The Stock Market Cymbals

(to follow The Tears and the Years)

While I sit, anxiously waiting to get blown out by the Gators in the Capital One Bowl, I think I'll recap the highlights of my marching band experience over the past eight years. Let me begin with my sophomore year in high school, when I was a member of the La Canada High School Winter Drumline. I was one of four kids on the cymbal line, and we performed and competed in the Southern California Percussion Alliance. The theme of our show was actually really cool. It was entitled "18 Wall Street", and portrayed the Stock Market Crash of 1929.

Now that I'm looking at the name again, I don't think the New York Stock Exchange is even located on 18 Wall Street. Let's see here...Yes. I'm right. Wikipedia is telling me that the address was 18 Broad Street in 1929. Interesting how no one thought any of this at the time. Whatevskis!

Here was the makeup of the battery section of our Drumline:

Snares (3): Mike, Peter, Robby

Tenors (2): Dan Dawg, Johnny

Basses (5): Evan, Vijay, Scott (aka my brother, aka Cow), Alex, David

Cymbals (4): Virgile, Kevin, Amanda, and Me

I spent the majority of my time with my fellow cymbal players. I guess we each had our own...uhhh...talents. Virgile, a junior, was probably the best musician out of all of us. But Kevin, a sophomore, was probably the best at actually playing cymbals. Amanda, also a sophomore, had very large breasts, which were particularly conducive to muffling the sound of the cymbal crash. That leaves me, and I'm struggling to figure out my talent here. I guess I was able to hold the cymbals up longer than everyone else. That's...something. On the whole, though, I would say that our combined musical skills fell somewhere in between mediocre and blithely ignorant.

Most of the people reading this probably don't have a lot of experience playing cymbals. Let me describe the basics: First off, and I don't mean to offend any cymbal players, as I feel that after playing cymbals for three years I can say this...but cymbals are pretty much the least musical instrument EVER. It really doesn't require much skill. Yes, there are over a hundred ways to crash a cymbal, but there are also over a hundred ways to destroy my apartment, and my hamster perfected 78 of them.

One of my favorite parts of cymbal-ing is when you accidentally crash it too close to your body, and you'd pinch your skin between the cymbals. Sometimes we would be standing and practicing and the person next to me would pinch himself, and then scream from the searing pain, and fall to the ground. It was hilarious/horribly, horribly painful. By the end of the season, I'm sure all four of us were pinched and bruised all over our arms and chests, and the marks took months to disappear. The cymbals were also good at completely disabling nearly all of our hand capabilities. It was frustrating to be unable to scratch my nose without bashing a huge piece of metal into my forehead...or answer my cell phone...or plant a garden...or aim into the toilet.

So, back to "18 Wall Street." Looking back, I think that none of us really realized exactly how good we were. In fact, apparently by the end of the season, we were REALLY good, yet, always and forever - blissfully ignorant. The climax of the Winter Drumline season came at the SCPA Championships at Cal State University San Bernadino. We met before dawn on a Saturday morning at LCHS to pack the equipment into the truck. Then we loaded the bus and drove 2 hours to CSUSB. Just like every other drumline competition, we unfolded the drumline floor, and spent a few hours practicing and running through the show. Folding the floor back up was always a huge hassle that no one wanted to do. In order to do a good job, it required about 20 people folding at once. Once folded, the floor weighed over 150 lbs and had to be pushed around on a cart. After we finished, we lugged ourselves and our despised floor to the basketball arena to perform our show for the judges.

Here's how this works: Before a drumline starts performing, the floor needs to be unrolled, then the pit equipment needs to be moved on top of it, then come all of the props, and then we need to pick up our instruments and get into position...all in about a minute. It's unbelievably hectic, and once we're finally ready to perform, we're already out of breath. After setting up, we performed our stock market crash-themed show, and quickly and frantically removed everything off of the floor. Plus, since we don't have enough time to nicely fold the floor, we just quickly rolled it up into a long mess. About 20 of us stood in a line alongside the floor, picked it up, and sprinted with it out of the gym. Once we were outside, we left it in one big heap in the rain.

At this point, we were ready to eat lunch, and go home. We knew we wouldn't have to worry about performing in the finals, and we didn't really want to stay to watch the evening performances. Several thoughts involving burning the Floor were also floating around. As we were eating, Mark, our instructor, walked up and told us to get our instruments and start practicing. We all stood confused, which may not have actually phased Mark, because we were perpetually confused about everything for five months now. Apparently we had placed second at prelims - well over the qualifying mark for finals. Our shock transitioned quickly to excitement, and back to shock again, after someone shouted, "Oh, crap! The Floor!"

