Shipmate Frank's Goin' to Kansas City.

Navy Musicians Association 2016 Reunion 

June 15-19 Kansas City, MO 

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Navy Musician's Lexicon

Revised and expanded:

JUL2020

AUG2019

OCT2016

JUL2014

NOV2012

FEB2010

APR2009 

SEP2008

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Navy Musician's Dictionary

administrative petty officer: A french horn player.

Autovon: Toll-free Navy telephone system used by seamen for supervised official calls, by administrative POs for unsupervised official calls, and CPOs for all-night gabfests with old buddies in Yokosuka.

axe: A musical instrument issued by the Supply Petty Officer for the performance of duties, or, in the case of clarinets, a sharp-bladed tool for chopping wood.

bag band: A ceremonial unit, named after the pouches of march-sized music the musicians sling over their shoulders. "Oh hell, another bag band gig."

basso continuo: The effect that is achieved when the sousaphone player in the last rank misses the turn.

big band: A bag band without clarinets.

bitter end:

1. The part of a rope that is tied to a secure object.
2. The effect achieved when the trombone section misses the drum major's cutoff.

blues progression: The mental transition the MU undergoes when reading a piece of paper from BUPERS that

• begins with the word "Hawaii,"
• contains the word "ORDMOD," and
• concludes with the word "Norfolk."

change of command: Proof that musicians, like cows, can sleep while standing up.

civilian: A term of endearment referring to half the personnel in the U.S. Navy Band.

chord changes: The effect created when four Navy trombone players attempt to sustain tones whose duration is greater than a whole note.

CLINK-CLANK: Band of the Commander-in-chief of the Atlantic Fleet (CINCLANT).

comp time: The 73 measures that pass while the trombone player tries to figure out when his solo begins.

cymbal crash modulation: A sudden transition between keys that are not closely-related.

Disney World: Place of employment for MUs who quit the Navy because they're tired of wearing uniforms and marching in parades.

ditty bag: The XO's wife who thinks she can sing.

dog watch: The guy in the van's passenger seat in charge of pointing out women while driving through an Army base.

dream sheet: A transfer request form upon which you are required to write the name of every stateside, overseas and seagoing band, in return for which you receive a letter congratulating you on having your request approved.

duty gig: An occasional nuisance that interferes with getting your real work done.

ensign: The guy in front of the band who was standing behind you last week.

equal temperament: A method of forecasting how the day will go that divides the chief's mood disorder into twelve equal stages ranging from mildly belligerent to acutely hostile.

first call: What you're thinking about when the bartender announces last call.

foul anchors: to botch the music during a ceremony. "What a rotten gig--we slaughtered 'Washington Post' and fouled 'Anchors.'"

harp: Rating badge insignia for MU.

harmony: the musical effect created by two Navy trombonists performing a unison passage.

head chart: A diagram, used during field day, that shows the precise arrangement of toiletries in the officers' restroom.

high and tight: The condition of the trumpet section during the last set.

key signature: The handwritten name on your chit next to the block checked "approved."

march tempo: A pace whose speed is dependent upon how late the bass drummer was out last night.

military time: Those few, hurried minutes sandwiched in between pay gigs.

Morning Colors: An event consisting of a short march to the flagpole, a few Sousa marches, a bugle call, the National Anthem, another bugle call, "Anchors Aweigh" and a walk back to band quarters, all of which lasts about a half an hour and is listed in the bandmaster's report as two parades, two concerts, two duty-bugler gigs and a ceremony.

Navy Exchange: The process by which a long-haired, tattooed guitar player in camouflage gear becomes a bald, tattooed guitar player in camouflage gear who can read music.

Navy special: Any of a number of dance band arrangements written for training purposes in the years after World War II. Variously described as "marvelously complex and challenging" or "hideously over-written."

Navy triplets: A three-note sequence of notes of sort-of-equal duration, usually consisting of:

1. a dotted eighth note, followed by
2. a sixteenth-note which is tied to
3. a final eighth note.

Navy van: A remarkable feat of automotive engineering that carries four times its stated maximum load, never needs its oil changed and can be shifted directly from forward into reverse while the vehicle is in motion.

Pat O:

1. Patriotic Opener, music performed before a special event.
2. Opening words of an Irish song that begins, "Pat, O Pat, is there whiskey in yer hat?"
3. The guy who welcomes you to your first AA meeting after you sing #2 at #1.

pay gig: A musical engagement for which off-duty MUs are miraculously on time, smiling and dressed correctly.

per diem: (L. "by dieting" or "meals are optional.") A travel allowance that is calculated by estimating daily expenses required for food and lodging and dividing by two.

perfect interval: The rarely-occurring period of joy that occurs when payday arrives before the bar tab is due.

perfect pitch: The arc described by a Bb clarinet tossed from the poop deck so that it clears the rudder.

plank owner: A saxophone player who has been issued a seven-year-old box of Rico Fives.

practical factors: Sucking up to the Chief, bribing the LPO and other skills required for promotion to the next pay grade.

