ozboy

excalibur.jpg
Task 1
Funny Photo
This is a photo taken when I was in a band called the Little Big Horns. We were touring and it was winter. I call this photo EXCALIBUR. It was freezing. It was a quiet country road and a couple of cars came past and sprung us. The horn was my Calicchio before I bought a second hand leadpipe and imported Red Rot into the horn which totally stuffed it.(For the record, we were standing up at the time)


4. Poem or Limerick
This is written inthe form of an Aussie Bush Poem. It is actually true, believe it or not (right down to Mum's Dentures). Hope you like it.

HOW IT ALL BEGAN
Dad answered an ad in the local paper,
He said it would be good for us,
I think it had more to do with the fact,
That some of the local boys were taking an ‘unhealthy’ interest in my big sister.

“We’ll do it as a family” he said,
We all dreaded the ‘F’ word,
But as usual,
Dad's persistence won out.

Hopped out of the car,
Nervous,
The sign said “Lismore City Band,”
The toupee wearing conductor cast an expert eye over us,
Whilst mentally checking the storeroom for availability,
(It was a little like inmates receiving their regulation greens).

Euphonium for the dad,
Trombone for the big lad,
Tenor horn for the girl and,
Cornet for the little one.
(Mum cunningly avoided participation,)
“Can’t play one of those things with my dentures, Darling.”

Took prized possession home to the farm,
It had seen better days but I persisted.
The echo from the back hill was like a drug,
Found the ‘P’ word provided a plausible excuse,
To avoid mundane farm jobs.

The farm next door sold,
A retired station cook and builder moved in and became instant audience,
He’d seen time on the Kokoda Trail during WWII,
Insisted on being called by his first name,
Stoic father insisted he be called ‘Mr,'
Compromise was struck and he became Mr Doug.

Mr Doug enjoyed reminiscing and Rum,
On days when he was feeling down he’d yell,
“Play me the ‘Last Post’ Timmy”
A glistening tear would follow the furrows of the weathered face.

More than 30 years have passed.
The emotion that this curved piece of metal can evoke still intrigues me.

Moved away from the family farm.
Mum and dad sold up and bought a unit on the Gold Coast,
Mr Doug suffered a stroke,
Tough old bugger didn’t let it slow him down,
Just turned 90 the other day.
Told my parents he expects one last bugle call,
Reckon this time it will be me who sheds a tear.

MANDATORY A
Hi,
As my husband has been virtually self taught, and as his parents are unassuming country people, I have been given the task of pleading my husband's case. I do this with a good deal of pride, as he has been a person who was tirelessly pursued his passion as a musician.

I met my husband about 20 years ago outside a club he was playing at. ( We had a mutual friend). I am sure that everyone who enters this competition will tell you that their person absolutely deserves to win. I am no exception. My husband has a real love of playing, only exceeded by the love he has for his family.

Tim made a conscious decision not to move to the city so that his children could grow up free from the worries that big cities pose. He grew up on a farm and believes it has made him the person he is today.It has not been easy to make a living as a Jazz player in Australia, let alone in the country. Despite setbacks, he has continued to pursue his passion whilst being determined to make sure that his boys don't go without. He often says that he doesn't want his boys to think of him as a dreamer who should have go a 'real' job. Because of this, he has taken on a number of jobs to make ends meet including teaching hundreds of children, many from disadvantaged backgrounds, so that they can share his love of music.

Tim has only had 3 trumpets in his life. He has been playing for about 35 years. He owned his second trumpet when I met him. He had saved up for it as good trumpets are very expensive in Australia. It was always looked after, but last year the trumpet died through no fault of his. As money was tight, he bought a $600 second hand replacement.You know what? He can make it sing.

For 35 years, Tim has been perfecting his art form. Like all of you, he has made a real commitment to his passion. He does a jazz cruise each week. People from all over the world drop in and are amazed that a basically self taught boy from the country can play so well. They tell him he should go to the city and make a name for himself. He says that he wouldn't play the same. I know he is thinking of the kids. He doesn't talk about his playing much but he has some photos of Miles Davis that were given to him by an old French lady that was Miles's personal photographer. They take pride of place in our home. He also got a very good revue in a Sydney Jazz magazine when one of the writers heard him on their holiday which meant a lot to him.
The opportunity has finally arrived for Tim to record a CD of original material. He was heard playing and came home jumping up and down with delight. This recording may open some doors that will allow him to get exposure and hopefully get on the Jazz Festival circuit. It is very hard to get discovered so far from the big city.Tim has done a heap of session work over the years, usually for budding artists, but has never charged more than petrol money. He tells them to send a cheque when they are big, rich and famous as he knows first hand how hard it is to make a reasonable living out of music.This is his chance.I would love to see him walk in to the studio with a horn that would do him justice.

Tim spends hours on the net on sights like yours looking at trumpets.He says to his kids that he will buy a good horn when he wins the lottery which is funny as he doesn't buy a ticket. While he never complains, I know deep down he dreams about having a fine trumpet again.
I am sure that there are many deserving entrants in this competition.I know that there would not be a more appreciative winner than my husband.

MANDATORY B
I have been fortunate enough to have played for everything from the Queen of England to a singing dog, and everything in between. Blood Sweat and Tears came to Australia. They were travelling between capital cities and took a mid week gig in our small country town about half was between Brisbane and Sydney. There was hardly anyone there,(probably 30) as the town is very Country Music orientated. The band absolutely cooked. I walked up after the gig and thanked them as they were terrific. I was apologetic that people of their calibre would play to an empty room.One of the horn players said “It’s like this. You paid the same amount for a ticket as a person in a full house. Why should you get any less value for money?” I learnt a lot from this as it made me evaluate why I love to play.I came to the understanding that everytime I play, I play to make myself happy and to try to play something meaningful. If people dig it, then it is a bonus. Every day that I am above the ground and blowing is a bonus.

