Tag: music

The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 16: The Army Returns (Part 3)

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Kendra crept away from the crusty dining hall, her backpack a rock on her shoulders and her Holy Band Beanie situated snugly atop her head.  The space was empty save for a few poles, a bannister, a water bottle-refilling station, and–

 

Him.

 

Atop the fountain sat the demonic octopus, its gaze fixated on Kendra.  She pulled her Holy Band Beanie tighter over her ears and set her backpack aside, then clenched her fists.  Without stretching first, she barreled toward the accursed thing with the most vicious battle cry known to mankind, a war chant dredged up from the countless minute spent cadencing with the band to football games.

“BUTTEEEEEER!!!”  Her legs pumping, she shot toward the octopus, her arms outstretched, ready to destroy the thing–

 

THWOMP.

 

She crashed into something solid and human-shaped.  It toppled backward but did not fall onto the floor, which just saved Kendra from faceplanting before a rando who had not been there a mere two seconds before.  When her vision cleared, she realized she was staring at a figure clad in black form-fitting athletic wear from shoulder to toe.  Diminutive and squirrely, the figure bounced up and down his feet to shake out his muscles, unperturbed by Kendra steamrolling into him, then flashed her a smile that eerily resembled that of the demon octopus.

 

“Hello there,” boomed Franklin F. Franklin.

 

“Franklin, wh–how–.”

 

Franklin simply lifted an as-of-now unbruised finger upward.  Kendra’s eyes followed him and found a missing ceiling tile beyond which the ventilation shafts loomed.

 

“I’m a cymbal player.  A little knee-bending doesn’t scare me.”  Again, that smile.  “I was hoping you’d figure it out sooner.  You know, since I am the lord of reversible stuffed octopi.”

 

“F-figure out what?”  Kendra was dizzy; her head was spinning.  Everything she’d been through in the past week was because of Franklin?

 

“I was trying to film an iMovie about sentient stuffed octopi, but you kept popping up in all my critical shots.  Don’t worry; I’ll edit you out of them.”  Noting Kendra’s incredulous expression, Franklin erased his smile.

 

“It was on my bed!!!”

 

I didn’t mean for that to happen!  He just fell from my hand, bro!  I am sorry about that one.  It was completely unintentional.”  As he talked, Franklin approached the apparently-not-demonic octopus and plucked it from the water bottle filler.  “Anyway, I’m almost done filming.  Just two more months to go!”  He flashed Kendra a thumbs-up, bent his knees, and launched himself back into the building’s crawlspace.

 

Kendra shook.  All of the running, all of the terror, and it had been–it wasn’t–.

 

“Hey, Kendra!”

 

She whirled around.  The space was suddenly teeming with students, though she was certain no one had been there a moment before.  Hilary waved at her with a smile that betrayed her ignorant bliss.  “We gotta get to class, sis.  Everything okay?”

 

“Y-yeah,” Kendra stammered.  She stooped down to pick up her backpack again.  Franklin.  Franklin was–.

 

All of this for an iMovie?

 

She pushed her terror away, squared her shoulders, and trudged beside Hilary into the snow.

 

The End!  For now………………..

 

More things will happen next week!

The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 14: The Army Returns (Part 1)

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It started out subtly:  cold sweat on her hands, the crawling sensation she was being watched, tension coiling through the back of her neck.  Between homework, classes, and crying over the fact that she had to turn in her uniform last Saturday, Kendra didn’t have time to consider who–or what–her stalker was.

 

When she first spotted him, she was crying studying in her dorm room.  Her roommate was out and about, so she was all alone–save, of course, the random stuffed octopus perched eerily on her windowsill.

 

“AAAAAAAAIIIIIIEEEE!”  In her terror, she yeeted her calculus textbook across the floor and nearly spilled perfectly hot dining hall coffee.  When she came to her senses, she realized the octopus was just staring at her contentedly.  Smiling, its innocent visage harbored no malevolence she could observe with the naked eye–which meant it was harmless, right?  She knew there was a cymbal kid named Franklin who was obsessed with these things, so maybe….