ship arrival: An emotional ceremony during which sailors run down the gangplank into the arms of their waiting wives and girlfriends while the band plays "Back in the Saddle Again."

ship departure: An emotional ceremony that is traditionally followed by a surge in the number of unattached women in the Enlisted Club.

shitty ditty: An obscure song that is childishly arranged by an MU1, illegibly copied by an MU3, and highly favored by the admiral's wife.

sick call: The unfortunate music that ensues when a bugler begins on the wrong harmonic.

sound man: An MU who is being discharged in a few weeks, sits in the back of the auditorium and couldn't care less whether the vocals are audible.

staff combo: Four MUs who spend occasional evenings at the "O club" drinking doubles from the open bar, ogling the junior officers' wives, picking up juicy tidbits from the admiral's chief of staff and show up for work the next day complaining about all this extra duty.

stinger: A loud repetition of the last note of a march, generally performed only by the second trombone player.

survey: The procedure that transforms bass drums and tubas into coffee tables and flower planters in the Supply Petty Officer's living room.

4 Ruffles & Flourishes and the Flag Officers March: The default answer to all questions on MU promotion exams.

Nomenclature for Bands Afloat

battle station: A rectangular fabric casing filled with a resilient material such as cotton or foam, often employed with a similar, but smaller, "pillow" for the support of the head.

crossing the line: Asking the flag lieutenant's wife if she'd like to grease your slide after the gig.

flight quarters: An exercise, usually held at night, during which sirens are sounded and heavy chains are dragged across the deck directly above the band's berthing compartment.

general quarters: Nap time.

hatch: An opening in a passageway that is three inches narrower than a Fender Rhodes electric piano.

liberty call: An announcement signaling the period during which the ship goes to In-Port Routine, the crew goes on R&R and the band goes to work.

mess deck: The 16 square feet surrounding a trombonist with a broken spit valve.

port: The contents of the bottle in the trumpet player's spare case.

quarterdeck: The number of playing cards sequestered up the sleeve of the smiling bosun's mate who has just sauntered into the band's berthing compartment.

rack: see Battle Station.

unreps: Underway replenishment, a harrowing naval evolution involving two closely-spaced ships on parallel courses that requires precise radio contact, instant communication between helmsman and watchstanders, and a band outside the bridge playing Fillmore marches.

1MC: The public address system through which the executive officer remarks on the contribution the band is making to Unreps.

School of Music Terminology

ADM Joel T. Boone Branch Health Clinic: A recreational lounge for basic course students, enjoyed primarily during colors band week.

chord factory: The School of Music.

ear training: The development of advanced listening skills that allow students to stop riffing on diminished scales and open up the Fillmore march book when the Practice Supervisor's footsteps become audible.

flat five: An all-Army sax section.

head:

1. The beginning of a piece of music.
2. A place where excrement is deposited.
3. In the case of Advanced Course arranging projects, both of the above.

hidden fifths: Training aids that circulate in the back of the Theory classroom.

Pool of Mucus: The School of Music.

practice room: a space provided for students to store their horn cases while they are outside smoking.

staff member: An MU whose behavior in a fleet band has earned him an extended period of punishment.

student bands: Training ensembles for basic course students of various abilities:

• "A" band, consisting of students who perform at the highest level. 
• "B" band, consisting of students who are competing for selection to "A" band.
• "C" band, consisting of Marines.

unit: An hour of individual practice (derived from School of Music record-keeping terminology). "Trombones, you need to put in some units on that slow whole-note section."

MU Phrase Book

"Did you cash your last paycheck?" Translation: "Your constant griping about the Navy grows tiresome."

"Get a haircut." Translation: "I disagree with you, but can't think of an adequate response."

• Question: "Can't the combo have some time off, chief? We're working twice as hard as the rest of the band."
• Answer: "Get a haircut."

"Parade the Beef." Translation: "Form up on the grinder in athletic gear."

"Who booked this gig? Translation: "The accommodations for the band are not up to general standards."

• MUs at Navy Band Newport had an unusual distinction in the mid-80s, when MU1 Billy Ream was the Operations PO in charge of scheduling performances. After a concert in a particularly inhospitable venue, musicians could stomp off the bandstand and truthfully moan, "Another Ream job."

Once again: our fleet bands are the real deal.

I'm a fleet band kind of guy, and that's putting it nicely. Sure, I appreciate the expertise of our "special" bands in Washington and Annapolis, but the fleet bands have always done the heavy lifting.

Last year my wife and I went to see the US Navy Band's Sea Chanters here in western Illinois. They were tremendous, there's no denying it. Midway through the show, they took a few minutes to thank the audience for supporting them on their annual three-week tour.

"Wow," my wife whispered. "A three-week tour! Did you ever do something like that when you were in the Navy?"

"Yeah," I said. "Sometimes, one a month."

