Heartbreaker

End of the cruise

You spend weeks, months, riding ships and buses, playing two, three shows a day with the same bunch of guys, sleeping next to them, eating with them, cursing them, smelling them, fighting with them. Some shows bring crowds of thousands to their feet; others barely attract the attention of a couple of streetwalkers and a guy with a push-broom.

You think the punishment will never end, but eventually you get back home, run down the gangplank and take off on a hard-earned 48-hour liberty. Freed from close confinement with the idiot brigade, you hit the beach, reveling in your freedom until the town closes down and you go home to hit the rack.

You wake up late the next morning, stretch, take a deep breath and it hits you: fifteen other guys aren't stinking up the room with body odor, onion rings and lousy jokes. You roll out of the rack and there's nobody there to try to mooch money off you. You shuffle into the head and don't have to wait on line. You stand there in your skivvies, staring at the wall, and you say to yourself:

"Now what?"

Kids among goats

During the Saturday night dinner/dance, some bold members of the Fleet Forces band summoned up the courage to join us on the bandstand. First, a young MU took a spot in the trombone section, next a drummer climbed aboard and pretty soon half the NMA Big Band was sporting flashy crackerjacks and youthful enthusiam.

"...to emphasize the importance of music in the Navy"

ADM Jonathan W. Greenert wanted a ticket to the Saturday Night Dinner/Dance of the 2009 reunion of the Navy Musicians Association.

The admiral got his way, perhaps because we were playing in his backyard; he's the Commander of U.S. Fleet Forces Command, formerly known as the United States Atlantic Fleet.

Admiral Greenert sees the Fleet Forces Ceremonial Band regularly; it is, after all, his band. Yet, I doubt he has ever seen  the band greeted with greater appreciation than that shown by the Navy Musicians Association on Saturday night. The applause began as the first piccolo player entered the ballroom, grew to a roar as bandsmen followed in single file, and by the time the last tuba player came through the door, the ballroom was awash in a tidal wave of appreciation. It is not often that a Navy band earns a standing ovation before playing. 

In a few weeks, ADM Greenert will move to the position of Vice Chief of Naval Operations, a job in which he will deal with the perennial proposals to cut bands and reduce their funding. I can't help thinking that when such paperwork comes across his desk, he'll remember the Fleet Forces Band's stirring rendition of "Army of the Nile" and the wild applause that followed the closing chord.

The mission of the Navy Musicians Association is, in part, "to emphasize the importance of music in the Navy." I'd say that by showing Admiral Greenert our appreciation of the professionalism and artistry of the Fleet Forces Band, we completed our mission.

Although we'll never know, perhaps our efforts will, in some small way, help prod ADM Greenert to increase music program funding. Who knows; maybe he'll even get the NMA some new stand lights and an electric piano with a functional middle "c."

Hey, I'm thinking big.

Got videos?

The lounge and rehearsal spaces of the Holiday Inn were visited by quite a few MUs with video cameras last week.

We want to see them. Especially videos.

(Sure, we like photos, too. Go ahead, send me the URL to your online albums, and I'll link to it).

But We Want Videos. Got a video from the NMA reunion on YouTube or similar video host? Send me the URL.

Max Murray, for instance, sent me the embedded link to a YouTube clip of me demonstrating the one-chord guitar technique that got me where I am today, As a self-sacrificial Jesus-like exemplar of humility, I've linked to it a few posts below, so you can see the awesome results you'll get if you send me your video links.

Put 'em up on any video hosting site--YouTube is a favorite--and tell me where they are. It's that simple.

Like playing the guitar.

After the Ball is Over

The band has taken the coda and played the stinger. Ambrose O'Donnell and a few NMA stalwarts are unplugging stand lights and packing up fronts. Although a few MUs are still in the lounge telling tales, the reunion is over.

Executive Vice-president Bob Leketa has flopped himself onto a bench in the surprisingly cool night air in front of the restaurant. "This is my favorite part of the reunion," he says.