No, we didn't burn it. But it was lying in the rain and dirt, completely drenched. After practicing for an hour or so, and after the rain subsided, we set out to cleaning the Floor. Alas, our resources were extremely limited, both in terms of cleaning supplies, and mental competence. Most of us got on our hands and knees and started rubbing it down with paper towels. The parents helped out, too...and I even remember Mrs. Hamre wiping the Floor down.

You may have also noticed that I started capitalizing "Floor". Halfway through this entry, I realized what a significant impact this particular floor has had ON MY LIFE. Surely significant enough to warrant a capital letter. If "The Depression" gets to be capitalized, then "The Floor" deserves it, too. Perhaps even italicized. And underlined twice. And sandwiched in between several crying and angry-faced emoticons.

Anyway, back to cleaning :-( !!The Floor!! )-: . We honestly weren't sure if it was even working. It was already dark, and there was no outside lighting. Some of the drummers thought it would help to spread out the pit covers over The Floor while Elena and Andrew, two very very small freshman pit members, sat on the covers so we could drag them across The Floor, hopefully absorbing some of the moisture. After dragging the freshmen back and forth across it several dozen times, and after running out of paper towel reserves, we stood in the pitch black staring at the barely visible Floor, and proclaimed it clean.

At this point, my nerves were catching up with me. Since we didn't ever think we were good, there was never that much pressure on us during our performances. Suddenly, we had the opportunity to place at championships! We had the opportunity to beat Arcadia High School, one of our rivals. We focused ourselves, marched our equipment back over to the gym, and waited for our turn to take the stage. Typically, we would stand in a circle, pray and hope for a good show before all of our competitions. This time, everything mattered so much more. After we wished each other luck, we stood waiting to ready the gym. Just like always, we sprinted on, unfolded The Floor, set up the props, positioned the pit equipment, picked up our instruments, and waited for the judges to tell us when to start.

As I reached for my cymbals, I distinctly remember Peter next to me saying, "Oh.....Shit!" He was staring at The Floor, his jaw dropped. I looked at The Floor in shock. It was completely covered in a clearly visible and thick layer of dirt and sopping wet filth. Obviously, there was nothing we could do at this point. Hopefully it wouldn't really affect our performance. After the judges' "go", we started. From the get-go, I noticed some of the drummers having trouble maintaining their traction on the slippery floor. Each step prompted a squishy sound and seemed to flick water in every direction. I specifically remember nearly face-planting on a touch-and-go early in the show, and then later helping Rachel up when she slipped behind a prop.

By the end of the show, we seemed to get the hang of the slippery surface, and finished a strong performance. Once again, we quickly cleared The Floor, picked it up, and ran out the door. This time, we had absolutely no qualms about leaving The Floor outside in a wet, disgusting, unholy heap. Several drumline members even attacked The Floor, kicking and cursing at it. Though I'm usually a calm and subdued person, I may have even thrown a punch or two.

At the end of the evening, we went to the awards ceremony. For championships, all of the drumline members from every school line up on the court to hear the results and to accept medals. To our right was Ayala High School, the drumline we knew would win First Place. To our left was Arcadia High School, our rival that we hoped to beat. On one side, Arcadia's drummers were giving us dirty and angry looks. On the other, Ayala was all smiles, congratulating us on our performance, and saying things like "Go USA! Go Everyone! We're All Winners!". Ugh...I couldn't stand either one.

One by one, they announced the results. Eventually:

3rd Place: Arcadia High School

2nd Place: La Canada High School!

1st: Ayala

We were all elated! It was such a great end to a crazy day, and a long season. We wore our silver medals proudly, and exited the arena. We thanked all the parents, boarded the bus, and headed home.

During the ride back to La Canada, the excitement slowly began to sink in. I realized how much we had accomplished over the past season. Our long hours and strenuous practicing had paid off, and we developed a strong sense of camaraderie and work ethic. All in all, it was a truly fulfilling experience, and quite an achievement for a group of high schoolers. We got back to LC around dawn, thoroughly exhausted from the days' events. Nevertheless, we all wished each other goodbye and headed home feeling proud, our stock higher than ever.