I decided to bring a journal to the Winter Band Concert and write whatever comes to mind as I listen to the music, just like I do for Jazz Band.
Instead of simply writing in it, this time the people around me took turns writing in it.
This is the written response to the Winter Band Concert 2007, December 19th.
The writers are Joel Arken, Travis Chapman, Brittany Emch, Daniel Navarro-Gomez and finally, Martin Rodriguez.
(Sympho)
I work in the steel factories. I bite the heads off of Communists with my gritten American teeth.
Chasing rabbits, no, chasing cars.
It's a doggy dog world
The imminent essence of the trumpets flood my esophagus and I am elated.
The articulation of the tubas tickles my anus, or the outside of it anyway.
Black and white bowties beguile the illumination of my soul
As the sound reaches the audience's ears,
We discover that it is nothing more than shouts
And the joy of our souls seeking to escape
Like a dove set free into the sunlit sky. We are free
Maya Angelou and her caged bird sing with the melodious saxophone. I would love to live on Bakerstreet, in a gold-wrought Suburb.
Egads! What brobdingnagian beauty eminates forth from the tuba! And lief the cues from the conductor are truly magnificent. Never mind, that was quite the musical imbroglio.
(Concert Band)
I just murdered Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra with my flute in hand. Proof that musicians go to hell.
With a pipe in my mouth & a sword in the other I am the king of jesters. I laugh in the face of Sinatra & fear, for my imminence shall reign.
Shout at me, oh, jubilant and flamboyant harmonics. Inspire me, you who smells like my favorite carol. Sink into me, little eighth notes, I long to be your lover.
That's provocative, that's it.
Trumpets roar, flutes tweet and drums are banged. But who do they call for? They seek to be heard and are kept as a faint memory like your ex-wife's howl.
With one great leap backwards, I smash the noise out of the room. A cacophonous pur and a general disquietude is left in the beige auditorium.
Don't ultracrepidate me, young miscreant!!
I had a sexual affair with your mother!
Which produced you! Ha Ha, I chortle at you, ignoramus.
Let me tickle your nozzle.
(P.S. The jabroni playing the bass drum was doing it all wrong.)
At least five of these accidents ^ will drop out of band and start smoking the weed.
Girl, let me lay it out for you.
Left, towards Hell, okay now 3 inches right, up, up, up, 3 quarters NW, okay... You've tickled my nozzle.
That boy in the front, look at him there. All timid and scared...
Would Brooks have dared.
(The Ensemble)
Ok, do they really need 8 percussion players?
Or 2 black people?
Cleanup on aisle French Horn. We've got an oil spill. Commanding the stage, Ben Brooks demands respect.
I do not want Sylvia.
(That's a lie, Joel ^)
Hella tight song but don't get me wrong, where's the gong...
The bass palyers perpetratin' the flute guy
you can see the mean look in his eye
Yo, today my mom went to the Red Cross
Did I mention that I told Tony Danza that I'm the boss?
Anyway, Back to my mom, she gave red like Stalin
The bassoons are all in... it's appallin'
Wait, I hear the phone; I think it's your mama callin'
Too bad about your dad he must be bummed when he sees me strum
His wife's heartstrings.
Am I the only one not clapping?
The dazzling display of polluted snow fallen and collected on the side roads. Blue birds, sopranos and altos gliding endlessly around the ice rink, where none other than Mickey Mouse has mastered his Double Axle McTwist on the frozen ground. The mountains do not threaten, they hang low, like Craig's cufflinks.
Band concert tonight,
the sound like cookies and eggs.
My mom is better
And that's all she wrote.
Is it progress if Cannibals use forks?
More importantly, is it inevitable for cannibals to use forks?
Or do they possess free will?
My holiday season starts with rum, coincides with whiskey, halfway, then ends with light beer. Thanks for reminding me, B. Brooks.
Lasciate ogne speranza vo'incontrate
Life has me at a crossroads right now
But both paths are washed out from a flood.
And somebody I am close to knows how to make a canoe.
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