Jazz band....

'Pretend you're a rock star. Which doesn't necessarily mean you're good. It means you're a rock star.'

-Neil

Just when you think you've got everything figured out, life throws the possibility you never even considered in your face. I've said and thought it so many times that it could be my personal motto, but I am continuously surprised by situations in which I encounter this unpredictability, situations so steeped in irony that I feel I could either drown or brew some hot, exotic irony tea.

In order to introduce you to my latest meeting with my maxim, I must provide a brief backstory of my half-year (so far) in the Jazz Band.

Benny Goodman may have filled concert halls even through the glorious seventies, but we mediocre high-school clarinetists are not as well-received in the jazz world. I joined the Jazz Band this year partially because I love jazz, and partially to acquire a foothold should I choose to try out for a place in the rhythm section next year (keys). I have often looked back. I love the clarinet, and I enjoy nearly all of the music, but the fourth bleeding trumpet part is only more boring if you play it on an instrument that is actually far quieter than the horn, and I was almost instantly disappointed by the lack of improvising opportunities. It follows that I never practice; it hardly makes a difference.

In March, the band is going to compete at the Jazzfest. I'm sure you can imagine that I wouldn't be terribly excited about this, but that's actually short of the truth: I'm not even going, because I won't be in town. Of course, when Fortin sent out e-mails with the MP3 file of the song we are required to play for the festival, I wasn't exactly going to make an extraordinary effort to sit down and listen to it, especialy since I was pretty sure my part would consist of three-note patterns interjected throughout the music. In retrospect, I could have played it once or twice, but it came at the same time as all the MP3 material for upcoming honour band projects, some of which I had to learn for the January concert.

Fortin handed out parts to the jazz piece the thursday before last. Because I had never encountered it before, I was a little slow to realize that he had given me the first trumpet part.

'Yeah, so I need the fourth part, right?'

He nodded emphatically. 'Yes, you do.' Then, the terrible, terrifying words: 'Fourth trumpet has a solo.'

Something happened to my stomach as I stood there staring at him with my mouth open. I'm not sure now whether I was considering the ridiculous humour of being given a solo for the one piece I would never play in public or contemplating my impeding doom. I hadn't listened to the piece. I hadn't seen the piece. And (as you probably know) I sure as hell can't sight read in Bb.

It's a stretch to say I played the solo with the band, but I did manage to get a phrase in once.

When did we all get so big?