dr. F's door flings open. "Denise can you check on something for me... oh, hey Tony, what do ya need?" Dr. F says very cordially. Ok, whew, at least he wasn't angry, (or at least, not yet). "Well, I just needed to talk with you about something. It will only take a second," I said with the most nonchalance I could manufacture.
"Ok, just give me one moment. Go on in and sit down..." he said, again very convivially. He continued on with his directives with Mrs. Casey. I went in his office and sat down. 


The door closed by itself as if The Ghost of Impending Doom was sealing my tomb of the inevitable. I took a gander around this office that was laid out in some musical wizard's version of Feng Shui. I saw musical scores scatted about on his desk in a controlled chaotic manner. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror he used to practice conducting. I couldn't help but think, "there is the look of a dead man." The door swiftly swings open. "Man, y'can't find a damn bottle opener anywhere, huh?! I mean, it's like if you don't wanna drink a coke out of a damn can you can't drink one!" Dr. F stormed back in holding an unopened glass bottle of Coke. This diatribe seemed to had been invented instantaneously. He always had this bizarre character trait that made him rage on minutia without being provoked. Everyone found it charming. It was a part of his persona. I pretended to be equally hacked off by this in attempts to dull the guillotine that was slowly rising in my mind. 


"Yeah, I know. I just drink out of a plastic bottle..." I retorted. This attempt was so lame that it made him smile. "Ok, Tony, what's going on?" he responded. I started, "Well, you know I'm trying out for Star of Indiana, and..." "Yeeeah. I heard how's that going!!?!" he interrupted. Huh?! Why did ask that? "Very well! I made the group," I said. "Wonderful!" he interjected. What is going on? Why is he being so cool? Well, here's goes the punch. "Um, we have a camp on the same weekend as the CBDNA performance and I was wondering if I could leave after the performance to catch a Greyhound bus to Bloomington," I blurted. I just wanted to get it out there. Just roll the dice and deal with the fallout. "Sure! I don't see a problem with that," he said calmly. Whaaaat??? Did he just say "sure" and then some stuff after that? "In fact, Indiana University is playing there, too. I can call Ray Cramer and see if you can ride back with them," he added. 


This was crazy. Not only was I free to go, but he was trying to find me a ride. Wow. I was stunned. This was the equivalent of sitting in an electric chair and when they pull the lever, balloons fall from the sky. He shuffled through some papers and found the performance schedule for the convention. It turned out that IU's wind ensemble was performing on Saturday night. So, the option of riding back with them was out. But, that was minor. I was set. I just needed to get another bus ticket with my plastic get-out-of-jail card and do it! I walked out of his office in a daze. I had conquered my fear of the unknown, again.


The performance at CBDNA in Kansas City was magical! Two standing ovations! I had never seen Dr. Fraschillo beam with so much emotion during a performance. It was time for me to jet. I gathered all my stuff in the hotel room and came down to the lobby. I had to let Dr. F know I was leaving. I noticed he was sitting at a table in the lobby restaurant with Christian Lindberg and a few notable composers and directors. They were celebrating the fine performance. I didn't feel worthy enough to approach this table, but I had to. I couldn't just go AWOL. I was just going to go over and give him a heads-up and leave. I wanted to do it in the most non intrusive manner. A soon as I was in his sight line he says, "Hey, Tony! I tell ya, that was damn good job. You played the hell out of that Schuller piece. Right on the money!" he gleefully said. Huh?! I could tell that they had been partaking in a few libations. He was greeting me like a prodigal son. "Thank you!" I said. "I just wanted to let you know I'm a catching a cab to the Greyhound station," I continued. "Oh, yeah, man. You're going up to Indiana. Here man, let me give you some cash to get over there... you know where bus station is?" he said. He clumsily pulled a wad of cash out of his wallet and handed me two twenty dollar bills!!! This blew me away. For once, I was speechless. I couldn't say anything. I took the wrinkled bills and walked in the opposite direction. I really hope I said, "Thank you." 

Still stunned, I walked outside in the cold February air and hopped in a cab that was parked outside as if it were waiting for me. Had I unlocked some secret door that made all of this happen? Why were things falling in place so well? Not so fast. I arrived at the Greyhound station that looked like it was closed. I walked into the open door and there were two people occupying this dark, ominous building. There was a guy mopping the cold stone floors. I asked him where the ticket counter was. I told him my ticket was for a connection at 11:00pm. He pointed to a lady sitting outside of the locked ticket booth. As I was walking up to the booth, I noticed that a bus was pulling in. Was this my bus? The sign on the front of the bus said "Paducah." I was going to Bloomington. I asked the lady leaving the booth, "Ma'am, is this my bus?" I said pointing to my ticket. "Hold on," she said and disappeared into the small room behind the ticket booth. Ten minutes passed and she has not come back. The bus is pulling away. Well, certainly it's not my bus. It was there 30 minutes early and it was leaving before 11:00pm. MY bus was supposed to get there at 11:00pm. 


The lady reappears. "Ok, what choo need, baby? I gotta go home," she said annoyed. "I was trying to find out when my bus gets here." I said even more annoyed than she was. "Lemme see here," she said snatching my ticket from my hand. "Oh, baby, you needed to git on da Paducah bus. It done already left," she said passively. I could have strangled a bear at that moment. But, I knew arguing with her wasn't going to get me anywhere. I held my rage in. "What do I do now? I HAVE to get to Bloomington, Indiana," I went on. She took an ink pen and wrote some hieroglyphics on my ticket and handed back to me. "That'll get ya to Bloomington. You need to get on the Nashville bus when it comes, ok, baby?" she said as she was walking towards the door. Ok, so I AM getting to the camp. "Oh, when does that bus get here, " I said to the back of her head as she was leaving. "Eight da clock in da morning," she said as the door shut behind her. 8AM!!!!!! That's 9 hours from now. I can't get a cab back to the hotel and then get another cab to the bus station. That would completely deplete my already-low funds. So, there I slept. The Kansas City Greyhound bus station was my Ritz-Carlton for the night. I laid there on the stone cold floor as the janitor who had unknowingly made my mason-like bed, left for the night. 


I woke up the next morning to "people." People all around me. The sun was beaming down on my face. "Now loading for Nashville..." I heard over the PA that sounded much like the one in my elementary school. That was my bus!! I remembered. I stood in line with all the haggard travelers waiting to board. There is a distinct difference between "look" of air travelers and bus travelers. The line to my bus looked like a casting call for a Broadway production of "Oliver." There were punk rockers, guys talking to themselves, and ladies dressed like they were "working." There were elderly people whose every moved had to be prompted by their younger family companion. This was low rent, for sure. 