 

But she didn’t know Franklin.  Franklin didn’t know where she lived.  And, most crucially, Kendra was not on the drumline.

 

She backed away slowly from the thing and its stitched-on ovular eyes.  She couldn’t take her eyes off it; if she did, she was afraid it would attack her.  But it didn’t.  After half an hour spent hiding in her laundry basket, Kendra emerged to find her room just as she’d left it, except now the octopus was gone.

 

She was on the Bursley-Baits bus the next time she spotted the octopus.  After an afternoon spent practicing Taps on her horn in the band hall, she was wiped:  her palms were sweaty, knees weak, arms were heavy.  Her vision was so blurred with exhaustion she almost did not spot the octopus swinging from one of the straps standing passengers were supposed to hold onto.

 

Though horror rose in her throat, she did not scream.  She was in public; whatever this was, the octopus could not attack her here.  It could not do anything, anyway, because it was a stuffed octopus.  She was imagining things.  Franklin must have stuck one here to troll passengers and forgotten about it…right?

 

She decided she was sleep-deprived; she was seeing things.  So she went to bed early that night and woke up refreshed, her eyes naturally sliding open to greet the day in a rare moment of bliss.  She gave a slight smile, took in her surroundings, then–.

 

The octopus, the same octopus from her windowsill and the bus, was sitting inches from her face.

 

The screech that emitted from Kendra was a cross between a banshee’s shrill and a five-year-old cackling as his mother vacuumed the carpet.  Her roommate, the people in the adjacent rooms, the residents of the hall two floors below her, and an unsuspecting clump of pedestrians on the sidewalk bore witness to her scream.

 

“What the flippin’ frick is wrong with you!?” hollered her roommate.

 

“O-O-OCTOPUS!!!!”

 

“What th–oh, that?  Where’d you get him?  He’s so cute!”

 

“HE’S A DEMON OCTOPUS, HILARY!  HE’S BEEN STALKING ME ALL WEEK!  HE’S–.”

 

Calmly, Hilary plucked the octopus off Kendra’s bed and stroked its plush head.  “Aaaawwww, hey there, widdle guy!  where’d you come from?”

 

“I don’t know!!!!  But he’s been on the bus, so he needs a deep cleaning.”

 

“Oh.”  Hilary tenderly set the octopus onto her desk so she could clean him.  “Why are you afraid of a stuffed octopus anyway?”

 

“HE’S ALIVE!!!”

 

“Alright, Kendra, calm down.  I’m sure the octopus isn’t really alive.  You’ve been reading way too many creepypastas, sis.  Here, let’s get breakfast and try to think through this rationally.”

 

To Be Continued………………………………..

The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 12: Requiem for Marching Band Season

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Ice on my tongue, crusted

Over harsh, bitter puffs of nothingness

I trusted

The months would stretch and coalesce into taffy-like time

That eternities would burn in the aftermath of summer’s speed

And all evenings would be fever dreams of drill and fundamentals and Varsity

Until the sun slid behind the lids of the multihued trees and the Fearless Leader

Summoned the teeming mass of band geeks to the center of the tower and we all

Screamed “Go, Michigan!” as a team and December was but a beam on future’s horizon

 

In January’s rut I cling

To the remainder of the season in my closet and the singing, screaming shrieks of victory

Storms of maize and blue and snow that flowed round human flesh

And the heat that dwindled into a freeze as the fall washed into my memory

And the bright maize lights and the blimp and the remembrance

The fusion of fall with first Notus, then Boreas,

42-27

Entanglement of life with Heaven

 

They said we wouldn’t win until Hell had frozen over

Before they realized

Hell is a town in Michigan.

