(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...)