I noticed this very strange character. He had an army bag that seemed to be empty. Of course, he's carrying on a conversation with... no one. He is a mess from head to toe. On his feet: black combat boots. On his lower body: long, tight spandex pants that left nothing to the imagination. On his torso: a red-lace bustier and a leather jacket!! Arrrgh!! His hair looked like he had combed it with a towel. His face looked like had been hit with a fiery bag of dimes. The most awful physical characteristic of this grotesque, misbegotten "ballerina" was HIS NOSE WAS COMPLETELY MISSING ON THE LEFT SIDE!!!! Arrrrrrrghhhhh!!! It was the most ghastly thing I'd seen in my entire life. The sight of him was invoking my gag reflexes. And, of course, he wants to talk to me. 


I am terrified! This guy was straight out of Stephen King's creative muses. He had a toy Transformer in his hand. He tried to show me how cool it was. "See. Ya see. Ya see, man. It can be anything... ANYTHING... What ya want it to be? Huh?!" he said to me in a crazed, maniacal state. I didn't answer. I was horrified, mortified, stupefied and ill, all at once. He moved on to someone else. I pretended to see something up ahead and I broke line and just got on the bus. I was sweating. This was a real live horror film! Here I was, involuntarily cast in it! The driver gets on the bus. I'll give you one guess who was right behind him. You guessed it: Nasal Man! He is doing the same schtick with his malleable child's toy. "Sir, you gone have to sit down!" said the driver. Oh no! This FREAK was going to be in my same space for how ever long it took us to get to... wherever. He sat in a seat several rows behind me. Why is this happening?! Haven't I suffered enough!?

As the bus was rolling, this guy kept getting up and walking around with this Transformer toy. "See. Ya see. Ya see, man. It can be anything... ANYTHING... What ya want it to be? Huh?!" he was saying to anyone that would lift their head. "Sir, I told you to sit down. I ain't gone say it no mo!" the bus driver said sternly. I was glad to see the bus driver take initiative. Please throw this guy off! Please! The freak doesn't move a muscle. He just stares at the driver. The driver stares at him through the overhead rear view mirror."Oh yeah? No one tells me what to do, buddy!" the freak screams. He then does a frantic Rubix Cube style manipulation of the Transformer toy. This time... the shape he makes: is a gun.


Remember that expletive I had you insert? You'll need several of them...


(Part 7 - coming soon...)

(PART 5) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(make sure you read Part 4 before reading this.)

Failure was not an option. Literally, I felt as if my life depended on making this work. My biggest dream I had in my life at this point was within striking distance. Ironically, I was not going to let "no means to do it" stand in the way of me doing it. I need to call on some of that good ole resilience I used to get out of the Mississippi Delta and land a full music scholarship at The University of Southern Mississippi. I knew there was a way, it was just a matter of uncovering it. The clock was certainly ticking. I had less than one month to engineer this success. From that moment on, it was happening! There was no retreat!  I was not going to be one of those people that said they marched drum corps because they went to one camp. Not happening. 


How to do this? Well... Flying is out. Too expensive. I don't have a car and obviously, I can't buy a car. I don't have a job! Car... hmmm...??? I have to find another Chris Gilmore. Someone that wants to audition for Star that has a car. I spent the next week or so on a campaign around the school of music trying to convince everyone I knew with a working automobile that being in drum corps is a magical opportunity. I even tried to convince some woodwind players to switch to a brass instrument an tryout. "Lots of people have done that, " I said. "Where is your sense of adventure?" I encouraged. This quest was as futile as trying to teach a Negro Spiritual at a Klan rally! I was putting way too much effort into this. I needed to move on to Plan B. Unfortunately, there was no Plan B. There really wasn't a Plan A.


New focus. Who was at the camp that I knew? Aha! Steve Bennett!!! The baritone player from Columbus, Mississippi!!! If I could ride with him, all I had to do is get to Columbus, Mississippi. If I could pull this off, I would be set! Ok, how do I get Steve's contact information. Lions All-State Band is where I first met him... I still had the Lion's Band roster info from that past Summer. I went down the list. There it was: 10 digits that were like the Hammurabi Code of my success as I knew it. I called the number and asked to speak to Steve. It's his mother. His mother was a dean at the Mississippi University for Women in Columbus. As I talked with her and introduced myself and explained the purpose of my call, she told me that Steve was not home. He was in school at Itawamba Community College in Fulton, MS. Not very far from Columbus. I called Steve, made the arrangements to meet him in Columbus. We would go up together. Problem solved! Not quite. 


How do I get to Columbus?? That's 5 hours away. Sigh... On to the next obstacle. Aha! I remember taking trips to see my relatives in Chicago and Detroit with my grandmother when I was a kid. We always took the Greyhound bus. That's it! I'll take a Greyhound bus to Columbus, MS, drive up to Bloomington, Indiana with Steve, then ride back to Hattiesburg via Greyhound when we got back. This was bullet-proof! Yet one last obstacle was standing in the way. I've never purchased a bus ticket myself. My grandmother always took care of that when I was 7 years old, naturally. Even still, I was certain the tickets weren't free. I had no money on hand to buy this ticket. I couldn't get a job real fast at McDonald's and get paid all of a sudden. I needed the cash FAST! 


Now, what I am about to reveal to you would make Dave Ramsey, Suzie Orman and Clark Howard all roll over in their graves; if they were dead. I can pinpoint my current struggle with financial peace to this very moment in my 18 year old life. As I was walking to The Hub (which was Southern Miss' version of Grand Central Station) to check my mailbox, I noticed a little kiosk set up out front under a tent. Sitting behind a table at this kiosk was a California beach-blonde girl who was a perfect vision of beauty! Next to her was an even more beautiful redhead who seemed to be Michael Flatley's pick of the litter! I remember it being unusually warm for January in South Mississippi. I wasn't sure if this unusual heat spell had me hallucinating, but I could swear those girls were checking me out. I looked over trying to play cool just to sneak a peak at their beauty. Dude, they ARE checking me out! I gave my best Phillip Michael Thomas from Miami Vice half-smile with a "what's up" head nod. How cool am I? Wait... They are gesturing me to come over there! What?! "Me?" I point at my chest in utter disbelief. "Yeah!" they both yelled in unison. If I had ever been certain of any one thing: I was NOT going to keep these young ladies waiting. Over there, I went!


I'm walking in double time towards this tent. Then I realized, wait... you can't seem like an over eager dork. You've got to act like beautiful girls ask you to come meet them all the time! So, I slow down. Now. Get the theme music from Shaft going in your head.  Got it? Ok, read on... 
The mystique of what these sun-bleached princesses wanted with me was stirring up... we'll call it "adrenaline." Were they inviting me to a party? Did they just think I was that cool that they just had to meet me! Here we go! "What's up?!" I said. I'm certain my voice cracked like a nervous, 13 year old Jewish boy asking a girl to dance at his Bar Mitzvah. "Umm, do you want to sign up for a Chase Visa Credit Card? It's totally free!!" said the redhead, like she was reading it from a recently dropped cue card. "Yeah and you can pick your free gift. You have a choice between a free t-shirt or a water bottle..." added her redneck Pamela Anderson companion. Ok, remember how I had you play the Shaft music in your head? Ok, now yank the needle off of the record player. Screeech!!


