The Mutha of Band Concerts

Before I begin this entry, let me first assure you that I love music, that I'm grateful my child is playing oboe and enjoying it, and that I think school band programs are generally a good idea. Of course, it is always possible to turn something good into an instrument of mass torture, which is what my child's band director did last night. Here's what happened.

We arrived 20 minutes early so that the boy could be there to warm up and get settled. Never mind that he wasn't going to play for an hour. He still had to be there early. While the boy slunk off to the band room, my two other kids and I tried to get into the auditorium, but it was locked. I should have realized that the locked door was an attempt by God to protect me from what was soon to happen. Unfortunately, I didn't recognize that the locked doors were a form of divine intervention. Instead, I wandered over to the band room, entered the auditorium through an open side door, and then went to the back of the auditorium and let the crowds in. Not only did this seal my own fate, but also the fates of all the other innocent parents of band members. We were like lambs being led unknowingly to the slaughter.

The first hour of the concert passed relatively painlessly, because I had brought a novel and read it during the beginning bands. My kids had been less wise, and they were wriggling and texting in their seats. And then my oboe player came on stage with the orchestra, and I had to put my novel away to maintain my "good father" status. The orchestra director, however, recognized that it had already been a long evening, and he kept his part of the program moving quickly. The orchestra finished in less than a half hour, and then the symphonic band came on the stage.

I was feeling hopeful at this point in the concert, because there were only four pieces left on the program. I thought that perhaps the concert might finish in less than 2 hours and 15 minutes, the previous record for the shortest band concert. No such luck. Not only were each of the pieces long, but in between each piece, the director talked and passed out awards. Unlike the orchestra director, the band director seemed to have no sense of the amount of time he was wasting and the growing restlessness in the audience. My two children were beginning to mutter threats and complaints after each song or presentation. But the band director droned on. To make matters even worse, all four of the pieces he selected were contemporary pieces—you know, the kind of pieces that are so dissonant that you can't tell if the musicians are playing the notes correctly. We spent nearly the whole time squirming in our seats. The only thing that kept my head from exploding was an occasional oboe solo. I seriously don't know how the kids survived.

Perhaps even more annoying than all of that, though, was the screaming that went on when certain people received band awards. The worst was the lustful screaming for Brayden Santos. The girls behind us seriously screamed his name for two minutes, repeating over and over again how hot he was. I nearly stood up, turned around and screamed back, "Brayden's mine, you whore!"

The concert finally ended at 9:40. We had been there for 3 hours. I thought Wendy's frosties and frosty floats were in order. When I got home, my wife, who has not attended a single high school band concert all year long, asked me why I was so cranky. I told her that she would soon find out because next year was her turn to go to the band concerts. Then, out of pity for her future suffering, I let her have some of my frosty.