Horizon

Backstage with Chris Pastin

I've just returned from Rock Island, Illinois, where Navy Band Great Lakes's pop contingent played to an enthusiastic crowd at Schwiebert park. As I mentioned earlier, I particularly wanted to meet the drummer, Chris Pastin; he's the son of my old shipmate, NMA member John Pastin. 

I met the guys backstage right before the show, and, recalling what a hassle it always was to have old men kibitzing at you when you've got your mind on a million other things ("My son is in the Navy, too. You probably know him--Bill? Bill Johnson?") , I tried to keep it short.

Horizon, pianist MU1 Steve Pendel, leader.

Somehow, however, these guys seem to find time to read my newspaper columns. The group's leader, Steve Pendel, thanked me for a recent piece I wrote about Navy musicians. And--gulp--later, during the show, Chris acknowledged me from the stage.

Let me tell you: these guys do the work. I just write about it. But to have one of our own, an MU still on active duty, call you a patriot in front of half the City of Rock Island--well, I was sitting far back enough in the park that I doubt that Chris and the rest of the guys could see me wiping my eyes. Believe me, it was just some sort of mist blowing off the Mississippi River.

Something like that.

Rock on the Horizon

In a few hours, I'll drive up to Schwiebert Park in Rock Island for the Independence Day festivities, where Horizon, the pop contingent from Navy Band Great Lakes, will perform.

Although I am the undisputed king of geezer-quality rock 'n' roll piano, rock was never my favorite genre of Navy music. I played in rock and show bands as required, but never had that certain something it takes to stand under a basketball hoop and shout, "Good morning, Smithville High; are you ready to get down?" at 0815 in the god-forsaken morning. I was rarely ready to "get down" before noon; I was ready to get back in bed.

But I'm looking forward to seeing this group, in particular because the drummer is the son of NMA member John Pastin. Last week at the reunion, John and I reminisced about a Marine drummer we worked with long ago in Little Creek, Mark Adams, who drove bands not only with sticks and brushes, but with the most important thing in the drummer's gig bag, musicianship. John told me his son has that trait, and I look forward to hearing and meeting him.

And the entire band, of course. The show doesn't start until 7PM, so I may be ready to get down.

Tailed by Doyle

As I wrote about earlier, I spent a lot of time in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport Monday, waiting for a flight back home that was repeatedly delayed and finally cancelled.

And everywhere I went, I heard Doyle Church.

Buying a cup of coffee at a Starbucks, I heard Doyle right behind me. I turned, but Doyle hid quickly; all I saw was some guy talking on a cell phone. Browsing at a news stand, I heard Doyle at the counter, but when I looked, again, he'd gone, leaving in his place a tall guy wearing a cowboy hat. Outside the men's room, at the boarding gate, everywhere I went, I heard Doyle's voice.

Except for one time. I was looking at newspapers in a gift shop when I could have sworn I heard Tex Waldron behind me.

The NMA Concert Band

When we played as Navy professionals, we heard with our ears. Now, when we gather but once a year, we hear with our hearts, too.

And our hearts hear well the marches, suites and medleys the Navy Musicians Association Concert Band plays during days and nights of rehearsals and performances.

The ear is, of course, the more technically accurate measure. In fact, you can study ear training--we all did. A few months of practice can measurably improve the ear's ability to discern different pitches.

But there's no short course in "heart" training. It takes years of experience--joys, sorrows, losses, hopes fulfilled and dreams dashed--to prepare the heart to fully comprehend the effect of a concert band full of MUs. 

Conductor Wilbur Smith and the NMA Concert Band provide us a great service every year. The ensemble is excellent, of course, but it's not an excellence that can be measured by tuning forks, oscilloscopes or audition boards with clipboards and grading sheets. It can only be measured by the heart. And by that more-important standard, the band measures up well.

Final grade: 4.0.

A difficult shot

The band photographer's greatest challenge is to get a shot of the entire trumpet section playing at the same time. This difficulty is caused by:

- Rests. Some players take unfair advantage of empty measures, using them as an opportunity to put down their horns and breathe.

- Spit valves. The trumpeter spends a lot of time blowing loogies onto his neighbors' shoes.

- Visual instrument examination. The trumpet player, when hearing an unsatisfactory sound emerge from the bell, is likely to stop playing, hold the instrument sideways before his face and look closely for mechanical defects or maladjustments, as though the cause of clams, squawks and fraps lies in the instrument itself.

NMA Concert Band: Sax appeal

You can count on us.

One, two, three, four,
Two, two, three, four,
Three, two three, four,
Four, two, three, four...

And a partridge in a pear tree.

The heights in flute fashion

Casual enough for an afternoon rehearsal, formal enough for an evening pig roast, it's sure to find a home in every flutist's gig bag. Here, Bill Allen brightens up the section in his 2010 NMA tee-shirt.

More fun than a clarinet bonfire.

The Shy Tubas

Here's a picture of the tubas during rehearsal of the NMA Concert Band. Note that I said "tubas," not "tuba players." Can I help it if they duck behind their horns when they see me coming with a camera?

If you want good photographs, go to eBay and buy an old copy of Life magazine.

San Antonio Trombones

Okay,I've cracked a few trombone jokes in my life. I can't help it: I was stationed with Tex Waldron three times.

No jokes about their performance at this year's Navy Musicians Association reunion, though.More than one member told me they thought the 'bones were outstanding this year, in the Big Band as well as Concert Band.