"Umm... No... Sorry," I disappointedly answer. I started walking away in defeat. A defeat that was only composed in my own mind. As I was walking away, I realized how stupid I was to feel rejected. Then, it hit me! Credit Card?!? I could... This would... I could get... I know, you're waaay ahead of me. This was my gold pass to the financial sustenance I needed to buy my Greyhound ticket!!! I whip back around. "Ok, tell me more! What is the credit limit?" I eagerly ask. "Umm, how old are you?" Blondie asks. I was genuinely impressed at how she turned the word "old" into a three-syllable word. "I'm 18," I smirked; still amazed by her profound Dukes of Hazzard meets Gone With The Wind accent. "Okaaaaaaaaay, that limit is Faaaave Hun-erd Dawwwlers," she drawled after studying her chart like a poodle listening to its masters voice coming out of an answering machine. That's, $500 to you and me. Now, (for those of you that know me well) I fought every urge to tease this girl and get her going. I had to repress it for my own well-being this time. This Southern sorority version of Scarlett O'Hara was now my gateway to Star of Indiana. "How long does it take for the card to come in the mail?" I pushily inquired. "About a week," answered the ginger. I gave them my drivers license to scan on the copier they had on site and signed a few papers. And just like that, I was a member of the plastic society! A credit card, baby! And, somehow, I managed to get the T-shirt AND the water bottle! I'm not sure if it was my undeniable charm or the fact that they would do anything to get me away from them. Probably the latter...


One week later, as promised, BOOM! credit card! So, naturally, the first thing I do is get the Greyhound ticket, right? Nope! I call up my friend Nathan Aycock's sister, Emily (whom I was trying to get to go out with me) and take her out for dessert! You all know this girl as Emily Lymon. My wife now. I took her on a date that we could walk to. Again, no car and obviously no "game." We walk to Shoney's near campus for desert. I start telling her about how cool Star was, trying to impress her. Her brother had recently marched with the Cavaliers for 4 years and SHE was all about being a Cadet. I go on and on. I think now, looking back, I annoyed her more than made her like me. The next day, I get to the Greyhound station and buy my tickets. I don't remember how much they cost, but I remember it was my kind of price. The thought never crossed my mind of how I was going to pay this credit card bill. I had a pass to paradise... and a chocolate sundae.


Everything went as planned. On a Thursday morning in late January, I got on a Greyhound bus! It stopped at EVERY small town between Hattiesburg and Columbus. A 5 hour trip turned into a 10 hour trip! I got to Steve Bennett's mom's house. I slept that night, got up the next morning (Friday) and we drove to Starkville to pick up another person I didn't know that was at the December camp. This guy was Lance Britt. He was from Huntsville, Alabama and had just recently marched Magic of Orlando in their inaugural season last Summer. Awesome! That makes splitting the gas even cheaper. Keep in mind, in 1991, the price of gas was $.88 per gallon.


This camp was even better than the first one I went to. I felt at home. I got to be even better friends with all the kids in the pit. The cool thing at this camp was we got to go outside with the corps for the very first time with all the pit equipment! This was going to be awesome. I was going to get the full drum corps experience. Whoa! Wait a minute! It's 40 degrees outside. This Delta expatriate DON'T DO COLD!! I did cold. I shut up and dragged what seemed like a mile of percussion equipment outside. My hands were frozen! It hurt just to grab the ice cold metal equipment. Finally, we were set up. Cool! Star of Indiana! Here I was. In it. It was like I could hear the sounds before we made them. In fact, I really could! It was the sound of raindrops... Cold Indiana raindrops falling down on the instruments like an evil timpani roll preceding a villain in a play. The villain was here. Rain!!!! We scramble like Japanese townsmen in a Godzilla flick to get that mile of percussion equipment back into the building, -slipping and sliding up the muddy hill to the back of Star Hall. 


There we lay. A cold, exhausted, mud-covered, cadre of coughing co-eds lying on the floor of the pit room. The equipment was shoved in the room by any means necessary. It looked like a percussion factory had exploded. Just as I was about to catch my breath, I hear this strange voice, "Where de hell arrr the damn taaaaaaps! What happened to the damn taaaaaaps! You saaawr it was about ta rain and ya went out without the damn taaaaaaaaaps!" screamed this male voice in the most brusque Massachusetts accent I had ever heard. In walks this middle aged, balding guy who looked like someone had just asked him to fight. We all just laid there a looked at him. He hurried out of the room and immediately appeared again as a big glob of blue tarps. He throws them on the floor violently. "Don't go out without the damn taaaaaaaps next time!" he said and left the room. This was Eric Lund - the equipment manager for Star of Indiana. I had heard about him from the vets. I was told you do what ever you have to do to NOT make him mad. We certainly had made him mad.

We stayed in that room and dried off every piece of that percussion equipment. Every nook and cranny. Every cymbal. Every drum. Every mallet keyboard. It was all bone dry! This took us about an hour to do. It took several trips to the supply closet. Tons of rolls of paper towels. Alas, we were dry. We all had to change clothes to keep from tracking mud throughout the corps hall. By the time we were done, there was about an hour left of camp. The pit room door swung opened. It's Chris Lee. "Hey, guys we're going back outside for ensemble rehearsal. It stopped raining!" he said in a motivational tone. WHAAAAAA???! We just brought all this stuff in!! Surely, he was kidding! Nope, he wasn't. This was going to be a mutiny. Especially for the rookies. We had no idea that setting up and tearing down and moving 8 times was priority #1 in our job description. This was a shock to our system. "Maaaaaaaan, I ain't doing this..." Drew said to me. Is this what it was like all the time? This doesn't seem like much fun. All of a sudden, the romantic view of being in this group had faded... Is this how I want to spend my Summer? Am I busting my butt for something that I'm going to hate? I've got to think this through. For the first time, doubt had entered the equation. Doubt was winning. 


(Part 6 - coming soon...)

(PART 4) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(make sure you read Part 3 before reading this.)

Insert your favorite expletive (here)! Again, I can't be angry. I'm the quintessential "mooch" in this situation. If Chris did not have a car, I wasn't going to be in Star of Indiana. I had as much to do with running out of gas as anyone. I knew we needed gas to get back to Mississippi. This still doesn't stop me from being hacked off. Now, for some reason, in my head, I'm more mad at Ryan Duvall. I had to displace this anger on(in my mind)the most deserving person. I had come up with the irrational cognitive "concoction" of him sabotaging this whole trip as some sort of demented masochistic mental hootenanny. Logic, even in my silent rage, kept me from believing that someone had the power to control all of this.


We all took turns at swearing in the most ridiculous fashion. It became a sordid contest of who could string along the most unusual juxtaposition of "cuss words" (as we say in the South). I'm now ashamed to say I won this contest. One of my strings of expletives made everyone burst into laughter. The tension was diminished at least by half. It promulgated us to end the willful suspension of the inevitable - we had to get gas. Someone had to trudge through this violent deluge to bring back fuel. Remember: this is 1991. No cell phones, no GPS, no Google Maps, no OnStar and no internet. We were a band of late 20th century "frontiersmen" being held captive by technology yet to be discovered or invented. We knew of one bit of technology we could use - THE HAZARD LIGHTS!! At least this would let every traveler on I-65 South know that we were in distress and it would reduce the chances of someone slamming into the back of us on this waterlogged wasteland that used to be our pathway to opportunity.


