Step by step, inch by inch

My decision to attend the 2010 Navy Musicians Association reunion was a slogging march through the mud of finances,scheduling and priorities.

Step One: I payed my 2010 dues to the NMA.  

Step Two: I talked about the reunion with my wife. Nothing big about this step either--around this time of year I'm always talking about the NMA. At least Jo thinks so.

These are tough times, and I know I'm not the only one for whom money is tighter than the head on a Scottish snare drum. But Jo knows how important the NMA is to me. Go, she said, even though she probably wouldn't be able to join me.

Step Three: I registered for the reunion.

Step Four: I talked to my boss about getting a week off from my job in the public library. Sure thing, she said. I guess she remembers how I returned from the reunion last year invigorated, refreshed and demonstrating a renewed commitment to customer service. Okay, maybe not, but she gave me the time off.

Step Five: I made reservations at the San Antonio Doubletree.

Step Six: I made  my airline reservations. Actually, my wife made the reservations--for me and for her, too. Looking at her work schedule, she saw that she could come to San Antonio for part of the reunion.

So I'm in, though there's more to do.

Step Seven: Because my wife and I will fly to San Antonio on different days, I have to secure reliable transportation to the airport. My Mazda Miata, the object of my affection since 1991 (and the object of Terry Chesson's derision since 1993) is on the fritz. More accurately, it's on the hydraulic lift in the repair shop. Whether or not Old Blue can be resurrected remains to be seen. (No, Terry, it's not a piece of $**t; it's a classic that has seen better, more robust days. Like some people I know.)

Step Eight: Now that I know I'm coming to the reunion, I can start contacting friends who have never signed up and encourage them to attend. I've never been a saleman, a promoter or recruiter. But once you get an old shipmate to an NMA reunion, you're likely to see him year after year. Working on an old buddy can take time and persistence, but the payoff is worth it.

I know, because it's exactly how Terry Chesson got me to my first reunion.

Why he became an MU

Your band teacher told you about his days as a Navy bandsman. A Navy band came to your school and blew you away. The gigs ran out and the rent was due. You wanted to serve your country. You opened a letter and read, "Greetings. You have seen selected by your friends and neighbors..."

We became Navy musicians for thousands of reasons. Whatever the reason, the experience helped shape our lives as musicians and citizens.

Consider the life of this trumpet player, a World War Two bandsman who became an MU because he liked the little harp the musicians wore on their sleeves.



Video produced by The National Visionary Leadership Project, "the premier resource for oral history interviews with African American elders who shaped the 20th century."

It's Max, Man!

I enjoy learning what other Navy Musicians Association members are up to during the year. Our musical accomplishments are not all in the past; many of us are still musically active, performing in and leading community bands, college and school ensembles, professional big bands and jazz groups, touring acts--you name a style or venue, and you'll find NMA members on the bandstand.

Many members will remember Max Murray, the new member who brought his electric upright bass and electric infectious enthusiasm to the reunion last year in Virginia Beach. The NMA reunion wasn't Max's only musical commitment last year. Here he is in a 2009 video, the bassist in the trio accompanying The Uptown Vocal Jazz Quartet.



Click here for more clips of Max with the UVJQ.

Another robo-attack

Due to another robo-spam attack, comments to NavyLyres now must verified by me. This simply means that your comments won't show up immediately. I'll have to verify each comment to ensure it's from a real human being.

The last time this happened, I shut down comments completely. I don't like doing that; the fine, relevant contribution from Kenny Malone (on the story below) is an example of the reason I want everyone to feel free to leave responsible comments here.

So it's business as usual with a slight delay.

Carry on.

50 Years Ago: U.S. Navy Band Tragedy

The United States Navy Band today performed at a ceremony at Arlington National Ceremony in remembrance of a group particularly deserving of this honor, the members of the U.S. Navy Band who died in a plane crash on February 25, 1960.

Fifty years ago today, the band's four-engine transport plane was approaching Rio de Janiero on a goodwill tour when it collided with a Brazilian airliner. All 19 bandsmen aboard died. The Washington Post's story, slideshow and video cover the story and ceremony here.

I was a fleet sailor, my years spent with fleet bands. Like many fleet bandsmen, I harbored both appreciation for and envy of the members of this "special band."

But I have come to realize that every Navy band is special. Each faces special challenges with a special blend of talent, discipline and sacrifice. Whether homeported in Washington, DC or Yokosuka, Japan, or afloat somewhere in the vast stretches between, each is special.

Events such as today's ceremony remind us that no organization can lay a stronger claim to the title "Band of Brothers" than the men and women who have worn the lyre of the U.S. Navy Musician.

19NOV74

The driver eased the bus through a gate, drove a few blocks and pulled to a stop in front of a low wooden building. Some of us were asleep--it was three in the morning--but most of us were looking out the window.

The single light bulb over the door to the building showed a guy in dark clothing, his hair shaved to the scalp. He was holding the door open for two other bald guys who were carrying boxes inside. A man in some sort of suit--a guard?--walked behind them and yelled at the guy holding the door.

"Damn," said someone behind me. "It must be a jail or something."

Another bald internee came out the door and walked toward the bus. The driver pulled a handle and the door wheezed open.

"Jeez, what the hell these guys do wrong?" said the guy next to me.

I wondered, too. The poor slobs had prison haircuts and were being forced to work through the night. The bald guy climbing into the bus didn't look happy at all. "I don't know," I whispered. "But whatever they did wrong, I'm never gonna do it."

It was too late, of course. I'd already done it.

The bald guy stood in the front of the bus and hollered, "Good morning, you poor bastards. Welcome to Recruit Training Center Great Lakes."