The podium was off-limits.
As sixth graders, we knew not to dare step up on that holy ground. That's where our band and orchestra directors stood. We were allowed to walk up to the podium but not to put a foot on it. That was the rule of elementary music on Saturday mornings. Band rehearsal, instrument lessons, and theory lessons. And in between, run and laugh through the dark, empty halls of a deserted high school on a Saturday morning – but don’t even think about that podium.
One day after rehearsal, my band director sent me out from his office to get his Chesterfield Kings off the podium.
The band room was empty.
I stepped up on the podium and it was instant vertigo. I felt like I climbed a mountain and the rarified oxygen had caught me by surprise. The Chesterfield clouds seemed to materialize out of nowhere. The air was thick with nicotine and the POV was one I had never before experienced. Looking down just intensified the vertigo.
His smokes were right where he always left them - on the right side of the podium, next to his overflowing ashtray. I stood on my toes, trying to peek in the window of his band room office. He wasn't looking.
I picked up the baton. It felt lighter than a pencil. I expected it to be much heavier. I carefully put it down in slow motion as I grabbed the pack of smokes and ran.
When was the first time you picked up the baton?
By college, I figured that batons were meant for people with names like Ormandy, Bernstein, and Ozowa – not Holmes. I was destined for the rank and file.
But by junior year in college, I was standing on that first podium and the baton was now legitimately in my hand. I was the new director of the Saturday morning program and conducting band and orchestra rehearsals. Our program was approximately 200 children that came every Saturday morning and as conductor, I was churning out arrangements for our groups to play.
After I graduated from college, I knew I wasn't going to be touching a baton during my 7.5 hour business day for a while: I was going to be teaching elementary general music.
Things can change quickly, though. Out of the blue, I got a call from my old band director. He had to have some elective surgery and wanted me to fill in as his marching band director for the next three months – starting in five days. Was I interested? I jumped on the opportunity almost as fast as I budgeted the new-found pay check.
I was now conducting an 80 piece Diocesan high school marching band. Our first evening football game was success. The band rehearsals the following week were full of enthusiasm and raucous playing. I had written some pop and jazz charts for the marching band. The kids were pumped and enjoyed ripping through them.
What I did that second week was not expected by the band members. I announced that I was not going to be conducting the Star Spangled Banner any more at pre-game.
You have to realize that when everyone hears the announcer’s command “Please rise for the playing of our National Anthem”, it is the one pre-game moment when all eyes in the stadium are on the conductor. I decided that at that moment, I would hand the baton to a different senior each week to conduct the anthem.
One of our best trumpeters had medical issues with his legs and walked with the assistance of two forearm crutches. He marched with only one support in his left hand while he played his trumpet with his right. The fact that he was a talented musician often obscured the fact that he was a such a profile in courage and ability. Nothing slowed him down.
When I announced on the Monday that Frank was going to be conducting the anthem from the ladder that Friday night, it get very quiet very fast. I wasn’t going to say another word or rob the band of the words that rightfully belonged to them to say.
At that moment, everyone was silently looking at either Frank or the ladder. Then they were looked at Frank looking at a silent me.
Within seconds, his classmates said, “Don’t worry, Frank, we’ll get you up there Friday night.”
And they did.
That's the way I did my first – and only - year of leading a marching band.
By the ripe old age of twenty-two, I had discovered that the essence of the baton wasn't to hold on to it too tightly for too long. The stick is always meant to be handed to the next person. As directors, we don’t own it. We only borrow and take care of it for a short period of time. It only comes alive when we hand it to someone else.
When I moved over to public school and had a chorus, I routinely had members conduct songs during rehearsal and occasionally in concerts. The purpose was not just to share the baton but to develop a taste in the younger, more proactive kids for leadership opportunities.
If you’ve never conducted a musical group with a baton, I’ll let you in on a little trade secret. Waving the baton is not nearly as fulfilling as looking out and seeing all those kids who want to make music. That’s the real kick. That, and knowing that you were once one of them.
If ever there ever was a reason for not wanting to hand off the baton, that would be it. Because that feeling, well, it's something unlike anything you’ll ever experience in music.
We don’t have a deed for the podium. We only rent.
Just like in a relay race, the trick is not trying to control or own the baton but instead, to do everything in your power to insure that it keeps moving and leading long after you’ve passed it on.
Somewhere, there is a kid sneaking up on a podium and eyeing that baton.
Let’s hope she picks it up.
