Well, this piece is more inspired by the video than the actually song. You'll see what I mean if I watch it.
It wasn't right to say he had a music
rival, more like his trumpet did.
There were always rivalries in band
class. The clarinet section hated the flutes, the saxes the trumpets.
Tubas were just the cool people that got along with everyone, the
rest of the low brass feeding off their coolness just enough to not
be ignored while still being shuffled aside. And then it was all the
winds versus percussion.
But that was normal school stuff. While
the rivalries had been heated and fun during middle school and high
school, by the time Ken hit university it was just an inside joke
that really only showed up in prank Christmas gifts and happy hour at
the bar. Okay, and maybe the occasional jokes on the blackboard, but
that was the professors doing.
Most of the time, they were just
concerned with the music. Learning it, playing it, perfecting it,
writing it. Ken and the rest of the music majors lived quarter notes
and Italian speed phrases. Well, except the crazy few who were double
majors. How did Brain manage to also study for his bio degree? Or
Susan her history one? He would pass on more time in school and
classes where he had to do complex math.
He never had any problem with his other
trumpets, not even Janet who managed to pass him this semester in
chair rank and bumped him down to second trumpet. She, and the other
three trumpets ahead of him, were a challenge. And it was through
challenges you got better.
But animosity towards a fellow player,
trumpet or not, he hadn't felt until his senior year. The Dungoo
Symphony Orchestra, a top of the line group that traveled the
country, came to his school to hold auditions. Ken and others from
around the country had sent in audition tapes when the Orchestra had
announced it was looking for new member and all those who passed in
the tri-state area had been informed to show up at the music
department of the school.
While he would have traveled across
three state lines to the audition, Ken was happy he only had to cross
three streets and a rather large grassy hill.
Signs directed him to the room where he
had sectionals, and Ken was surprised at how many people were there
warming up. He thought the process would be more...selective and that
he wouldn't be going up against more than fifteen other trumpeters.
Sure, this location was only one of seven in the country the DSO was
for auditions, but really, 60 others? More actually, as he signed in
on the 60th line and more came in after him.
With such a wait time ahead of him, Ken
decided to put off really warming up until it was closer for him to
be seen. He had arrived early, the first trumpet wouldn't play until
for almost another hour and he didn't feel like his time slot would
be within an hour of that even. Trumpet players had big egos, it was
necessary to play he thought or there was no way to hit those high
notes, and as such he didn't expect for each session to be short.
They had been told ten minutes, but really, he just knew things would
be behind.
Instead, Ken pulled out his trumpet,
propped his sheet music up inside the open case, and went through
fingerings after he finished greasing the values. He did that for an
hour, lost in his head in how he imagined the sounds to be when he
final put air to the notes. A vibrato on this whole note, double
tonguing that run, circular breathing during that middle,
ballad-esque passage. It was only when one of the professors came in,
a flute specialist, to announce four names to follow her did Ken
figure he should start blowing wind through his trumpet.
As he fitted his mouth piece on, he was
suddenly aware of harsh glare on the back of his neck. He turned
around to see a hispanic man, maybe late 20s, looking at him through
narrow eyes. Something about Ken obviously riled him up, and now
that he was looking at him he was thinking the same thing. The man's
darker skin, his uncombed hair, the stiff color of his shirt, and, oh
man that trumpet! Hadn't the other guy heard of polish?
Ken tried to shake of the sudden
violent dislike he had of someone he'd never met and blew air through
his instrument to warm up the metal before settling into a range of
scales. Wanting to show the other guy he might as well pack up and go
home, Ken made sure to use his best tone and went slightly faster
than normal. His lips felt great, his trumpet was behaving as if it
wasn't still warming up at all. Ken turned, looking out of the side
of his eye at the other guys in a challenge.
When he paused for breath, the hispanic
took over playing with the complementary minor scale. No, the blues
complementary scale with its skipped notes and accidentals.
Ken then did two octaves.
The other man did it double tongued.
On the same brainwaves, they each took
a deep breath and then started playing C, trying to not be the first
one to run out of breath. Even with circular breathing, Ken was
running out of air, but he held out for one half of a second longer.
He sent a cocky smile to his new found
rival.
The other man looked murderous and
looked like he was going to charge. Carefully, he put down his
trumpet in the case, and then stood up looking as if he was going to
sock Ken.