I agree; it's just hard to admit it.

To the people of Texas:

I just spent a week in your state. Had a great time. Met you, liked you, ate some great Tex-Mex food.

But I won't be coming back.

Friends, I gotta ask: Why do you paint all your parking lots black? Don't you know the relationship between colors and heat retention? You know: white reflects, black absorbs? That kind of third-grade science class thing?

Texas starts the day at a temperature of 80 degrees, and works up from that baseline. It is not necessary to pave the state in order to create heat. God's giving it to you in spades.

Texas, I discovered, is fine, as long as you don't go outdoors. Bed? Great. Hotel lobby? Outstanding. It was only when I stepped outside that the searing flames of punishment permeated my being. Without a car,I had to walk from my hotel to nearby restaurants and stores. Every step was a flaming, torturous exercise in suicidal ideation.

Why all the black? Alternatives abound.

Cement has a nice natural color. Don't know what you'd call it; "cement colored," probably. Disperses the heat, it does.

I've seen asphalt done in light grey shades that show the gravelly texture, yet provide a smooth driving surface that reflects the sunlight here and there, preventing heat build-up.

But black? Come on. The road to hell is paved in black asphalt, just to give the new residents a taste of eternity. 

Like I said, had a great time. Good buddies, friendly locals, everything's big, big, big.

But you won't see Frank Mullen hoping across the asphalt again any time soon.

I get the message.

A delay in the NMA reunion wrap-up.

On Monday morning, I told you I'd be home at the end of the day and start wrapping up my coverage of the Navy Musicians Association on Tuesday, yesterday.

That was before the Trip Through the Outskirts of Hell.

It started smoothly. American Airlines got me to Dallas/Fort Worth without a glitch. I ran halfway across the state of Texas in time to board my 2:30 PM connecting flight to Moline. I was almost on the plane when the passengers were herded back into the terminal.

The toilet was broken. A mechanic would fix it in no time; flight delayed until 3:00 PM.

Mechanic delayed. Flight delayed until. 4:00 PM. Clouds roll in.

Toilet not fixed at 4:30 PM, as newscasters on large-screen TV discuss tropical storm Alex

Thunderbolts arrive at 5:00 PM. Flight cancelled. Passengers shipped to area hotels to spend the night.

I checked in the Hilton Hotel and found the business center; figured I'd post about the situation to my Navy buddies.

Internet access in Hilton Hotel business center is billed at a rate of $5 for every ten minutes. I love you, sailor, but not at $30 an hour.

Next day, back to the airport to hop on flight 3303 to Moline at Gate B5. Gate is changed to B24. I get to new gate just in time for a change: B4. Back at B4, gate is changed to B17. Then B12.

Finally, B6. We board. Captain announces, "The light switch in the rest room is broken, but a mechanic can fix it in no time."

Aiiee! This is where I came in.

So, now it's Wednesday, I'm finally back from Texas, having completed the trip from Texas to Illinois, over a period of two days at an average speed of 11 miles per hour. I've got a boss and coworkers who would prefer I come back to work rather than sit at my computer, posting to my Navy buddies.

So the Reunion Wrap-up will be delayed. I'll try to do it tonight. If I can't finish up, I'll dole out some more flimsy excuses. For example, the light switch in the bathroom doesn't work, but I can fix that in no time.

I'm outta here.

I'm sitting in the lobby of the San Antonio Doubletree Hotel, suitcase on floor, laptop in lap, waiting for the shuttle to take me to the airport.

This week, I'll post more photos of, and drivel about, the Navy Musicians Association. Sea stories, great gig stories, terrible gig stories, speculation as to whatever happened to good old so-and-so; so much more deserves to be publicized (and just as much deserves to be kept quiet). Oh, things you'll learn at an NMA reunion.

As tomorrow is a travel day, I won't be posting here. I remind you that John Derby's reunion photos and thoughts await you at his blog, Who Moved My Chops?

Farewell, San Antonio

Taps. Taps. Lights out. All hands return to their racks and maintain silence about the decks. Taps.

Taking care of the little things

One of my collateral duties as a member of the Navy Musicians Association is to drive Melanie Leketa crazy once a year.

Toward the end of the NMA Concert Band's Friday night concert, Melanie sings "Eternal Father" and "Requiem for a Friend." I then recite "We Serve With Honor" as the band plays "America, the Beautiful."

Melanie always has trouble during the rehearsal of this medley. The trouble is me. I check the microphone's switch 30 times. I move the microphone stand toward the band, away from the band, under the catering table. Later, as the concert is about to begin, I do these things again, each time telling her why. She tries to hide, but I track her down to tell her where we should stand, when I'll move the microphone, where she should face. At the last minute, I tell her how to turn on the microphone.

It never occurs to me that Melanie is an experienced, professional singer, adept at microphone technique, stage presence, ignoring glitches and making performance look effortless. In fact, four years ago, she taught me how to use the microphone.  

You can tell by the way she rolls her eyes that she appreciates my efforts.

Until we meet once more...

They're waiting for us back home: jobs, churches, volunteer bands, golfing pals and to-do lists.


We bid each other farewell, not knowing what the year holds in store for us, what joys and sorrows we'll bring to the next reunion.



Joy at being together and sorrow at our impending departures combine on Saturday night, when the Navy Musicians Association Concert Band concludes its performance.