John Phillip Sousa:
A man who felt that unwieldy instruments designed to be played in
carefully constructed concert halls would be better implemented
causing scoliosis among adolescents in parades across rutted and
muddy football fields.
Patriotic
March: A style of music revolutionized by
John Phillip Sousa because he believed that chauvin-style patriotism
and war were too short in supply.
The
Sousaphone: Created by John Phillip Sousa
because no instrument of the orchestra was sufficiently annoying.
The
Steel Guitar: Not invented by John Phillip
Sousa, only because he never thought of it.
It’s been my
privilege, over the years, to watch the parents of many budding
musicians. I particularly enjoy seeing how parents respond when
their young angel starts a band called “Death on a Cracker.” I
make it a point to visit on band night. It’s not that I
particularly enjoy hearing musical wannabes, ten years from
instrumental competence strain their yard sale equipment in an effort
to make sure “the hottie down the street can hear us.” What I
really enjoy is sitting at the kitchen table with the Mom and Dad.
The bass amp, downstairs, turns the
spoon in my teacup into an unwilling percussion instrument. After
several unrecognizable cover tunes they break into their future hit,
“You’ve got my cupcake in your spleen.”
The kids
are pretty excited, thinking that they’re breaking new ground. The
parents are struggling with mixed feeling of pride, dread, nostalgia,
and the epiphany that they finally understand their parents. I’m
feeling pretty smug, having no kids of my own and knowing I can leave
before the Advil runs out.
I’ve
lived just long enough to wise up to the fact that life presents
certain consistencies. I’m not talking just about death, taxes and
the French being rude; I’m talking about more significant patterns.
Wise King Solomon wrote that there’s nothing new under the sun.
I’m willing to wager that thought occurred to him while Rehoboam
and the Diaspora were rehearsing in the basement.
It makes
me wonder about Mr. and Mrs. Sousa, John Phillips parents.
When you
name a kid “John Phillip,” you must be hoping the kid will turn
out to be some kind of weenie. John Phillip took a lot of ribbing as
he waited with the other kids at the school carriage stop each
morning. Smart-ass violinists kept poking him with their bows and
although Mom and Dad had bought him a harpsichord for his birthday,
he couldn’t take it on the carriage with him or use it to defend
himself. It was at this time that John Phillip began imagining a
world in which all non-aggressive children had a sixty-pound metal
instrument with leather case that they could use to whomp the heck
out of violin players.
It was
when he started getting together with a hundred of his friends in
their basement when Mr. and Mrs. Sousa’s headaches began.
“Really
son, patriotism is a fine thing but I’ve had to recaulk the window
twice since you and your friends started meeting here. Maybe you
should consider a new arrangement of Yankee Doodle for small
instruments only.”
Like
most people, I grew up going to July 4th
picnics and high school football games. I enjoy a charred hamburger
as much as the next guy and who could find fault with boys in their
late formative years lining up over an ovoid air filled leather
bladder and on cue do their level best to injure the fellow on the
other side. The fun would end (or at least be suspended) when it
came time for the after barbecue concert or halftime entertainment.
Pubescent and post-pubescent players of protrudinous platnumised
pot-metal promenade precariously while a pudgy pompous impresario
with a pompadour pushes, pouts and points in a practically
pornographic paroxysm of pointless pedagogy (please excuse, my doctor
said I had to do alliteration exercises every day to prevent tongue
cancer). All this is done in an attempt to create obscenely loud
elevator music.
John
Phillip did write the theme for Monty Python so at least he showed
the good taste to be a Terry Gilliam fan but why continue with his
music? Even Sousa’s original vision is no longer valid as
incidents of children being attacked by rowdy violinists are way
down. A wise guy in the back suggests it’s a conspiracy of the NEA
and bedlam-loving music storeowners. I don’t buy it.
Maybe
people have trouble envisioning an eighty five-piece rock band in
stiff, polyester uniforms, with portable amps walking in file and
spelling out “bobcats” in perspiration darkened primary colors.
Maybe if more talked to my red-eyed friends across from my rattling
teacup, they might catch the vision.
“And now
for half-time, the Abbeyville marching rock bad will be playing,
‘You’ve got my cupcake in your spleen.’”
I kinda like this band - the dorky host? Not so much.
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