So I get bummed when I see well-produced Navy videos that feature fleet bands, but contain soundtrack music by the US Navy Band. Fleet bands are not chopped liver, I tell myself; why do we have to import audio tracks from the high and mighty?

That's what was going through my mind as I watched this video celebrating the 70th anniversary of the US Navy 7th Fleet, a 4 1/2-minute photo montage held together by concert band music. "Damn good video," I'm telling myself, "made even better by the damn US Navy Concert Band. Sure, they're good; great, in fact. But why couldn't a fleet band do the job? In fact, they shoulda had the 7th Fleet Band do the job instead of--"

Then came the closing credits. The music was, in fact, provided by the 7th Fleet Band.

Nicely done, shipmates. Those fancy-pants boys and girls in DC ain't got nothing on you.

I don't say this because I was a fleet bandsman (once leader of the 7th Fleet Ceremonial Band, in fact), or because the Navy Band long ago refused my entreaties to join them in their rigorous regimen of annual three-week tours. No, I say it because it's true:

Our fleet bands are the real deal.

 

December greetings to my MU family

Today is my birthday. I am sixty-one years old, pondering my place in a world that managed without me fairly well before my arrival in 1948, and will one day carry on again without my gifted leadership.

I'm also thinking about brotherhood, fellowship and camaraderie.

These are the results of more than sharing good times and beer. If beer were all that true brotherhood required, my lifelong friends would have been the grim, watery-eyed old men I met in Broadway Charlie's in 1974. Out of work in New York, I walked into a dive, spotted an upright piano, sat down and started to play. That night I was the Toast of Manhattan, playing "Toora. Loora, Loora" and "The Wiffenpoof Song" as I soaked up free beer and lofty compliments from my new best friends.

The next morning I was hung over, still broke, still alone and unemployed. After repeating this cycle for a few months, I signed some papers, took an oath and flew to Great Lakes.

The Navy was not all fun and good times. It was work, just like it was for the hull technicians and aviation metalsmiths, except our tools were tubas and clarinets instead of wrenches and blowtorches.

But, as the recruiting posters promised, it was more than a job. The Navy gave me camaraderie and purpose I've never felt in civilian life. Every gig, whether dining-in, ship arrival, change-of-command ceremony or high school concert, served to fulfill the Navy's needs. This was easy to forget, particularly when an inebriated, 23-year-old ensign who had been a humble officer candidate in the morning tried to run my band at the OCS Graduation Ball that night. But I knew I was serving in something important, something bigger than me.

I left the service unexpectedly and abruptly. I harbored some ill-will and tried to forget my former Navy identity. For a number of years I lived within a few hours of Virginia Beach, yet refused to contact old shipmates. Year after year, Terry Chesson, my old bandmaster, would call me and tell me about the Navy Musicians Association, about the fellowship and acceptance he found in that organization. Year, after year, I'd tentatively promise to tentatively give some thought to possibly thinking about possibly joining someday, maybe.

Finally, I caved and signed up. This was one of the best decisions of my life.

As a member of the NMA, my circle of shipmates is wider than ever. I belong to a worldwide fellowship of former and present MUs, some of whom are old friends, some of whom I never met while on active duty, some of whom I still haven't met in person.

Old gripes don't matter anymore. New gripes are rare and, because of a maturity that has come only with the passing years, trifling.

An NMA shipmate, Jack Rodway, and I got into a skirmish early this year. It was a simple matter of political differences, but little things can become magnified these days when it's easy to make the Internet Mistake: E-mail first, think later.

I, of course was the righteous party in the argument. I, after all, am compassionate, committed and concerned. After one of our members, Jim Thumpston, died last December, it was I who was in contact with his daughters in Virginia Beach, consoling them and inviting them to stop by our reunion to see their dad's old sea-buddies.

It was also I who was walking through the parking lot at the reunion in June when Jack Rodway beckoned to me from the lobby. I walked inside, and Jack introduced me to Jim Thumpston's daughters, with whom he, like me, had been in contact for months, consoling them and inviting them to stop by our reunion to see their dad's old sea-buddies.

That which unites shipmates is far greater than any differences. Remember when you were on the beach and a bozo from the deck division was trying to pick a fight? It was a trumpet player from your band who jumped in and bailed you out, the same guy you'd been ready to punch during rehearsal that morning.

My December 6 birthday has always made me aware of the solemnity of the following day. Never do I feel the deep brotherhood of Navy musicians more than when I think of the bandsmen who were serving in Pearl Harbor on that day in 1941 that still lives in infamy. The members of USS Arizona's Band 22, all of whom died at their battle stations, are now more than history to me; they are my family, as are the MUs who were on other ships at Pearl, as are you, my shipmates, and all who have worn the lyre.

If you are a former or present U.S. Navy musician who is still thinking about joining the Navy Musicians Association, I urge you to sign up. A new year is approaching, and the San Antonio reunion is only six months away. You'll find information on joining the NMA here.

There's no requirement that you put it off for years; why wait decades to find out that maybe, just maybe, your old chief isn't such an S.O.B. after all?