"I'm goin' out." Chris Gilmore said. He felt the deepest sense of responsibility to right this wrong because, after all, it was his mom's van. Chris suits up in a rain/winter coat with several layers of makeshift insulation. Oh yeah, I failed to mention (but, I'm sure you've already guessed) this is the mid-west in December, too. The temperature outside was south of 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The wind was blowing sideways and it was raining so hard, you could barely see your hand in front of you. There were no signs of it "slacking up." The funny thing to me was, there was no heroic support moment of "No, man... I'll go!" or a "We should all go together!" No. Absent from this trek designed by Lucifer himself was an "I'm Spartacus" moment. We were not all going to walk the Appian Way! I think I mustered up a, "Dude, be careful..." to bring a faint semblance of humanity to our existence. With no response to my ill-fated attempt at support, Chris opens the driver door and every single person in the van was instantly soaked and freezing. We KNEW not to flinch or show any sign of discomfort. At least we had that much sense. Off Chris went.

Chris was the sole proprietor of manhood on this quest to get us back home. He was a modern day Meriwether Lewis on this "Clark-less" adventure. He may had taken 10 steps until someone pulled over to help! What?? Help? Yes! We see the snow beaten back bumper of a car with flashing lights. All of us lily-livered pansies in the van cheered like we were watching the final minutes of an Indiana Jones sequel! Chris hurriedly sprinted towards the car to quickly make up the gap from where he was. We all anxiously watched. We saw a few hand motions as Chris was talking to our unknown rescuer. All of a sudden, he starts walking back towards our van. What? He came back to the van and opened the door and stuck his head in. Again, the rain came pouring in. "She said she will only take me. She doesn't feel comfortable with all of us in her car." he informed us. "Ok," I thought to myself, "whatever gets us the gas!"

Bond Hall at So. Miss. Often referred to as "Bondage Hall"

Chris returns in what seemed like 5 minutes. I know it had to be longer, but the important thing was - we can now get home. As best as I can remember, the rest of the drive back to Hattiesburg was pretty uneventful. We stopped in Birmingham to drop Ryan off at a relative's apartment. I'll give you two guesses at who was waiting at his "relative's" apartment. Yes, his girlfriend. Glad that we were finally rid of this situation, we left and got back on the road. We finally arrive back in Hattiesburg. I was never so glad to see that prison-esque decorum of Bond Hall at Southern Miss. My journey had ended. I had accomplished my mission. As far as I was concerned, I had slam dunked this project from half court. I WAS A MEMBER OF STAR OF INDIANA!


As the weeks passed, I made sure that I had every note in order for the next camp. I was going to hold up my end of the bargain that I made to Chris Lee, the front ensemble tech. I would be the best guy in the pit if he gave me a definite spot. I would not make Chris Lee regret cutting that vet from Saskatchewan, Canada to make a spot for me. I would have it together. I ran into Ryan Duvall in passing a few weeks later. "Dude, I'm not going back to Star..." he said. After that followed a myriad of excuses and half-cocked lies. I tuned him out; all I could hear in my head was, "I don't have to deal with that crap again!" And, for that I was thankful. I wound up becoming roommates with Chris Prather, the trumpet player from Clinton. As we got closer to camp time, I could get the sense that he didn't want to go back. He kept mentioning how he didn't like putting up with the crap that the soprano tech, Barry Hudson, was giving him. I tried to convince him, but there was no doing it. "Yeah, me and Sean just didn't like it." he added. Me and Sean??? I'm quickly doing the math. That just leaves me and Chris Gilmore. Well, at least it's the guy with the van. Ok. As long as he's on board. 


In the next coming days, I just wanted to do a quick check on old Gilmore just to make sure that everything was cool. I went to his dorm room. I knock on the door. "Come in, it's open," Gilmore shouted through the prison grade thick door of his dorm room. What I saw when I opened the door was my entire world falling down again. I liken it to that scene in "Psycho" when you first see Norman Bates' mother's fully-dressed skeleton sitting in that eerie rocker. There sat Chris Gilmore in a full leg cast and crutches. It was one of those casts that looked like it was from Star Wars; a lot of metal and straps. Time to insert that expletive, again! "Man, so I guess you're not going to the next camp, " I said insensitively. "Nope. Doc says it's gonna be a while until I can get back up," Gilmore answered. 

Now, 21 years later I see where I should have had a better poker face than I did. Again, I couldn't be angry. I was the "mooch" in this situation. The parasite who just can't find a host that will sit still long enough. Now, I'm just a liar. I told everyone of those people in Indiana that had the key to my fate that I was going to be "the man." Now, I'm just another person who shows up and never comes back. A "one-camp-wonder." I made them believe in me. Suddenly, this became less about my desire to be a member of Star, but more about what kind of person I was going to be. I didn't want to be like everyone else. What about Granny? I TOLD her she was going to see me on TV. What about all my friends? I TOLD them I was going to be there. Most of all, what about myself. I TOLD MYSELF I was going to conquer this. 
This WAS going to happen. I would see to it. Nothing was going to stop my journey. But, here was reality putting up a grand road block: No money, no car and no parents to fund this project. 


how? How? HOW?!?!?


(Part 5 - coming soon...)

(PART 3) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(make sure you read Part 2 before reading this.)

Curiosity was getting the best of me. This brief encounter made me feel more at home in this Midwestern environment. I always thought of Indiana as a "frozen" Mississippi. The landscape seem to be the same; sans the snow. The accents were similar in most of the rural parts of Indiana. People were friendly and "homey." My comfort level was certainly elevated with this serendipitous encounter. 


"Yo, man. Hattiesburg?! Fa real? Whas yo name?" he started before fully entering the room again. "Tony Lymon." I answered. "John Corley. I'm the bass tech." he informed me. "You study with Sherman Hong?" he asked. "Yep!" i replied. John Corley. Definitely from Hattiesburg, for sure. He knew everything I knew about the area. With every word of this conversation, I become more and more certain that I was going to be a part of this group. I now felt like I had an ally in this uncertain war of notoriety and standing out from the crowd. But, there was still and unanswered question. How did a guy from Hattiesburg get the gig as a bass tech at one of the best drum corps in the country and I didn't know him? So, I unabashedly asked him, "How in the Hell did you get this gig? Did you go to USM?" I asked without flinching. "I marched bass at Garfield... Thom Hannum's like my daddy!" he said. 