If I had to pick one experience it would be when my band went to the Solomon Islands on a cultural mission. The island children had no electricity or real understanding of the world beyond their island. I took a heap of mouthpieces and on the beach one afternoon and let the beautiful uncomplicated kids try to play my horn. Then I played and they laughed and danced. To see the joy on their faces was amazing. I have kids of my own and I realised that my children are the ones that have missed out.

maine trumpeter

1.The Funny Photo (Unusual):
If Al Hirt can have Honey in his Horn,
why can't I?

Al Hirt released the album "Honey in the Horn" in 1963, and in 1965 released "That Honey Horn Sound". (There is actually honey and honeybees in the bell of my trumpet.)


2.The Story

My trumpet experience from childhood to adulthood.

In the 5th grade I had the opportunity to hear a band that came to my elementary
school to show off their instruments that were for sale. We were able to hear how
the different instruments sounded and how they were played. The band played
Tijuana Taxi and Spanish Flea. Being a young fan of Herb Alpert, Al Hirt and
Doc Severinsen I already had an inkling of wanting to play a trumpet. Unfortunately,
my parents couldn’t afford to buy me a trumpet at that time. My mother knew a
person in town who could no longer play his trumpet. He had retired from the military
and had an old Holton trumpet. It was pretty beat up. Dad took it to the machine shop
where he worked and had them solder it up as the parts were in bad shape. After a
while I used masking tape to hold it together (back then there was not such thing as
duct tape). I played this trumpet for four years, grades 5-8 – all taped up. It didn’t
matter what it looked like. I just wanted to learn how to play. The music teacher
we had at the time didn’t mind the looks of the trumpet. It sounded fine and she
knew my family couldn’t afford anything better. I think she knew I had some
potential because she pushed me. She was the music teacher for all of the
elementary schools in the area and she’d come to my school for band practice
once a week. She’d say “Oh those girls from Andover (a school in a nearby town)
are doing so good – that would just get me going and I’d play and
practice even harder. When I got into the 7th grade, I was in middle school band.
They saw that I was pretty good on the trumpet so they asked if I’d step
up and play in the high school marching band. We played at football games and
in Memorial and Veteran’s Day parades. When I got into the 9th grade my Dad
realized I was serious and good at playing the trumpet and enjoyed it. He bought
me a King student model trumpet. At that time we had gone through many rolls
of masking tape to hold the old Holton together. I think one of my most memorable
moments in high school was in the jazz band when we went to Boston to participate
in a jazz competition. As soon as a band from Boston stepped onto the stage and
started to perform we knew we didn’t have a chance, especially when a girl in
their band stepped out with a long, black V-neck dress and started belting out
My Mama Done Told Me…We knew we were in trouble – just looking at the
judges faces! She could sing. But just the opportunity of going was the highlight
of the experience. After my high school years I was asked many times if I could
please come in and work with the high school trumpet players. It wasn’t until I
got into my late 30s that I stepped up to a Benge trumpet, and now play on a
Getzen. I have been playing in the Mahoosuc Community Band for the past 13 years. I’ve
enjoyed still working with high school trumpet players as they mature and
some become community band members. One of them – I can proudly say
– has gone on to work toward a college degree in music.

A) Mandatory

Dear Eclipse Trumpet Contest Judges,

I am writing to explain to you why Brian Dunham (maine trumpeter) deserves to win the Eclipse Trumpet Contest, but to me it is very simple.

I have known Brian for three years, and it is obvious to me that he has always been a talented musician. I’ve learned that as a young trumpeter he was a dedicated and motivated player—exceeding his peers. Among other accomplishments, he was a strong player in a competing and prize winning jazz ensemble in high school—nevertheless on a student model horn.

He didn’t end up pursuing music as a career, but instead he became an important and helpful community member. He coached local baseball, volunteered time with the high school bands, and was head of both the town’s Recreation Committee as well as the Planning Board. Still, he was passionate as a musician, even after suffering a baseball injury that seriously compromised his playing. Instead of letting himself become discouraged, he was further motivated to play and work-up his chops.

Thirteen years ago, the local school system lost their music program. To help both students and community members keep the music alive, the Mahoosuc Community Band was established, and since then has rehearsed Monday nights. The MCB performs free of charge for schools, nursing homes, Memorial and Veterans’ Day ceremonies, and community events. Brian joined this ensemble four weeks after it began, and he has never looked back. He has been president of the MCB for the past four years. Additionally he is a valuable member as part of the trumpet section, and he is a vital necessity when it comes to conducting. He is able at a moment’s notice to jump into position to direct an entire rehearsal if it is needed.

As I said before, I’ve known Brian for three years. As a young student I had always enjoyed hearing the MCB perform, and as a high school student I decided to join them. I was slightly wary, but any jitters I had vanished when I met Brian (the very day after I joined) to get my music. I immediately knew that I would enjoy every minute of rehearsals in a section with Brian. He was welcoming, pleasant, ever-helpful and always encouraging. He made me feel at home with the MCB, and he has taught me a lot about musicality and playing trumpet. We frequently discuss playing methods and technique, and he really has helped me as a trumpeter to play with confidence.

For someone who’s done so much for their community, Brian doesn’t even think twice before doing more. He’s a lifelong dedicated musician, and he works hard no matter the circumstances. As a self-motivated and energetic leader, Brian is a valuable community member and a great friend.