But, as he was standing, the other's
face smoothed out for a second, his desire to start a fight fading.
In fact, he looked as if he didn't actually know why he wanted to
start a fight to begin with.
That grated Ken.
“What, not man enough to do
anything?”
The hispanic flopped a hand at him.
“I've got better things to do.” And with that, he sat in his
chair again.
But as soon as he touched his trumpet,
something strange happened. It was if the metal burned him. He
looked up at Ken.
“What?” Ken snarled at him.
Still looking at him, the hispanic took
his hand on and off the trumpet. The behavior was so odd Ken's
dislike of the other faded to confusion. What was he doing?
Before he could think of an answer, his
number was called. Goodness, he was so caught up in competing he
hadn't actually played any of his trouble sections. Too late now. It
wasn't like he hadn't practiced the piece a billion times.
To his surprise, the hispanic was
called too. The professor indicated they were to each stand outside a
different door. There was already another trumpeter standing at each
one, but no noise from within the rooms. Shortly after they took
their places, a girl walked out of Ken's assigned room. A voice
barked out 'next!' and the first trumpeter walked in.
Ken spent the time fingering, sending
glances over at the hispanic. He was doing the same. Eventually, two
more trumpets arrived and stepped into line behind each of them, and
then Ken was called into the room.
Deep breath, he told himself. Think of
it as an S&E competition, you rocked at those.
The room was one of the small practice
rooms, not much space for more than a stand and the panel of judges
five feet away. There were three of them, and Ken bet they all
played in, or were associated with the DSO. These could be his future
fellow trumpets.
He said hello and gave a little bow.
“Let's start with scales. Play C
minor.”
Half way through the scale, he realized
he could hear sounds from the other audition room, and he knew
exactly who was playing.
In hind sight, he didn't really
remember playing for the three DSO representatives. His entire focus
was on playing so good he blew the hispanic out of the water. He
didn't care if he didn't land a job, as long as he was better that
his rival. He had never felt so passionate about playing his best. He
had also never played as good. Tone, breathing, color, technique, he
had never gotten this close to perfect playing. Grudgingly, he
attributed it to the hispanic. But only after he had been dismissed
and was giving a quick polish to his horn before laying it back in
the case.
As Ken closed his case, he looked up
and watched the other auditioner enter the room. As he passed Ken
figured he should probably be friendly. He didn't know what had
sparked the animosity he felt towards the other player, but maybe
getting to know him would help. Ken held out his hand. “Hi, I'm
Ken Price.”
The other trumpet sneered at his hand
and quickly went to put down the instrument. As soon as he did so,
his face relaxed and he turned around to offer his own hand just as
Ken was pulling his back. “Conor Caraballo.”
They shook.
“Look man,” Ken began. “I felt
extra competitive today. Not sure why, but I just wanted to let you
know it wasn't your fault.”
Conor nodded. “No big deal. Hey, try
something for me?”
Ken shrugged.
“Look at me without touching your
trumpet, and then while you are.”
It was a crazy suggestion, but Ken
figured there was a reason for it considering Conor had done just
that earlier. He sat on a chair and pulled his case onto his lap.
With a snap, he released the catches and with his hands hovering over
the trumpet looked at Conor and thought about what he felt about the
guy.
Okay, kinda friendly and maybe a little
bipolar, but a pretty darn good trumpet player.
Ken placed his hands on the trumpet.
Conor was a no good show-off who
shouldn't because he had no skills to show off in the first place. He
smelled, cheated, manipulated others to gain ranks in groups, he -
Ken took his hands of the trumpet.
Conor zipped his own case closed. “See
what I mean?”
“That was...weird.”
“You're telling me.”
“So...our trumpets hate each other?”
“Did you hear yourself? That's
crazy.”
“Yeah, but...” Ken trailed off,
looking at his instrument before slowly closing the case. “You have
any other ideas?”
“No. Just that I'm gonna ignore it
and hope I never see you in a situation like this again. And now, to
make up for all that anger I felt towards you I feel like I should
buy you a beer.”
“I know just the place.”
-------------------------------
In case you're confused, the trumpets were rivals in past life. If they were Darth Vadar and Obi Wan, maybe. You choose.
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