If I could insert music here, I would. I guess I could add music, there is a button at the top of this form for it, but It would be too cheesy. If I did, it would be the sound of angels singing and birds chirping. I have watched Garfield Cadets and Cadets of Bergen County for YEARS!! I remember those black dudes on bass drum playing this crazy, stupid bass music that always blew my mind! Here I was, standing in front of, talking to one of them! AANNDDD, he's from Hattiesburg?! Crazy. This was my Michael Jordan, my Jerry Rice. This was a famous person in my own world. 


"That's cool..." I said, trying to play cool and not freak out like I was in my mind. "What choo tryin' out for, bro?" John asked. "Well, I really wanted to play timpani, but I heard that girl from Boston is here. So, I'm trying out for snare. I'm doing pretty good so far. But, I really like timpani. I ain't leaving here until I have a spot somewhere. I don't really care where it is." I said to him emphatically. Before I could finish he said, "Hold on..." He briskly left the room and came back with a companion. "Hey, Chris, man, 'dis my boy, Tony. He from Mississippi, too. He goes to Southern Miss and studies with Sherman Hong." he added. "Hi, I'm Chris Lee," said this guy who looked wildly familiar. "You're not Resphigi!" he joked. "Nah, just a joke." I said. "He wanna play timpani why don't you hook him up with an audition," John pushed through. 


"Chris marched Garfield with me, too. He was in the pit there." John continued. OHHHHHHH SNAPPP!! This was the guy who played all the crazy, fast xylophone licks on all the videos. He got all the camera time in the pit in 1987!! Here he was standing right in front of me! This was getting better by the minute! "Well, we don't really have a spot for a person who only plays timpani. You have to be good at EVERYTHING," Chris said. "You got anything worked up?" he added. "Yeah, I have timpani, mallets, snare and multi-percussion pieces ready to play." I said confidently, but not too much as to seem cocky. I could see the, "yeah, right" look in his eyes. I was quite used to this look. because of my physical appearance, you know: large black guy; people always underestimated my musical abilities. There was this time I was playing with the Mobile Opera Company, I walked in the door for the first rehearsal and the concertmaster immediately runs over to me and shows me to the electrical room of the theatre. "We're glad you're here!" she said frantically. "The air conditioner has been making this awful noise..." she said without even batting an eye. "Ma'am," I interrupted, "I'm the new timpanist."


I knew I had to be better than great at this audition. I waited for a second. Chris and John went to go assemble the powers that be. For some reason, I wasn't nervous. I'm not sure why. Here I was about to play for at least two of my heroes of DCI. "Ok, Tony. We're ready." Chris called. I walked into the room. Wow! All of the percussion instruments I saw on the video of Star from this past year. Those cool airport carts with the "Star of Indiana" logo painted on them. What a geek I was; starstruck by percussion instruments. Sitting in the room was Bob Dubinksi, Chris Lee and Thom Hannum. THOM HANNUM?!?!?! Holy Crap! I didn't know he was even with Star of Indiana! Now the pressure's on. This is the first time I felt a tinge of anxiety. Seeing Thom in that room was like seeing The President or The Pope or something like that. 


"Hi, Mr. Hannum." I said nervously. "Haha. Just call me Thom. Mr. Hannum's my dad!" he jokingly responded. Ok, that was cool. "You gonna come back to Southern Miss and give us another clinic?" I asked trying to break the ice. "Thom" had come Southern Miss that past February while I was a senior in high school. I was a member of the All-South Honor Band hosted by the Southern Miss School of Music and he was the guest clinician for the percussionists. "You're from Southern Miss? Sherman Hong..." he said. My studio professor, Sherman Hong, was a well known percussion judge in DCI. He was infamous for slamming groups if you weren't absolutely perfect. "Ahhh - Ah Shermah Ah- Hong!" Dubie started with a ridiculous Chinese accent. "Yeah, man. It was a lot of fun.  I hope they ask me back," Thom said. "Ok, let's hear some stuff." Thom added instantly.


I began to play. I started with timpani. I played a piece that I wrote specifically for this audition. I wanted to be able to show them all I could do in about 1 minute. They laughed several times while I was playing. I didn't really know how to take it at that moment. I soon found, that was their way of appreciating my playing. They had me play a little part of the timpani piece again. "That's pretty damn cool, that part." Thom said. Thom Hannum said something "I" wrote was cool?? Wow! Next, I played marimba. I started with "Yellow After the Rain" by Mitchell Peters because I knew I could play that without thinking about it. 5 notes into it, I hear, "Cut!!!!" from all three people in the room. "Play something else, please. You got anything else?" Chris Lee says. "Yellow After the Rain" is the "Freebird" of marimba I found out at that camp. So, I start into Movement I of "Two Mexican Dances for Marimba" by Gordon Stout. This was a pretty advanced piece. It certainly wasn't as "automatic" as the Peter's piece, but it was close enough as I was still working it out. They liked it! I finished off with some multi-percussion pieces. 


"I think you're gonna be a great asset to the group. Just come in here with the pit after lunch." Thom said. I got nods all the way around from the three percussion kings evaluating my performance. Just like that; I as trying out for the pit. What I always wanted! That girl from Boston (who I later found out was Julie Angelis, sister of Nick Angelis)never showed up.


"Yo, Tone, before you go... walk over there and hit that concert bass drum as hard as you can." Thom said. What? Why? Huh? Well, at this point I needed to do whatever they asked. I went over... BOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!!!!! "Holy Canoli!" Dubie exclaimed. After that, Thom calls the entire percussion staff into the room. Now it's Thom Hannum, Brent Montgomery, Pat Scolin, John Corley and Chris Lee. "Hey guys, check this out..." Thom says. Again, BOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!! Dust fell from the ceiling! They all explode in laughter. And, that was it -my coronation into the Star of Indiana Front Ensemble Percussion. So, does that mean I'm in? They didn't say I was terrible. I guess. I'll know soon. I hear over the PA system, "Ryan Duvall you have a call at the office, Ryan Duvall..." That was the Ryan I rode there with. hmmm... Lunch is done. 

Now I'm in the room with the pit. The vibe was totally different than in the snare room. Chris Lee was very entertaining with his sarcasm in teaching the pit. "Hey everybody, this is Tony Lymon ...from Mississippi, right?" Chris introduced. "He's auditioning in here now," he went on,"strap in!" Chris finished. "Hi, Tony!" said this beautiful girl with sparkling eyes and personality to match it. "I'm Jen!" she said."Jen Koening. It's not like KO-nig, it's like KAY-nig," she added. "Yeah, ummm, whatever," said a voice from the other side of the room. I look over and see this skate punk/surfer/mohawk guy with big thick glasses. I couldn't help but notice him scratching his groin area as if it were not inappropriate. Then, I hear, "PRRRRRRRRRRRRRRttt!" Everyone cracks up with laughter. This guy just ripped one and a sickening smell immediately owned the room! Everyone is covering their noses. Dying in hysterics, "I'm Drew..." and he extends his hand out to me for a shake. I knew this was where I belonged. This guy, Drew Schnieders from Crittenden, Kentucky, a fellow rookie, later became my best friend. And his mom, became my mom. Mama Drew.