He deserves to win this contest because he is a good person who helps a lot of people without asking for anything in return.

Sincerely,
Heather Hastings (trumpeter656)
Plymouth State University Music Education major
Member of the MCB since 2004
(PM if additional information is needed)




B) Most Fantastic Moment in My Playing Life –

This story begins in January, 2003. The Mahoosuc Community Band, of which I am a member, had the good fortune to have a conductor, Ernie, who dedicated himself wholeheartedly to the success of our band. Not only was he talented as a conductor and as a musician (he played the trumpet, which I also play); he had progressive ideas when it came to music selections, and introduced jazz into our concert mix. He also tirelessly sought funding from the community. Ernie was successful in getting donations and concert engagements from the neighboring town of Rumford, Maine where we had not ventured until he joined us.

A member of the Fraternal Order of Eagles Aerie #1248* of Rumford, Ernie was able to procure the largest donation the band had ever received. As a thank you, we were scheduled to give a concert there on Saturday, March 29. Ernie worked hard to get the band prepared for the concert over the next few months. Then, suddenly, he was admitted to the hospital for an emergency heart bypass operation. Knowing that he would not able to conduct the Eagle’s Club concert, he contacted a conductor friend to stand in for him. Our last practice was on March 24, and we felt confident, in sync, and ready for the upcoming Saturday performance.

Then Ernie’s daughter called us with the news that Ernie had passed away on March 25.

Going into the Eagle’s Club concert, the whole band was in a state of loss over Ernie’s death. But, after the first number every band member knew we were playing the best ever, and everyone knew Ernie was there with us.

For the last selection of the concert we played America the Beautiful, and as we were playing I could see tears in the audience’s eyes. They also felt Ernie’s presence.

To this day, every concert we perform has not yet come to that level of performance, or of the deep feeling of that night at the Eagle’s Club.

Again, this was the best concert – the best moment in my playing life.


*The Fraternal Order of Eagles, is an international (U.S. and Canada) non-profit organization, unites fraternally in the spirit of liberty, truth, justice, and equality, to make human life more desirable by lessening its ills, and by promoting peace, prosperity, gladness and hope.

ldwoods

Funny Photo - "Trumpet Lessons", teaching the trumpet (not needed with Eclipse trumpets!)


Note: Not needed with Eclipse trumpets!



Limerick

Talking Trumpets?

There has always been something to know,
Be it where or when to stop or go,
The signal sounds with the trumpet blow.
To hear this wondrous sound,
No better thing is found.
Let the trumpets’ sound flow.

Who can play this royal honored sound?
The search will lead us all around.
Will the horns lie there never to sound?
Best find those who love the horn,
Not a player was born.
Can such a person ever be found?

We will give these folks lessons for sure,
But will they ever make the tone pure?
Until we reach the goal we endure.
Can we improve the tools?
Make horns sing, even with fools.
Leigh has done just that, we can be sure.

Leigh’s magic is made in the UK,
Horns sound like a dream if you just play.
Pick one up and you will hear it say;
I’ve been waiting for you,
I’ll forever be true.
Now we’re together, all is OK.


A) Why my daughter thinks I should win this contest

Why I think Larry should win a new Eclipse trumpet

When I was first asked to write up a list of reasons why my father deserved to win a trumpet I immediately wanted to do the opposite. I thought writing about why I felt he did not deserve a trumpet would be great fun and payback for the many hardships I have had to endure for the past 20 years as the daughter of a trumpeter. These include, but are not limited to, torture & emotional agony caused by last year's entry, blindly judging mouth piece A versus mouth piece B contests over & over & over again with trick mouthpieces thrown in for my father's amusement, complimentary music while doing homework or talking to a boyfriend on the phone, listening to silly music jokes, sitting through lectures about all things trumpet, actually being trained against my will to recognize by ear each individual instrument of the brass section and the types of trumpets (C, Bb, piccolo, etc.), listening to bizarre warm-up exercises that at times lead me to believe he is just trying to annoy us and last, but not least, watching him make goofy faces while perfecting his embouchure in public.

I believe that most of you reading this have a good idea of what I am talking about as sadly I think these are common things trumpet-heads do to their families. However, the bit about the torture & emotional agony, which with a long year of therapy I can now talk about, is oddly what gave me a change of heart about this writing and you shall see why.

Our story takes place in the Woods' residence last year. My father decides that in order to come up with a creative and funny picture for this trumpet giveaway, 3 & a-half heads were indeed better than ¾ of one (yes, I am aware of the confusing math, but I can not help that of the 4 people some didn't have all their marbles). Now I will continue with my tale of the traumatic event that I will call, “You Couldn't Have Just Done What I Think You Did”.

There we all were, Larry (my father), Lisa (my step-mother), Tiffany (my step-sister), me (myself), and the trumpets (I’m sure they have names, but I don’t know them) trying to brainstorm great picture ideas. Someone CoughLARRYCoughcough decides that if we were to stack atop one another, my father on bottom, me sitting on his shoulders & Tiffany on top of mine, we could get Lisa to pass us trumpets and then take a fabulous picture. Well, no picture was ever made of our daring stunt. We all got in position and somehow had managed to all be on the shoulders of whomever & Lisa was handing us the trumpets when disaster struck. My father is a strong man, but 2 giggling teenagers proved too much. I felt him struggle beneath me, I begin to panic and immediately start thinking of ways to not let Tiffany get hurt should we come tumbling down. I hear a loud groan and then a frantic and pained cry of “LISA, GRAB THE TRUMPETS” as light turns to black as we fall.