Art Biz with Liz: Family, Friendship, and The Arts

Elizabeth S 2 Comments

The past two years have been filled with love and loss among countless others emotions and events. There’s no doubt that the COVID-19 pandemic has been a time of trial and tribulation. Throughout the isolation, the arts have been an escape, even if I took a break from participating in the performing arts myself. But as much as I have always loved the arts, they wouldn’t be as monumental in my life without the influence of other people.

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I took some time to reflect about where I am in life and what I am grateful for. Looking back at the recent U-M Women’s Glee concert, I considered how great it felt to be there in person and have a live audience, even if the evening did include masks. Yet, despite reminiscing over the semester’s music-making and energy from the crowd, I couldn’t help but feel a pang in my chest when I remembered one person wasn’t there.

My boyfriend, grandmother, father, and I standing outside the Keene Theater after an RC Singers concert.

My grandmother was always a huge part of my life. She lived less than a ten-minute drive away and came over several times a week. Among the million memories or character traits I could share, when it came to the arts, she was my biggest support system. She was at every choir concert, theatre performance, and piano recital. In fact, I don’t know if I would have continued taking piano lessons throughout my childhood without her. Without fail, she always asked me to “play her a song” when she visited. I did so, though oftentimes more begrudgingly than not (I used to hate playing for other people, even my own loved ones).

When it came to college and I no longer kept up with the piano, my grandmother came to my choral performances. Most notably, she came to my RC Singers and U-M Women’s Glee Club concerts. Below is a picture of me and my grandmother after a glee concert, the last one “pre-COVID.”

While I could give a lot of credit to personal interest, my participation in the arts wouldn’t be what it is without the support of loved ones behind me. I’m thankful for all the people who encourage me in my writing, music-making, or other art endeavors. I thank my parents for giving me the opportunity to take piano lessons, coming to my choir concerts, and even enrolling me in ballet, even if I only did it for one year when I was eight. I thank my sister for giving me a paint set for Christmas, taking me to concerts/musicals, and driving from Ohio just to see my performances. I thank my family abroad for always reading my writing and sharing their thoughts, even if they are half a world away.

My family members and I following the U-M Women’s Glee concert on 11/20

As much as I disliked playing the piano for other people when I was a child, the support of my parents and grandmother at recitals always meant the world to me. These days, I am thankful for the support of other loved ones as well, like friends, cousins, aunts, and uncles. While my grandmother might not have been in the audience at my last glee concert, these people were, along with my parents, siblings, and adorable three-year-old nephew. I’m also grateful to all the people who couldn’t be at Hill Auditorium but cheered me on from home or in their own way.

Some friends who came to support me and Fiona at our glee concert on 11/20

 

It’s been over a year since I lost my grandmother to COVID-19. The dreams, grief, and guilt still haven’t gone away. There are so many things I wish I could say, sing, or play for her, but I’ll continue to honor her memory in my heart as I participate in the arts, just as she would’ve wanted me to. And although Grandma isn’t around anymore, I have a lot of friends and family members who continue to support me. In a way, her love for me and the arts still shines through. And that’s something to be grateful for.

Art Biz with Liz: Learning About Accessibility

Elizabeth S Leave a comment

This year, I have the pleasure of taking CARILLON 150: Performance, a two-credit course for non-SMTD students. If you aren’t sure about what the carillon is, check out a great piece that another arts, ink. columnist wrote about “the bells above campus.” You’ll hear about my experiences with the carillon throughout the semester, but I’d like to share about how the course has exposed me to not only new repertoire and performers, but also lessons on accessibility.

Earlier this month from October 3-6 was the 61st Annual Organ Conference. This was my first time hearing about the conference, and I wasn’t sure what to expect. The conference featured a series of lectures and recitals put on by student performers, guest artists/lecturers, and the Organ Department faculty. I knew there would be conversation surrounding the music of the organ, harpsichord, and carillon, but I had no idea how diverse the repertoire and lecture topics would be. As part of my class, I was tasked with watching several of the carillon events at this year’s virtual conference, which included a talk on accessibility by Laura Marie Rueslåtten, a lecture on recent Polish carillon music by Dr. Monika Kaźmierczak, and a faculty recital by Dr. Tiffany Ng (with an introduction by Dr. Sile O’Modhrain).