This was it. I was having the time of my life playing with this great group of musicians. Jen Koenig from Las Cruces, New Mexico, Drew Schnieders from Crittenden, Kentucky, Jane Clark from Boonville, Indiana, David Harper from Cincinnati, Ohio, Kim Pass from Andover, Massachusetts, Scott Harris from Amherst, Massachusetts, Brent England from Bloomington, Indiana, Jeff Briney from Newport Beach, California, Mark Roddy from Columbia, South Carolina and Steve Ulicny from Youngstown, Ohio. 


Then from here on out it was a series of freaky encounters with people I knew or had some connection with. I was standing in line for dinner and I see this girl with platinum blonde hair. The kind of blonde that you have to stare at because it stands out from everyone! She sat down in front of me at the dinner table. "Hey, you're that girl!" I said. "Hey, you're that guy!" she replied. This was Angie Mefford a mellophone player from Union, Missouri. One random day in the Fall, I met her at Southern Miss in the band office. She was there for a campus visit. She was transferring to Southern Miss after this Summer. Wow! What are the odds. Later that night. I see this skinny little guy who was obviously in high school. He was a baritone player. Ok, so this kid has on a Southern Miss sweatshirt. Now it's just freaky. "Hey, where did you get that USM shirt from?" I asked. "I grew up in Sumrall, Mississippi. My mom and I just moved to Newburgh, Indiana and I go to Castle High School." This guy was a young Wes Morehead, whom I later went to Southern Miss with and became one of my best friends. Not 10 minutes pass until I see another familiar face. Steve Bennett a Euphonium player from Columbus, Mississippi whom I met in the 1990 Mississippi All-State Lions Band. Wow! Incredible! I was not alone. I now didn't feel the burden of holding up Mississippi's reputation on my shoulders.


Later that night, we went to the field house at Indiana University because the corps was learning drill sets. The pit went along, but we could not play. I wandered around by myself a little just exploring this unknown place. Just thinking about the possibilities. Was I going to be in? Did they tell everyone "you're going to be a great asset to the group?" Can I allow myself to go ahead and get excited about this? Not realizing how much time had passed, I decided to navigate myself back to the center of the action. I sit down on the turf next to a stately older man dressed in all blue. He was wearing steel-framed spectacles with a pocket protector nestled neatly in the front slot of his crisply starched shirt. Like most grandpa-like men, he looked on to the corps "pretending" to know exactly what was going on. I always found this endearing. They are so supportive of their "yungin'" that they will play the part. This man had a very inviting presence.

"What's you're name, young man?" he asked. "Tony Lymon." I replied. "Where ya from?" he continued. "Greenwood, Mississippi." I answered again. "Ohhh, Greenwood. Lotta cotton crop there." he went on, "I remember going down there..." We talked for about 10 minutes. This man seemed like America's grandpa. The kind that would always give you a dollar or two for just you being his grandkid. I mainly liked him because he laughed at all my attempts at humor. There was one time he laughed so hard that it continued over a cutoff from the horn line. Everyone in the corps looked over to where we were sitting. Great! Now, I've made someone's grandfather disturb rehearsal. I finally had to ask, "Are you a volunteer? Do you have a kid in the corps?" I asked. "Well, I guess I'm a volunteer, Tony. I started Star of Indiana back in '84. I'm Bill Cook." he told me. OHHHHHHH CRAAAAPP!!!! STRIKE TWO!!!! I was talking to Bill Cook. You know, Bill Cook, the billionaire and founder of Star of Indiana!! The Founder of the multi-national company Cook Group, Inc. The Bill Cook who appears in the Fortune 500 Magazine's Wealthiest Americans on the same page with Oprah. THAT Bill Cook. Here I was, a nobody from the Mississippi Delta, asking him if he was a janitor for the most part. Sigh... The "foot sandwich" was beginning to taste terrible. "No, no... Tony, don't worry about that. I just love drum corps!" he attempt to soothe. We get back to the corps hall just in time for lights out. I hear over the PA system again, "Ryan Duvall you have a call at the office, Ryan Duvall..." What is going on? 


We wake up the next morning (Sunday) and it's time for the community showers again. I have to admit, that took some getting used to. Another time, I hear, "Ryan Duvall you have a call at the office, Ryan Duvall..." Was something wrong? Everyone in the pit was required to do an exit interview before they left. This was basically to let you know your status before the next camp. They would let you know if you were cut or invited back and what you needed to work on for the next camp. I'm sitting at the breakfast table and all the guys I rode there with approached me. "Dude, Ryan's dad had a heart attack. We have to leave." Chris Gilmore said. What??? I was torn between concern for Ryan's dad and the fact that we got to the camp late and now we we're leaving early. Well, I had to go let Chris Lee know. He gave me my interview early. He went to go get my audition card. While I was waiting, Jen Koening came over with her instant charm. "You're a really cool guy. You're going to make it, I don't know what you're worried about. I'm worried about you taking MY spot!" she giggled. Jen was going into her 3rd year of being in the corps and in the pit. There was no way she was getting cut. But I could tell she was just making me feel at home. I appreciated that. "You are amazing! I'll see you at the next camp!" she said as she went into the pit room to warmup. "I hope so..." I said sotto voce. She didn't hear that.


Chris was back. We sat down in the hallway. Before he started I apologized profusely. He proceeded to tell me how well the audition went for me and how I would make a great addition to the group if I continued to work. All of which I was flattered by. I never heard what I wanted to hear: "You are in The Star of Indiana." I had to break it down for him. "Am I definitely in the group?" I asked emphatically. "Well, we don't guarantee ANYONE a spot," he came back, "not even vets. We want you to continue to work hard at each camp and show improvement..." he went on. I couldn't operate with that uncertainty. I just boldly came out and said, "Look, I really need to know. I have no car, no money, nothing. I'm going to make this happen and I am going to be the BEST member of this group. All I need you to do is to tell me I have a spot. That's all." I said starring him dead in the eye. "Ok. You're in. You're the only person I have said that to. We were looking for a guy who was all around on every instrument and you just fell out of the sky. Don't let anyone know that I have told you this." he stated. "I won't, " I said, "I just needed to know I am working my butt off for something that's definite!" I said. "So, do you age out this year or do you have two more years?" he asked inquisitively. "Chris, I'm a freshman, I just turned 18 last month." I said. Chris looked as if he had just won the lottery! He then proceeded to write a bunch of "pluses" on my card with a red pen. "Dude! this is good... pshh... see you at the next camp!" he said. 


Off we went, 5 dudes in a minivan back to Mississippi. I noticed that Ryan was as not as "affected" as I thought someone would be if their dad was on the brink of death. I didn't think much of it. I had accomplished what I set out to do: leave Indiana as a member of Star of Indiana. My heart was pounding, my brain was racing and my spirit was certainly soaring. I was content. Yet another moment where God has just set me up. This simple kid from the Delta with a broken past, would now be on the DCI TV broadcast just like I promised Granny. 