Yes, when it came down to it, my father was going to save the trumpets before Tiffany, me or his self. After thinking back to this incident I see that any man or woman so dedicated to an instrument deserves a new one. He, I believe for his trumpet-saving grace should be rewarded with a never-ending “lifetime” supply of Eclipse trumpets, like a purple heart. You just don't see that kind of drive and sacrifice in your average trumpet player.

No trumpets were harmed in the photo attempt.



B) the most fantastic moment in my playing life

First, after reading the great entries this year, I feel entirely inadequate and undeserving to even be in this contest. But it's all in good fun, so what the heck!

BACKGROUND
I think hearing my dad play a few notes on his old high school trumpet kind of set some kind of seed within. I was probably only 9 or 10 years old at the time. I still wish he would have kept that horn, but it was sold before I actually started playing trumpet. I wonder what kind it was, but will never know. Anyway, grade 6 rolls around and I have the chance to start band. I picked trumpet and could not wait to get started!

In retrospect, I was probably an average elementary player that was slow to progress. It was around 8th grade when I got dental braces. My band director "encouraged" me to play low brass after getting the braces. His reasoning was as follows: One, it was a very small school and we did not have enough low brass players. Two, I was a strong lad that could handle the sousaphone. Actually, the switch was not all that bad. I probably had more aptitude for the baritone, valve trombone, and tuba. According to the band director, I was college scholarship material on the tuba in grade 11.

Grade 12 was the year of decision. As stated earlier, we were a very small school and the powers that be decided that students would no longer be allowed to play in band and sports. Much to the dismay of my band director, I chose sports and stopped playing music.

Life goes on and as the months turn to years, I find myself having not played a note in over 15 years. Other life changes caused some course corrections and I started attending church again. The little instrument ensemble I heard playing in the church services really rekindled my love for instrumental music. I figured I’d pull out the old King Tempo trumpet (nickel silver finish with lacquered brass accents) and join the group. When I started playing again I was amazed at how I could have ever stopped. What was I thinking in those teen years? How could I have ever given this up?

THE MOMENT
I’ll do my best to make a long story short. November 2001 my father passed away. In honor of my father’s love of hymns and trumpet music, my family felt it would be appropriate for me to play one of my dad’s favorite hymns at his memorial service. I was honored to be considered, but was not too confident of my playing abilities at the time. I had been playing as an adult “comeback” trumpet player for about 10 years. Actually, that term is pretty much a stretch, since I had never “arrived” or reached any certain place as a trumpet player before. As an adult with a heavy workload and travel, at best I probably averaged 1 hour of practice a week. During those 10 years of on and off practice, playing occasionally in the church services, and even a couple of solos, I always seemed to botch up any solo or featured passages. Perhaps I am being too critical of my music, but in my mind, my success rate was zero. Now here I was being asked to get up in front of a large crowd and play unaccompanied for one of the most significant events in my life (my father passing away). How bad would I feel if I clammed up the place, blew air balls, hit the wrong notes, or any other manner of “choking” with the trumpet? Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed to do as requested.

At the service, there was a table set up as a memorial. On it were old pictures, relics of his past, miscellaneous pieces of his history, and the trumpet. The only trumpet available was mine, so we set it there on a stand. We had discussed when I was to play and it was understood that when the preacher did the closing prayer, that I would walk to the trumpet, step to the side, and begin “Amazing Grace” right when the prayer ended.

During the service, I actually was unconcerned about playing. It really was quite distant in my mind. I was more focused on the service and was caught in the moment.

The closing prayer comes, and I “snap out of it”, kind of like “oh yeah, I’m supposed to go play now”. Well, as you can imagine, the cards were pretty well stacked against me. I suddenly feel this rush of emotions, I’m a bundle of nerves, the horn and mouthpiece are cold as ice, my mouth is like cotton, and my knees are shaking once I pick up the trumpet and step into place. I can hardly stand up, my whole body is trembling! As the preacher is finishing the prayer, I’m praying my own prayer; “Somehow, Holy Spirit, get me through this. Please make this respectful and honorable for my dad”.

All is silent, and then the most beautiful trumpet sound fills the sanctuary with a straight ahead, simple verse of “Amazing Grace”. I remove the horn from my lips, and it’s either sit down, or faint right here. Now the piano and organ start and the sanctuary fills with voices. I manage to get myself back together and come in on the third and last verse.

Later, at the reception, numerous people come to me and thank me for the solo. Several tell me that the trumpet brought tears to their eyes (in a good way). I thank everyone and explain that it wasn’t me. I know that for those few moments, the Holy Spirit filled my body and played that horn for me. Wow, what a feeling. Words can not describe it.

__________________
Larry Woods

Chuck Spindler

I read somewhere in the rules and regs that this contest was meant for fun and a few laughs. I must apologize in advance then, because my entry is quite somber. I am a former professional player who had to stop playing due to a mysterious physical disorder with my embouchure, probably Focal Embouchure Dystonia. So here is my entry:

TASKS:

A Photo:

This is a picture of my Schilke Picc sitting atop JS Bach's tomb in St. Thomas in Leipzig. Back in 1992, I played principal for 5 weeks with the Leipzig Radio Orchestra (MDR - MittelDeutscher Rundfunk). While visiting Bach's tomb, it occurred to me that it would be poignant to have a photo of my picc there, since that is the horn on which I performed most of his music.



A Poem:

Sometimes the sound comes out just as it should.
Other times not. A blockage that seems inexplicable.
The horn goes on the face just like always.
But the body does not respond like always.
It seems so easy, but why is it actually so hard?

