Band Hi-Jinks

First up - it's 1973, springtime. Our high school band auditioned for and was accepted to the International Music Festival in Mexico City.

Okay, this high school band is about one hundred members from East Bank HS in WV. Home of Jerry West, The Logo, NBA great. East Bank is in the upper Kanawha Valley, primarily a coal minig place, with lots of hard-working families and working-class kids. We considered it the sticks, we were called rednecks. But there were teachers who excelled at driving us to perfection, and the two best things the school produced from 1967 until 1977 were state champion football teams and concert bands that were on a level with any program anywhere in the US. There were kids in those sticks that could play instruments phenomenally well, and a handful of virtuosos were the cream of the crop.

So we're invited to Mexico to compete and perform with the best of the best from around the US. I was probably one of only a dozen people among the 200 students and chaperons that climbed aboard a beautifully-colored Braniff Airlines 727 one spring morning that had any flyong experience, so it looked to be interesting. Jumping ahead to our arrival (but there are a couple of tales in between for a later date), we touched down in Mexico City and checked into our hotel in the heart of the city. We were given three hours to unpack, settle in, run around to see who had the best room, etc.

Well, two hours in I took the elevator (REMIND ME later about the elevator...'nuther story...) I wandered around the floor us guys inhabited to see what was up. I saw a door open about two inches and heard a commotion inside, and so walked to the door to see what was up. Just as I started to peek in, the door popped open and there stood one of my buddies, and he grabbed me yelling "get in here and help!" and slammed and locked the door.

When entering these rooms you looked straight into the bathroom before going on into the room. There, in nothing but his undies in the floor of the shower, sat Phillip Pell. (NOTHER REMINDER...I'll tell you about Phillip years later, a sad story...) The shower was running, how steamy water everywhere, and Phillip was working away at what appeared to be a bed sheet with a bar of soap. You all know me, I never saw a situation I couldn't question.

"Phillip, what are you doing?"

Never looking up, he replied "scrubbing the puke outta this sheet." "What?!?!" I said
"Scrubbing this @^%# outta the sheet, Butch. Help me." I did, I grabbed the part nearest me while avoiding the spray of the shower and helped make sure he was getting out exactly what he had described, vomit.

Looking out into the rest of the room as I held the sheet for poor Phillip, I saw Jim ____ (protecting the innocent even today) face down on the bed in question, clearly passed out drunk. Two other guys I never got a look at after that were trying valiantly to raise him up in order to walk him into the shower after Phillip got through in an attempt to sober him up in a cold bath. I turned my gaze back to Phillip. "What on earth have you guys done? We've only been here two hours Phil!"

Phillip stopped scrubbing and stared at me. It became clear he, too, was soused, but doing better than Jimmy. "Jim insisted we sneak out and find some tequila to try. I think we had too much. And before he passed out, Jim called Mr. Reed's (our band director) room and said "help me", and hung up. We gotta get this cleaned up and get Jim up and keep him away from Reed 'til he's okay." He started scrubbing again.

"Phillip, how much did you drink?"

He stopped again. "Quit making me think, Butch. Gee, um, two bottles. One for the three of us and one for Jim." Scrubbing recommences.

I sat in the floor. "Gee, Phillip, he drank a pint BOTTLE of tequila in two hours by himself?" By this point Phillip must have decided the interrogation was going on awhile and kept scrubbing and rinsing. "An hour, he practically chugged it. And about ten minutes later he puked, called Tom's room, and passed out. We hafta do this and get him to somebody else's room or we're dead."

What did I do? I got up, left the room, and went out in the hall where I found a couple of my best friends. "Guys" I said, "we have to distract Mr. Reed if he shows up down here. Don't ask why, just follow my lead." So we hung out for about five minutes, shooting the breeze, and sure enough, here came Tom Reed off the elevator to find out who had called him. He was already in the first stage of a slow burn and I think he knew what was up.

"Hey Mr. Reed, what's up?" I asked. "Who called me, do you boys know?"

"No sir we're just going over that passage in "Symphonic Dance No. 3 (Fiesta, by Clifton Williams) that we've worked so much on in sectionals. "

That got him. Brave, stalwart band rookies talking through a piece of music for the contest. What dedication. What valor. For the next five minutes he stood going over it with us, without music. Just as I was thinking we did it...the door popped open, and there stood Jim. "Mr. Reed! Help me!"

sigh....

Mr. Reed looked at us, started to smile and then caught himself, and growled "you three better nail that passage like you own it." We dashed off as the volcano behind us erupted. Strange, everywhere we went for the next five days Mr. Reed was never far away from the scrubbing crew unless we were out sightseeing.

And we not only nailed the infamous passage and the piece, we got a I+ AAA rating and won the contest with that piece of music. And the clarinets got a verbal pat on the back from the boss.

Next tale...Rome, 1974. Laundry. And we played it better than these kids by far, although this is a good shot at it.

Seems we've been here once...

And my blog disappeared. I shall start again.

I was watching "Anatomy of a Murder" with Jimmy Stewart and always love Eve Arden's bit about getting a new typewriter that had a 'p' and an 'f' that worked. "Party of the first part comes out arty of the irst art." Just a classic play on words in a neat way.

It makes a great name for a blog that is all about writing stories from my life-to-date, especially escapades from the past.

Here we go again...