The faculty recital by Dr. Tiffany Ng and Dr. Sile O’Modhrain was called “Not Sighted, but Visionary: Music by Blind Carillonist-Composers.” Truthfully, I had never spent much time thinking about this topic before watching the recital, but it was interesting to learn about Braille music and the different tools used to create and work with braille music notation. Historically, it has often taken a lot of time and resources to transcribe music to braille, but advances are being made to create tools for creating braille music scores. In keeping with the topic of accessibility for the visually impaired, the performance aspect of the recital began with an audio description was included, describing the setting and what was going on in the video. The music ranged widely in genre and time period.

Another event I watched as part of the Annual Organ Conference was “Using Cognitive Accessibility to Improve Clear Communication,” a talk given by Laura Marie Rueslåtten. The idea of sensory overload in arts venues was new to me, as was the emphasis on being clear and direct when engaging with different kinds of neurodivergent experiences. The lecture not only made me reconsider how to make music facilities more accessible, but how we can be more accommodating in our everyday conversations. With this week being invisible disabilities week, I’d like to end with the takeaway that we should continuously strive to grow and improve in the ways we communicate and approach situations, which can help us become better artists, friends, and people.

The Rise of the Band Geeks, Episode 1: Kendra

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The wind whipped through Kendra’s thin excuse of a raincoat, and harsh droplets stung her cheeks and speckled her glasses.  Her arms were drawn into her sides as she stood, shivering, her feet planted in a 45-degree angle and the tips of her fingers red and numb.  Locked in her left hand was her cell phone with its shattered screen protector and worn case, opened on an intricate display of symbols and letters across a coordinate plane.  She squinted at the screen now, at the highlighted dot at the head of a thin lime line, the opposite end of which marked where she currently stood.

 

The wind picked up, flung a punch directly into her slight form.  Behind her, someone let out a curse he thought nobody else would hear.  He must have nearly shouted, since she could hear him well enough despite the thick foam plugs wedged into her ear canals.  Not that she blamed him.  She was biting back her own gripe, but she was saving her lips and breath for playing, and she did not have much air left.

 

A command made faint by the plugs in her ears prompted her to travel to her next dot.  Another backwards move–seriously?–in sixteen counts, and diagonally to boot.  Still, she scurried to the next spot on the field with haste, if only to warm herself for five seconds.

 

The hand holding her horn was frigid.  Even with the grease-stained, formerly white glove on, the low temperature, drizzle, and gusts brutalized her extremities, and it wasn’t like these gloves were meant for insulation.  They were meant for playing this damn instrument, a rental from the band hall with a sticking valve and perpetually flat tone, that she played outside of practice, oh, maybe once or twice a week if she felt like it.  If she thought she stood a chance, she’d practice harder, almost every day, but things had tapered off once she’d realized she wasn’t as good as the other kids in her section.  She’d tried to get her motivation back several times, but it just wasn’t there anymore, like she’d somehow given up.

 

Another direction issued from the tower compelled her to run back to her previous dot, phone in one hand and rain-slicked brass instrument in another, her ears stinging and the hood of her jacket flopping back, dodge a random cymbal player, and stand at attention, all while shoving her phone back into its pocket on the inside of her jacket.  They’re just marching for now, sixteen steps back with their respective instruments held aloft, yet Kendra found herself doubting her step size, her ability to march in time to the metronome.

 

This was for the homecoming game; everyone was in the show, regardless of how good they were.  Kendra was thrilled to be out on the field marching actual drill and learning music for a show she would perform, yet she could not shake the nagging notion, the mantra that sometimes kept her awake at night:

 

You’ll never be good enough for this.