Perhaps it’s laziness. He doesn’t warm up like before.
Perhaps it’s forgetfulness. What was it his teacher always said?
Perhaps it’s the wrong approach. Maybe it’s time to change the routine.
Perhaps though, it’s none of these things.
Maybe, just maybe it’s a physical disorder that’s also inexplicable.

A search of the ‘net turns up others with similar things.
They call it Focal Embouchure Dystonia. What? Say again?
Weird, almost surreal problem. Could this be it?
“They” say there’s no certain diagnosis and no cure, all at once.
How will he know? How will he ever know??

The music continues, but the soul dies.
Gig by gig, there is less and less of him.
The friends are loving and supportive. Patient.
They really want him to find his way out.
The family, the wife, also loving, supportive.

How long can this continue? It’s frustrating, maddening.
It’s every negative emotion at once.
When will he pull the plug? How long can this really go on?
Finally it comes. 2000. This is it, he says.
This is the last pro gig, he can’t take the stress anymore.

What now? What happens now? What will he do?
He knows a little computer, but, ehh, what’s that?
Wasn’t he meant to play? Wasn’t he meant to trumpet?
The soul comes out through the horn. But not anymore.
There is a blockage that seems inexplicable.

Life goes on, time marches on. He misses the life.
The life seems to miss him, but life goes on, it really does.
One by one the horns go. Notes on a board, eBay, whatever.
The Money is needed. Bills. Responsibilities. Life.
They’re traded for the all powerful Money.

Life goes on. He wonders. Will he ever play again?
Probably not, but there’s always hope, right?
Now it’s just confusion and baffled, jumbled emotions.
The insides, the soul, they’re almost numb. Where did they go?
It seems so easy, but why is it actually so hard?

MANDATORY:

From my wife, Susan Spindler, Gurnee, IL:

I fell in love with a trumpet player. I certainly didn’t plan to; and heaven knows that in the food chain of musicians I could have done better. But a trumpet player it was and his playing became a source of joy and wonderment as he daily poured his soul into music. My girls and I woke to buzzing and fell asleep to Mahler V.

Over the years I attended many performances, always filled with pride that the exceptional trumpet player who raised goose bumps on the arms of audience members was my husband. Yes indeed, the trumpet shall sound.

But not any more. After a few years of unpredictable and unfathomable playing problems coupled with the unbelievable stress and sadness it caused, my husband quit playing in 2000. The new millennium, the harbinger of change and new beginnings, was the year that brought trumpet playing in our house to its knees.
Eventually, he began selling off his trumpets one by one, paying bills and hoping the physical absence of the trumpets would help heal the still bleeding wound in his soul. It hasn’t.

My want is simple - I want my husband to win the Eclipse trumpet so he can once again pick up an instrument and try to play. He may never play professionally again, but without a trumpet, he doesn’t even have a chance. He deserves that chance.

Most fantastic moment:

The most fantastic moment in my playing life - that’s easy. I used to play as a “ringer” in a community orchestra conducted by Dale Clevenger of the Chicago Symphony. The Elmhurst (Illinois) Symphony Orchestra is a decent community orchestra that regularly performed first rate literature because Dale believed it was important to bring the best to his players and the audience. One year he decided to program the Brandenburg No. 2. It was a privilege to be selected by him to do that piece and the performance went quite well and was a real treat for me. Undoubtedly the highest pinnacle in my playing career. To this day, I fondly recall that day and thank Dale for expressing the confidence in my playing to program it.

Thank you for your consideration,
Chuck Spindler, Gurnee, IL

jaxsonsquared

1) This shot was taken at Brass Hysteria '06 during a demonstration to prove that one can play two horns at once!


2) During my freshman year at SMU (before I saw the proverbial light and realized there was no future in being a music major unless I became a band director and ultimately end up selling insurance, but I digress) I was a hotshot trumpet player (is there any other kind?) and had gotten an invitation to play lead in the orchestra for the Southern Baptist Convention, which was held that year at the Tarrant County Convention Center in Fort Worth, Texas (I know, run-on sentence). While my friend (he was reading 3rd) and I were going through the book, this cat strolls in looking like he'd come off a 3-day binge (my perception, not reality); thin dude with stringy red hair and not a whole lot to say. Then again, based on my superficial and snotty-nosed judgment, that was okay! About half way through this gig, an introduction is made, and he gets up and approaches center stage. As he was walking up to the mic I flippantly asked myself "what does he think he's doing?" He then proceeded to play his version of Amazing Grace.

Now, up to this point in my life I had met few trumpet players I knew to be better than I (as cocky as I was, it was still true).

During this SCREAMING, Maynardesque rendition like I'd never heard attempted before, smoke (really condensation vapor) bellowed out of the upswept bell of his horn (no, he didn't have a Dizzy-type horn, just directed up to the heavens).

When he was done I was in such awe that I was reliving the instant replay in my mind of what just happened. It was so surreal and unbelievable for me at that point in life that I wasn't sure how to process what just happened. This now "gentleman" (my attitude suddenly changed) returned to his seat and I said "Man, you need to be sitting here!"

He said, "No, you are doing fine. Just remember, never let anyone intimidate you."

The man's name was Phil Driscoll and was/is a Contemporary Christian musician. It was indeed a humbling experience I needed and took head to. The experience not only made me a better musician, it made me a better person.

Thank you for reading my story and, as I trust it has been for most top-notch trumpet players, it is better that a little humility reach us sooner than later.