By the time you and I show up with our horn cases, ready for a four-day squall of NMA music and camaraderie, Bob has been working for an entire typhoon season. During the reunion he is always three places at once, meeting with the board of directors, the hotel management and staff, putting out fires before anyone notices the smoke.

So we'll pardon Bob if he looks a little sleepy as things wind down. Besides, we want him rested up; the work for next year's reunion begins approximately tomorrow.

What happens on the road . . .

. . . gets plastered all over YouTube.

Pity the woman

I'm getting on a plane in a few hours, leaving Virginia beach and going home to my wife.

I pity her.

She put up with two weeks of listening to my incessant blathering about the NMA, the reunion, who was coming, who wasn't. No matter what she tried to change the subject, it was All Reunion, All the Time.

Jo: Did you put the recycling out? Tomorrows's pickup day.
Me: I wonder if John Hanson will be there.
Jo: I'm thinking about getting a new mattress.
Me: I heard Ed Henson might come; I haven't seen him since San Francisco.
Jo: A gorilla climbed on the roof last night and did the lambada with Chief Justice Roberts.
Me: Max Murray says he's coming for sure.

I don't know if she realizes it, but now she'll get another two weeks of this, worse weeks because I have so much more information to work with.

What did she do to deserve this?

Sorry, Ambrose

Deb Holl emailed me that in an earlier post, I misnamed the NMA's Equipment Manager as Ambrose Clark.

Ambrose O'Donnell manages our gear and works behind the scenes to get things where they need to be. Ambrose Clark was the industrial arts instructor at North Shore High School in 1966.

I've corrected the error. But I'm worried about the future of someone who can forget the name of a guy  he just spent a week with, yet remember the name of his old shop teacher.

Evening Colors

Look it up

bittersweet:

1: A poisonous Eurasian woody vine (Solanum dulcamara).

2: Being at once bitter and sweet; pleasant but including or marked by elements of suffering or regret.

3: Staying in a hotel an extra day after the Navy Musicians Association reunion has ended.

What's in a name?

They used to call it the CINCLANT band.

A while back its name was changed to the Fleet Forces band.

Last night we called it the best damn band we'd ever heard.

Period.

Ah, youth

The young MUs from the Fleet Forces band did their best to keep up with us on the bandstand . . .

. . . and on the dance floor.

Listen up, you ingrates

My email box is jammed with your petty complaints.

Why aren't you posting more pictures? Whi-i-ine.

You said you would post more today. Sni-i-ivel.

But you pro-o-omised!

I've been working my ass off for you since Monday. For you. Not me. You.

For days I've been rehearsing, performing, chasing down bass players, borrowing gear, wecloming newcomers and--AND--blogging into the wee hours to bring highlights of the reunion to you lazy ingrates who stayed home to sit on your fat butts pointing your remote controllers at your big-frigging-screen televisions.

I did it for you. Not me. You.

Last night I closed down the bar, saying goodbye to the scores of my shipmates who have been working like active duty dogs to make this reunion a huge success. I was up until 0230, downloading files so I can continue to fill this site with photos and vivid prose.

For you. Not me. You.

I finally slept past 0500 this morning, halfway caught up on a week's worth of sleep, and turned on the computer. And what did I find?

Bitch. Moan. Whine. ComplainGrouseHarpSnivelSnivelSnivel.

Do you think this makes me want to ever again go through the hassle of taking pictures, interviewing, writing, editing and posting highlights of these reunions for the benefit of selfish SOBs like you--not me, you?

The answer is, emphatically, yes.

Thanks for writing. I really appreciate it. Yesterday, Navy Lyres received 83 visits from you, my shipmates, who couldn't get here in person. I hope I've helped to make you feel, at least a little bit, a part of the action. A lot of the talk during the week was about who's been in touch with you, what's going on in your lives and our hopes that we'll see you next year in San Antonio.

I have a backlog of stories to tell, photos to upload and things to say. It'll take some time. Truly, I'm wiped out, still at the hotel for one more night, recuperating, napping, searching out the java that has become so elusive now that the coffee mess is shut down.

Keep coming back. I promise to have more for you. Not me. You.

You bunch of self-centered skaters.