We're blazing down the interstate each of us with a different account of how the camp went. It seemed no one in the van had a story like mine. It's now starting to rain... HARD!!! We start asking Ryan about his dad. He had very little information. We came to find out that Ryan's girlfriend made the whole thing up. She was a known pyscho girlfriend. She couldn't stand to be away from him while we were in Indiana! She was the one calling the corps hall. Keep in mind this was before everyone had a phone in their pocket. This caused major tension in the van. Ryan was also a hot head. We all agreed if we were going to make it back to Hattiesburg as friends we were going to just drop it. We started back into a road game we were playing. One person started with a letter and we went around the van with each person adding another letter to that with the intent to spell a word. If you were challenged, you had to say what the word was you intended to spell or you would be out. YAWN!! Yep, I know. It's actually a really good game to pass the time. Now it's raining SO HARD we're hydroplaning on the interstate a bit. As we continue with the game, we forgot one thing on this lonely stretch of Kentucky highway... we forgot to gas up. Yep you guess it... DING! DING! DING! The car goes dead and we have to pull over on the side of the interstate. Torrential downpour. No gas station in sight. Not for miles. *#$*%#!!!


Part 4 - Coming Soon...

(PART 2) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

(make sure you read Part 1 before reading this.)

1991 Star of Indiana

I've never doubted the existence of God. I've always known His divine presence. Just when I think I'm out of it, something always happens to get me to the path that opens doors for me. I may not really see it then, but retrospectively, I can recall numerous accounts. Analyzing all of these moments, I can see they have always been major life altering events. This was certainly one of them.

I left Chris' dorm room down and out. With every step, gravity was sinking in. The gravity of improbability. It was pretty easy to be consumed by self pity at this point. Here's the moment that changed everything. As I was walking down the hall, I passed by one of my friend's room and I notice a lot of people in his room. This guy was Chris Gilmore, a trombone player from Pensacola, Florida. He was a fellow Freshman music major at Southern Miss. I really hadn't talked to him very much. I knew him in passing from marching band rehearsal and just exchanged greetings with him from time to time. In the room was all Freshman music majors. Chris Gilmore. Chris Prather, a trumpet player from Clinton, Mississippi. Sean McCartney, a trumpet player from Pensacola, Florida. Ryan Duvall, a trumpet player from Pensacola, Florida. I know, at lot of Chrises and a lot of trumpets and a lot of Pensacola. Stay with me.

"What's going on guys?" I said, attempting to change my mindset. I figured with this cast of characters, they were plotting something that would take me out of my current "funk.""I'll be honest with you, guys," I added, "I'm pretty hacked off right now. I was supposed to ride up to Rockford with Chris Fox to the Phantom camp and he just dropped a bomb on me that he's flying..." They all looked at me as if I had an answer to a million dollar question. "Well, dude, we were just trying to find one more person to help out with gas. We're going up to tryout for Star of Indiana," Gilmore replied. WHHHHHAAAAAAATTTT??????!!!! "Yes! I'm in! Yep! Count me in. Just tell me what time and where to be!"I shouted. Here it was: my chance. I went from no hope to all the hope in the world AND Star of Indiana!

The plans were being made. The camp happened over the Christmas break at Southern Miss. The marching band had been called to come in, also, for the All-American Bowl in Birmingham, Alabama. That game was on Friday -THE FIRST DAY OF THE STAR CAMP! Another obstacle. Well, we decided that we were going take Chris Gilmore's mom's minivan. He would drive it to Birmingham and we would leave after halftime of the game for Bloomington, Indiana. And so, we did. This is a worried mother's nightmare, mind you. A bunch of college boys leaving on an 8 hour trip in the middle of the night. Off we went. I immediately fell asleep in the back of the minivan. Those of you that know me well (which, I guess, if you're reading this, you do) know that I can fall asleep under any conditions. I woke up to snow in Louisville, Kentucky. Awesome! I knew it wouldn't be long. We called the corps hall to tell them we would be in Saturday morning.

A view from the back of Star Hall.

We finally arrived! There is a certain nostalgia I have associated with that first voyage as we pierced our way through the haunting grey of the thick fog that owned the sky of this dreary Indiana winter morning. Ironically, the corps hall seemed so still and peaceful in its solitude of this countryside set off from the highway. I could hear the muffled sounds of drums and brass escaping through the alabaster brick walls. This vacated elementary school seemed so purposefully planted in a snowy nest of brown grass. The only thing that shared this open space was a tiny little chapel coupled with a ancient cemetery. This is how I romantically remember this scene. But, the fact of the matter was: We were late! Not only late, but we didn't come to the first camp in November. We had some making up to do upon entering the building. I came prepared to make this corps. I originally wanted to play timpani. I had some inside information that there was a girl from Boston Crusaders that was coming to Star to play timpani. She had just placed 2nd overall in the DCI solo competition that past summerl. I didn't think I stood a chance against someone that already had experience. I knew that the corps lost several veteran snare drummers from the past season, so I figured I had a better chance at making snare. I was a pretty good snare drummer, as well. I also came prepared with several mallet pieces and multi-percussion. I was not leaving Indiana without a spot in this corps.

The hallowed halls of Star Hall.

After we registered and got our stuff settled in, it was time to play. Off to the snare room. I open the door to wall-to-wall snare drummers! Apparently, everyone else had the same idea I had after seeing Star this past Summer. Sheesh. Ok, I just have to be better than everyone in here. I can do this. There must have been 60+ people trying our for 5 spots. Only 8 at time were on actual snare drums. The rest were on these saw horse type boards that had been surfaced with a thick layer of rubber. I handed my audition info card to the snare tech, Pat Scolin. He glances over the card. "Hmmph, Southern Miss, huh?" he belted. "Brett Favre is a helluva quarterback!" Pat squealed. "Umm, yep! I guess he is..." I agreed, never really paying attention to many of the Southern Miss football games while in the Pride at that point. Then Pat gives me a chance. "Hey, why don't you hop on a drum and let's see what you can do, Mississippi!" he said. Oh, crap. Now I'm representing an entire State of people. Luckily, it was a simple 8s exercise. In walks Bob Dubinski, the percussion caption head. I was easy to spot as being new because, well... I was the only black guy in the room. I was used to that, though. "Who's the new guy?" Bob asked before we played a note. "Southern Miss!" Pat quickly replies. Ok, now I'm representing the university, which I guess is easier than one of the most historic States in the union.

"Tony!" Bob says in an overdone Italian accent. "Where's you're-a name-a tag, Tony?" he continues -still with the Italian schtick. "I-a don't got one," I answered in a thicker, even more profound Italian accent. "Wise guy, eh?! Let's play." Bob continues. Bob Dubinski was just known as "Dubie." Things went pretty well. I stayed on the drum, even as others were being switched in and out. It was me and the few returning vets that stayed on the drums for that block.

Ottorino Resphigi - Not me!