May God bless all those who truly love playing the trumpet as much as I and be able to do so as long as they wish,

Jack Rowland
Dallas, Texas

Attached Images

TrumpetLesson2.jpg (24.4 KB, 38 views)

ralphnz

1 - a testament to Yamaha's build quality



Thanks Dad for the use of the car.


2 - Curry

I was five minutes late and hoped Jen wouldn’t be too angry. We only had a half-hour window to meet for lunch. I rushed down the escalator and eventually spotted her among the food court’s patrons. When I noticed she’d already grabbed her usual girly sandwich and found a table, I became distracted by a new addition to the food court. After weeks of imposing boards standing there, bearing promises of something spicy developing behind them, there it was in all its glory: The Taj. A curry house, but one like none other. It was quite possibly the only curry house in town a man in his right, sober, mind would approach in daylight. For there were bright lights with all the bulbs working, baskets of clean cutlery, napkins, and real Indians behind the counter - wearing gloves and smiling. I knew what I was having for lunch.

‘Ugh, what’s that?’ she asked as I ceremoniously lowered my tray onto the table.
‘This… is vindaloo, sweetie.’
‘Vindawho?’
‘Vindaloo. Curry.’
‘Curry? Ew, did you have to?’
‘Honestly, if their vindaloo tastes as good as it smells…’ and my predictions were verified as the shred of naan I’d torn off and dipped in the lava-like sauce hit my tongue. I was in love. Again.
‘Just keep it away from me. That’s disgusting.’
‘What do you mean? It’s delicious. Here, try some…’
‘No!’
‘Have you had vindaloo before?’
‘God no.’
‘Then how do you know… wait – have you even had a curry before?’
‘I dunno. No.’
‘Then –’
‘No!’ and she hid in her sandwich. Sensible boyfriend logic told me I should just drop the issue…

… until that evening. I tried to get over it, but couldn’t stop thinking: Jen had never had a curry. Never. Not even a drunken midnight adventure.
‘So,’ I asked to break the silence after dinner, ‘why haven’t you ever had curry?’
‘You’re still thinking about that? I dunno, I just haven’t. And I don’t want to.’
‘Why not? Just sounds a bit prejudiced to me.’
‘It’s not prejudiced. It’s just disgusting.’
‘It is prejudiced – you’re declaring that curry’s disgusting, and now you’re being stubborn. And unadventurous. Boring.’
‘No I’m not, I just… actually, I have had curry before, a few years ago with Kevin.’
‘Oh, so suddenly you remember? What was it?’
‘We went to some cheap place. I had a… buttery… chicken?’
‘You had butter chicken?’
‘Sure.’
‘How was it?’
‘Um… it was average. But I definitely had it.’
‘And Kevin’ll back you up on that?’
‘Well, if he remembers. But it’s probably no use asking him.’
‘Let’s see,’ I plotted, reaching for the phone.
‘Aw, you don’t need to –’ and with a groan she stormed out of the lounge.

It took her older brother a few more rings than was normal to answer. Usually he was on it like a hawk, expecting that elusive call about a job interview.
‘G’day?’
‘Kevin mate, how are ya? Um, wee question for you: do you recall Jen ever eating a curry?’
‘Um… aw… yeah? Yeah, nah she has.’
‘When?’
‘Aw I dunno. A while back.’
‘Months, years…’
‘Sure, years.’
‘And what was it?’
‘It was butter chicken.’
‘How do you know it was butter chicken?’
‘Guess I’ve just got a good memory. Hey what’re you up to tonight? Wanna come round for the rugby?’
(I can’t stand rugby.)
‘Yeah, sounds good. I’ll grab some beers.’
‘Sweet, you get beers, I’ll get chips. 7:30?’
‘7:30. Cool, see you then.’
‘Cheers.’

‘Oh well, he seems to agree with you. And I’m going round for the rugby if that’s cool.’
Jen wandered back in, busy reading a new text message. ‘Yeah, that’s um… that works. That’s just, that’s Sarah. She wants to… go to a movie at 6:30. Don’t you hate rugby?’
‘Meh. I need to make an effort to impress your family as well.’

I drove to Kevin’s a bit earlier than planned, so I could chuck the beers in his fridge (pretending to follow rugby’s one thing – but doing so with warm beer? Really…). As I pulled up outside his flat, I found myself behind Jen’s car – which was clearly not parked near the movies. I grew puzzled, especially when Jen opened the door with her own pair of pink rubber gloves.
‘Oh, hey you… um… you’re early.’
‘And you’re not at the movies.’
‘Sarah cancelled. So I thought I’d pop by and surprise you boys. So… surprise!’
‘Kevin’s not paying you, is he?’
‘No, no. Can’t a sister just be nice? So are you gonna come in?’

Noticing a distinct lack of stumbling, crashing and swearing, I asked where Kevin was.
‘Oh, he’s just gone to get some beers.’ When she heard me dump two six-packs on the newly-cleaned bench, she added, ‘He forgot who was getting them.’
‘God, now he’ll get some nasty chilled cat piss. I bet he forgot the chips too.’
‘Don’t worry, I just whipped up some guacamole. Chips are on the table.’
‘Aw, sweetie you… but aren’t avocadoes out of season?’
Before she could answer, Kevin threw open the door, declaring that was the most he’d ever spent on beer.
‘Really? What country’s it from?’
‘It’s from, um… Europe?’
Surprised, I accepted one and dropped myself on the couch, forgetting about my beers on the bench. Jen brought her expensive guacamole through and gave me a kiss. ‘You enjoy your rugby now.’
‘I’ll try. Thanks. And um… won’t be too late.’
Kevin gave her a smirk as she walked past. ‘Ah, sisters…. Game started?’