As sixth graders, we knew not to dare step up on that holy ground. That's where our band and orchestra directors stood. We were allowed to walk up to the podium but not to put a foot on it. That was the rule of elementary music on Saturday mornings. Band rehearsal, instrument lessons, and theory lessons. And in between, run and laugh through the dark, empty halls of a deserted high school on a Saturday morning – but don’t even think about that podium.
One day after rehearsal, my band director sent me out from his office to get his Chesterfield Kings off the podium.
The band room was empty.
I stepped up on the podium and it was instant vertigo. I felt like I climbed a mountain and the rarified oxygen had caught me by surprise. The Chesterfield clouds seemed to materialize out of nowhere. The air was thick with nicotine and the POV was one I had never before experienced. Looking down just intensified the vertigo.
His smokes were right where he always left them - on the right side of the podium, next to his overflowing ashtray. I stood on my toes, trying to peek in the window of his band room office. He wasn't looking.
I picked up the baton. It felt lighter than a pencil. I expected it to be much heavier. I carefully put it down in slow motion as I grabbed the pack of smokes and ran.
When was the first time you picked up the baton?
By college, I figured that batons were meant for people with names like Ormandy, Bernstein, and Ozowa – not Holmes. I was destined for the rank and file.
But by junior year in college, I was standing on that first podium and the baton was now legitimately in my hand. I was the new director of the Saturday morning program and conducting band and orchestra rehearsals. Our program was approximately 200 children that came every Saturday morning and as conductor, I was churning out arrangements for our groups to play.
After I graduated from college, I knew I wasn't going to be touching a baton during my 7.5 hour business day for a while: I was going to be teaching elementary general music.
Things can change quickly, though. Out of the blue, I got a call from my old band director. He had to have some elective surgery and wanted me to fill in as his marching band director for the next three months – starting in five days. Was I interested? I jumped on the opportunity almost as fast as I budgeted the new-found pay check.
I was now conducting an 80 piece Diocesan high school marching band. Our first evening football game was success. The band rehearsals the following week were full of enthusiasm and raucous playing. I had written some pop and jazz charts for the marching band. The kids were pumped and enjoyed ripping through them.
What I did that second week was not expected by the band members. I announced that I was not going to be conducting the Star Spangled Banner any more at pre-game.
You have to realize that when everyone hears the announcer’s command “Please rise for the playing of our National Anthem”, it is the one pre-game moment when all eyes in the stadium are on the conductor. I decided that at that moment, I would hand the baton to a different senior each week to conduct the anthem.
One of our best trumpeters had medical issues with his legs and walked with the assistance of two forearm crutches. He marched with only one support in his left hand while he played his trumpet with his right. The fact that he was a talented musician often obscured the fact that he was a such a profile in courage and ability. Nothing slowed him down.
When I announced on the Monday that Frank was going to be conducting the anthem from the ladder that Friday night, it get very quiet very fast. I wasn’t going to say another word or rob the band of the words that rightfully belonged to them to say.
At that moment, everyone was silently looking at either Frank or the ladder. Then they were looked at Frank looking at a silent me.
Within seconds, his classmates said, “Don’t worry, Frank, we’ll get you up there Friday night.”
And they did.
That's the way I did my first – and only - year of leading a marching band.
By the ripe old age of twenty-two, I had discovered that the essence of the baton wasn't to hold on to it too tightly for too long. The stick is always meant to be handed to the next person. As directors, we don’t own it. We only borrow and take care of it for a short period of time. It only comes alive when we hand it to someone else.
When I moved over to public school and had a chorus, I routinely had members conduct songs during rehearsal and occasionally in concerts. The purpose was not just to share the baton but to develop a taste in the younger, more proactive kids for leadership opportunities.
If you’ve never conducted a musical group with a baton, I’ll let you in on a little trade secret. Waving the baton is not nearly as fulfilling as looking out and seeing all those kids who want to make music. That’s the real kick. That, and knowing that you were once one of them.
If ever there ever was a reason for not wanting to hand off the baton, that would be it. Because that feeling, well, it's something unlike anything you’ll ever experience in music.
We don’t have a deed for the podium. We only rent.
Just like in a relay race, the trick is not trying to control or own the baton but instead, to do everything in your power to insure that it keeps moving and leading long after you’ve passed it on.
Somewhere, there is a kid sneaking up on a podium and eyeing that baton.
Let’s hope she picks it up.
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