It was time for the lunch break.  I knew the first thing I needed to do was to get a name badge!! For sure! I went to the registration desk and got a name badge and being the "wise guy" I was, I put "Ottorino Resphigi"on the tag. That year Star of Indiana played "Pines of Rome" and "Roman Festival" -you know the music of the dead Italian composer, Ottorino Resphigi. Lunch wasn't quite ready, but one thing sure was: a brand new set of timpani in the lunch room. They were still packed in crates. I noticed a guy, obviously someone's dad, unpacking the cellophane wrapping off of them. "You need some help with that?" I asked, just trying to get a peak at the new kettles. "Sure! You can do the whole thing if you'd like!" this "dad" says. "Cool!" I jumped in and unwrapped. I couldn't wait to see what a brand new set of timpani looked like! "So, do you have a kid in the corps? Are you a volunteer?" I asked, trying to be cordial. "Well, no, I'm Jim Mason. I'm the director of Star of Indiana." he informed. GASP!!!! STRIKE ONE!!!! One thing you should probably know is WHO THE DIRECTOR IS. Embarrased, I apologized profusely. I don't think he thought anything of it. He chuckled and hurried off to other imminent tasks.

I stayed and continued unwrapping these percussive presents that weren't even marked for me. As I continue, I hear this hi-pitched male voice say, "Southern Miss? You from USM? Hattiesburg?" in an unmistakable Southern turned Northern turned back Southern again voice. I turned around to what seemed at the time to be the only other black man in Southern Indiana. "Yep! How do you know about Southern Miss?" i asked incredulously. "I graduated from Hattiesburg High School!" he quickly replied. As soon as I could be shocked by this, Mr. Mason hurried back into the room. "John, we need to have a quick staff meeting." Mason said. "Hang on, Mr. Hattiesburg. I'll be right back... I want to talk to you." Who was this guy? How could there possibly be someone from my area up here that I didn't know. Certainly, he didn't still live in Hattiesburg or I would know him. Who was this unknown black male drummer from Hattiesburg that wasn't me?????

(Part 3 coming soon...)

(PART 1) How DCI and Star of Indiana changed my life

December 1986. This was the end of my 8th grade year. I tend to look at my school years in terms of my involvement in band. This was a major adjustment for me as I would be going into the high school band. Was I ready? I was certain of it. I was watching television; flipping through channels. Yes, I was actually "flipping" through channels. No remote control for me! In my flipping through the 12 channels we had, I noticed what was unmistakably and "marching band." Marching band?!?! I turned back quickly. Just from the first few seconds, I could tell that this was no average marching band. They were INCREDIBLE! The precision they had, the power of their sound, the energy they exuded was like nothing I had witnessed.

They finished the song to thunderous applause. Why is this marching band being shown on TV so long? I am used to seeing college halftimes for only a few seconds and then the commentators interrupt with their half-cocked analysis of a football game. Now, suddenly it was time for the drums to do a solo feature. Sooo many drummers! They all seemed to be in perfect sync with each other. They are playing as fast as I could only dream of in my 8th grade brain. These guys were blowing my mind! I saw xylophones and timpani and cymbals and percussion instruments i'd never seen before. Who are these guys? What college band is this? At the end of their performance, they announced, "The Blue Devils!!!" Wow! Duke has an amazing band!

Well, of course, I came to find out that the "band" I was watching was The Concord Blue Devils from Concord, California and the show I was witnessing for the first time was the 1986 Drum Corps International World Championships. I watched the rest of the program. I was in love with a new art form. Or, at least new to me. DCI was the gold standard of what I had chosen to be my craft of choice. I had to get more of this. This was, obviously, before YouTube. I had to wait and "check my local listings" for when this event would come on PBS again. Every year since then, I made my grandmother and my aunt (who raised me) sit down and watch the entire broadcast. EVERY year. This was MY Superbowl! Every year, after every show, I would say, "Granny, you are going to see me on TV one day! Doing this! Just you wait."

Summer 1990. The summer after my senior year, my best friend, Russ Russell asked me if I wanted to go to Birmingham, Alabama to go see DCI South. Well, yeah! It would be my first time to see drum corps live! The excitement was killing me! The first corps takes the field. It was Southwind from Montgomery, Alabama. Ummm. This isn't what I saw on TV... They were very small and resembled my high school band. But later on, the big boys took the field. Santa Clara Vanguard from Santa Clara, California. The Cadets of Bergen County, New Jersey. I looked at my program trying to figure out when I could go use the bathroom and get a hot dog. Up next: The Star of Indiana. Blaahhh! I remember them from last year on the TV broadcast. They did the British Show and I HATED IT!!! This was my time to go.

I had found one of my newly made friends, Jim Moore, a drummer from Bay-St. Louis, Mississippi that I'd met at various clinics and really got to know better in the 1990 Mississippi Lions All-State Band. We got into a deep conversation about how what our freshman year at Southern Miss was going to be like. I had completely forgotten about the bathroom and the hot dog break I was supposed to get done during Star of Indiana's forecasted boring performance. We're still talking and I hear the tinkling of church bells seeming to be coming from everywhere. I look up to the mighty bold purple, gold and wine red Roman Soldiers. "Star of Indiana, you make enter the field in competition!" says the announcer. The next 10+ minutes changed me forever. It was THE most edifying marching music experience I had at that moment. The power of the this group and their presence was from another world as far as my young eyes and ears could perceive. This was IT! After this performance, I turned to Jim and said, "You are going to see me in this corps NEXT YEAR!"

Fall 1990. After much consideration, it just looked like Star of Indiana wasn't going to be a possibility. I had no car. I had no money. I had no parents that would fund this activity. So, I had to figure this out. I met a guy in the Pride of Mississippi marching band named Chris Fox from New Orleans. He was in the Phantom Regiment from Rockford, Illinois just that past summer. I convinced him to let me ride with him to the second audition camp in December. Perfect! I could earn enough money to help him with gas to get there. What about the $1,000+ dues it cost to march with the corps? Well, I'd just cross that bridge when I got to it. I really wanted to play snare drum, but I knew that probably wasn't a possibility because I knew Marty Hurley (the percussion caption head at PR and Chris Fox's high school band director at Brother Martin High School in NO) usually had a long line of his students ready to fill spots every year. I was also a REALLY good timpanist. I had inside info that their timpanist had just aged out. (You were not eligible to march after you turn 21, at that time.) I called Marty Hurley and talk with him and he was awaiting my arrival at the next camp. We are a GO!

Fast-forward to 2-weeks before the camp. I went to Chris' dorm room which was one floor level above mine in Bond Hall at USM. "Hey, man. I'm pretty excited about going to Rockford. I have the cash to help out with gas money!" I said excitedly. "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. I'm flying to this camp." Chris said lifelessly. WHAT?!?! My dreams of being in a drum corps was done. Just like that. I knew I couldn't afford a plane ticket. I'm done! Kaput! I had no response to this. I couldn't be angry at him. I was the mooch in this situation. I was the parasite and the host had moved on.

Not sure what to do now...

(Part 2: Coming Soon...)