After the first innings or whatever they do in rugby, we started working our way through the warm beers and I realised I’d have to fork out for a taxi.
‘Nah mate, just give Jen a call. It’ll be sweet.’
‘I dunno, she’s already been nice enough tonight. Wouldn’t wanna make her angry.’
‘She owes me, it’s the least she could do.’
‘Owes you for what?’
‘Oh. For, um… remembering about the curry thing.’
I wasn’t convinced. ‘Remembering, huh? What was it she had again?’
‘The chicken one. Tikka?’
‘Tikka masala?’
‘Sure.’
‘You said butter chicken before.’
‘Yeah that one.’
‘What’s going on, Kev?’
The beers had affected not only Kevin’s memory, but also his conscience: ‘OK fine, she rang me just before you did and told me to lie about the curry.’
‘So she’s never had curry?’
‘Nope.’
‘That explains so much…’
‘But don’t let her know – she said she’d do anything, and I wanna see how far I can ride it.’
‘C’mon, I know she lied. But I can’t do that to my girlfriend and you can’t – actually, I’m in.’
We finished the beers then I called Jen for a ride. Somebody won the rugby.

So Jen wanted to play dirty, Kevin wanted to use her, and I wanted to see where it all went. I didn’t have to wait long – the phone woke me the next morning.
‘They better have a good reason…’ I groaned rolling towards the phone, more to silence its piercing scream than to talk to whoever it was. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey man, can I talk to Jen? I’ve got a pile of washing she’d just love to do. Oh and maybe it’s time somebody vacuumed round here.’
‘Heh. Yeah sure Kev, here she is…’ and I handed the phone to Jen, who seemed puzzled as to why her brother would call this early.
‘Yes? … Uhuh… Today? … I dunno, it’s not really a good time… I know, but… Look, fine… OK, see you then.’
‘What does he want?’ I asked, knowing the exact answer, but curious to hear her version.
‘Um, he wants to meet for… shopping. It’s Mum’s birthday.’
‘Yeah, in a month.’
‘He said he found a good price, but needs me to uh, help him choose. Anyway, he wants to do it soon so I better get up.’
I took the phone off the hook and went back to sleep to enjoy my Saturday.

I heard Jen return when I was getting up round lunchtime.
‘What did you get her?’ I called through to the kitchen.
‘Huh? Oh, we got… a plant.’
‘Oh yeah, what kind?’
‘Um, big leaves, forgot the name.’
I went through to see her, but to my put-on surprise there was no plant.
‘Oh, where is it?’
‘Kev said he’d look after it.’
‘Kev? I wouldn’t even trust him to look after the mildew on his ceilings.’
Jen knew the ceilings would be her next job and looked suitably disgusted at their mention. This would be a great time to get her to drop the act and give in.
‘So… curry?’
‘What? No.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it. See, I’m still alive.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Just… No!’
Maybe it would happen another time.

A couple of days later I noticed the fridge’s beer supply running low. So I popped into the supermarket to see what was cheap. As I turned the corner into the beer aisle, I saw Jen trying to decipher the writing on a six-pack.
‘I didn’t know you drank beer.’
She almost dropped the pack when she saw me, and struggled to explain herself: ‘Well, no I, I just… they’re for you.’
She didn’t want me to know she was running round for Kevin again, so I scored the beer – the same expensive European beer – which was now in her basket next to the latest copy of FHM.
‘And that?’ I doubt she’d let me look at the girls inside the magazine, let alone encourage it. Definitely Kevin.
‘That’s for, um… me.’
‘You’re buying FHM for yourself?’
‘Yeah, well… there are some nice bikinis in there. I need some ideas, and my magazines don’t have anything good in them.’
I pretended to believe her, realising that she’d now have to buy two of everything to keep her lie going – keeping both Kevin and me happy. Surely this episode had made her uncomfortable, and she’d be willing to give it up soon.
‘You know, the curry’s in the next aisle. Let’s have a look and find a sachet of something that isn’t so scary.’
‘No! I’m not eating curry. It’s disgusting.’
‘You won’t eat curry but you’re fine with some of those photos?’
‘I never said I liked… just… I’m not having curry! I have to go anyway.’
‘OK, see you at home.’
She marched towards the checkout and I figured I wouldn’t have to buy any beer now, and also that she’d have to go and buy the same things again at the next supermarket. As I sifted through the curries, searching for something Jen might tolerate, I wondered if my insistence was having the wrong effect. I had thought Kev’s tasks were so daunting that she’d rather do anything else – even try curry. But no, it seemed my constant pressure reminded her that she needed to keep at it, doing anything to avoid having curry. Meanwhile, Kevin was cashing on both of our losses.

This was very clear when I drove past Kevin’s place on the way home from work the next day. Even though I drove past every day, I always glanced across to his house to see if he was achieving anything. This time, however, I found Jen on the driveway, hosing down Kevin’s car. And she was soaking, which would ordinarily be any boyfriend’s dream, but she obviously wasn’t enjoying it. I could tell she was suffering, while Kevin was right there on the lawn, soaking up the sun in a patio chair. He had a European beer in one hand, and the new FHM in the other. I kept driving, wondering what to do about it.

