The Songbird

Only thirty people had signed up for the marching band. After auditions, it was evident that only about half of them were good enough at their instruments to actually play in the marching band.

The marching band still didn’t have an official name. Mr. Chapman, the new band teacher at the new high school built in Pinfeather, had great intentions in bringing the marching arts to the students in the small town only big enough for two high schools. He was going to train them only as a parade band for the first year and then branch out into more complex field shows once the students understood properly how to march and play. The auditions, which were mostly a formality, were messy and chaotic. A saxophone player showed up with a cracked reed. A percussionist used timpani mallets to play the marimba. A trombone player got his mouthpiece stuck in his horn and Mr. Chapman had to use a special tool to get it out. Clearly, these students were not exposed to the kind of music education that would be the standard prerequisite for joining a marching band.

Frustrated, Mr. Chapman called over to the middle school and asked to speak with the music teacher. The receptionist on the other end asked who was calling and why, sounding unbelievably annoyed. Her voice was flat, dry, and she made no attempt to cover her dramatic and exasperated sighs. He explained that he was the band teacher at the new high school and just wanted to talk to the middle school’s music teacher so he could appropriately prepare the kind of band program that would suit the students’ skills. He also wanted to ask the teacher why on earth her students were so incompetent and inexperienced, but he wasn’t going to do that.

The receptionist put Miss Johns on the line. Mr. Chapman was taken aback by how young she sounded when she answered.

”Good afternoon,” said Mr. Chapman, “I was hired to direct the high school band and just wanted to speak briefly with you about your music program so I can better understand the type of music I can begin teaching the kids.”

”Which high school?” asked Miss Johns.

Oh right. There were two high schools now.

”Uh, Saint Gregory,” he replied. 

There was a long pause. Mr. Chapman was worried she had hung up on him.

”My background is in choir, not band. We did about half band and half choir, but the students mostly taught themselves when it came to the band portion. You’ve got a bunch of great singers but not a lot of them are very good instrumentalists. I guess it’s mostly my fault for not knowing how to teach them, but if you want to run an actual band program, you’ve got a lot of work on your plate.”

And with that, any hope of developing a performing marching band was thrown out the window. He had thirty self taught instrumentalists who barely knew how to carry and take care of their instruments, let alone actually play them. The auditions were meant to weed out the under-experienced players from the ones who really prided themselves on their musicianship. Instead, he went through his list of all the students he was going to cut from the band, crumpled it up, and tossed it in the garbage bin. He then personally called the home of all thirty students to tell them that they had made the cut and were officially in the band. In total, more than two hours were spent on the phone.

On the day of the first real band rehearsal, Mr. Chapman found himself in front of thirty wide-eyed students eagerly awaiting instruction from their new teacher, but he was truly at a loss. Did these kids know how to play any scales? Could they decipher between staccato and legato? Had he really completed four years of music education in university just for this?

”How did Miss Johns usually have you all warm up?” he asked the students. Maybe there was a warm up that they were already familiar with.

The students talked amongst themselves until one was finally brave enough to raise his hand. Mr. Chapman called on him.

”Solfege,” said the student. She didn’t elaborate. 

“Can you show me?” Mr. Chapman said.

Students with large instruments set them down on the floor. Students with small instruments laid them across their laps.

Using solfege syllables, the students sang two octaves of the C major scale. On their way back down the scale, the male voices harmonized with the female voices. They even sang the arpeggio.

It was apparent that Mr. Chapman had a group of incredible singers on his hands. Suddenly, the prospect of there not being a marching band became much easier to stomach. In its place would be a beautiful show choir. 

The folding chairs in the band room were replaced with choir risers. Music stands were taken out and each student was given a folder that could be held in their hands. Mr. Chapman slowly got used to conducting without a baton. Within a few short weeks, he had a choir that was ready to perform. Since marching bands generally played at football games, the show choir’s debut would be at the school’s opening game. They would be singing at halftime.

On the day of the big game, each student donned a white choir robe. They were donated from another school that was no longer using them and most of them were tattered and didn’t fit very well. Some were stained. The once bright white was marked with spots of tan and deep red. This is why Mr. Chapman always heeded the rule in marching band that there was to be no eating in uniform. Clearly the previous school didn’t share the same respect for the rule.

The football team was as big as the choir. Mr. Chapman had never seen a football team so big. The boys on the team were all tall and stocky. Compared to the short and skinny music students, they resembled grown men. It was hard to look at them and see that they were only sixteen years old. One of the linebackers even had a beard that reached down to his collarbones.

In the first half, the Saint Gregory footballers pummeled the opposing team. By the time halftime came, the crowd was so amped up, Mr. Chapman felt suddenly shy about leading his students onto the field under the bright lights. He was worried the stadium lights would only accentuate the wear and tear of the robes, and after such a rousing first half, the choir would only put the school to shame. Even so, he raised his hands, ready to conduct. He lifted his hands up and heard all thirty of his students share the same breath. When his hands dropped back down, they began to sing. 

Mr. Chapman had to close his eyes in order to stop tears from falling. It was like listening to a chorus of angels. If somebody would’ve told him that in that moment he had died and gone to Heaven, he would have believed it with his whole heart.

But it wasn’t Heaven. It was a muddy football field riddled with gopher holes and dandelions. 

Who was he to tell the difference anyway? 

He led the choir off the field after the performance. He used to dream of having a marching band to perform on this same field. Sometimes dreams don’t come true, and sometimes that’s for the best.

The football coach was a huge man with a buzzcut, a neck tattoo, shoulders almost as wide as he was tall, and a tank top that openly displayed his forest-like chest hair. Mr. Chapman tried to duck his head down as he went past, reminded of the bullies when he was a high school student himself, but the football coach tapped him on the shoulder. He extended an arm and initiated a handshake.

“Well, you’re quite the songbird, aren’t you?” said the football coach. 

Something occurred to Mr. Chapman that he had neglected to consider all this time. The choir never had a name.

The football team’s major victory was the talk of the school. There were posters in the hallways commending their grand success. Congratulations, athletes! 

The students of the choir met in the music room for their routine rehearsal and were met with a poster of their own.

Congratulations to The Songbird Choir of Saint Gregory High!

Next to it was a cheque from the football coach to go towards new robes.