‘Hey sweetie, I thought you’d be home earlier. What’ve you been up to?’ Despite my concerns, I just had to hear what she could come up with.
‘Oh, coffee with Sarah.’
‘Ooh, coffee? What time was that?’
‘About four.’
‘Four? You sure? I saw Sarah at the bank at four.’ Of course I didn’t, but she had no way to prove me wrong.
‘Um, it was another Sarah. From work.’
‘Should I know Sarah from work?’
‘Well no, she’s new.’
‘Maybe I could meet her someday.’
‘Nah she’s… a bit of a cow. Just felt bad when she asked me to do coffee.’
‘Oh well, I hope she doesn’t ask again.’
After this alibi, I decided it’d gone far enough. I’d extracted about as much fun as I could from the situation, and I couldn’t let Jen suffer anymore. Plus I was worried she’d find out any minute – and I knew that wouldn’t end well. I called Kevin and asked how we could end it, but he was reluctant to agree; all he was interested in was having his housework done.
‘And if she found out I told you straight away…’
‘Well you should’ve though of that before you spilled, mate.’ I laughed, desperate to keep the mood up; I needed Kevin’s cooperation on this.
‘Dude, she’s gonna kill me!’
‘Hey, you’ll just have to deal with that when it happens. But I’m getting out of this clean.’
‘Aw, for…’
‘But we can still have some fun with it. Say…’ then it hit me: ‘You know what, Kev? I’m gonna make Jen eat a curry.’
‘Aye? How are you gonna do that?’
‘She’s working late tomorrow. I’ll go pick up some butter chicken from that place down the road, then chuck it on some plates. By eight o’clock she’ll have eaten curry, and she’ll think I can cook.’
‘But she’s not gonna eat curry. Forget it.’
‘Not if we call it that. I’ll have to think of another name. Something fancy… something she would eat, like…’

‘Moroccan tomato chicken,’ I announced as Jen came through the door.
‘Really? That’s a bit posh. What’s the occasion?’
‘Um, chicken and tomatoes were cheap… and Moroccan stuff.’ If only I knew what Moroccan stuff was.
‘Right. Smells good anyway.’
We made a start on the curry in disguise, everything going smoothly. As it should have – it was only butter chicken after all. Jen appeared to rather like it. Years of ignorance, prejudice and stubbornness, all about to collapse when I would reveal the name of what she had just about finished eating, and that I knew she’d lied to me. I couldn’t wait.

‘So how was it?’
‘It was pretty good. Didn’t taste like any other Moroccan I’ve had though. And if we’re being picky, it should be on couscous, not rice. But otherwise…’
Jen suddenly paused. She gulped and her eyes bulged. As she keeled over I noticed that the colour of her face matched that of the leftover sauce. She pushed her chair back and ran out of the kitchen, and I heard the bathroom door slam. Then the noises began. Moaning, splashing, spitting… I didn’t know exactly where the noises were coming from. I didn’t want to know. I covered my ears and wondered what had caused this sudden, unfortunate turn of events. Could it have been the curry? I’d had far spicier dishes dozens of times, with no problems at all. But on her first try, Jen couldn’t even keep a butter chicken down. She must have been allergic to it. And I’d tricked her into eating it after she’d refused curry countless times. If she found out she’d kill both of us. But especially me.
‘Ugh, I need a drink…’ stumbling back into the kitchen and looking terrible, she grabbed a glass. My nice boyfriend sense kicked in and I grabbed the glass to fill it with water, but also got a whiff of Jen’s smell. It was every bit as bad as the noises.
‘How are you feeling? You must be allergic to something, nothing wrong with mine.’
‘I dunno, I’m just a bit…’ she threw her water in the sink and ran back to the bathroom.
I felt terrible. She’d done all that work for Kevin, all so she wouldn’t have to eat curry, and then I went and gave her… whatever was going on in the bathroom. If I wanted to stay clean, I’d have to appear to drop the curry issue, but not because I knew she was allergic to it. And I’d still need Kevin’s cooperation. That seemed possible, so I started looking up again. Until the phone rang.
‘Hello?’ Jen picked the phone up on her way back from the bathroom. ‘Oh, hi Kev…’
Kevin?
‘Well, I was fine, feel like crap now though… I dunno, something I ate…’ I could hear her on the phone in the next room, and felt nervous about where the conversation was heading.
‘Yeah, he cooked… And then I was just, ugh… Yeah, straight to the toilet… Hopefully it’ll go away soon… What do you mean? …Oh, really? Thanks Kev… Bye.’
She stepped back into the kitchen and stared at me. Very flushed and generally terrible-looking, she didn’t look happy. I crossed my fingers, hoping Kevin hadn’t said anything, but I knew she had something to say…
‘Curry?’


A – from my fiancée, currently in Europe

Ralph has been involved in lots of very different types of music since he began playing the trumpet at the age of nine. He has a History degree but has decided to go further with his music and study a postgraduate diploma in performance trumpet, heading towards a full trumpet career.

Unfortunately, using a NZ$350 beaten up Yamaha from 1970 he found online for everything from baroque and classical work to jazz to reggae to funk to musicals isn't ideal. He often complains that it refuses to play in tune and he wastes a lot of time battling with the instrument instead of helping him. As a pianist, I am his accompanist and I know he always gets frustrated when I am on his back about trying to play better. But I know he can play better because I've also accompanied him on borrowed trumpets and cornets, so I know his own trumpet simply doesn't do him justice.

He needs a new trumpet so that people can take him seriously as a musician and he can continue to get better work and focus on making music, instead of getting frustrated with a piece of junk. But living in Dunedin, New Zealand, buying any kind of instrument is ridiculously expensive, any model is years behind and trying before you buy is out of the question.

Earlier this year he had finally saved up enough money to buy a new trumpet online, and was very excited about it, when he dropped everything to come to Europe, where I’ve been on an exchange, to see me for just three weeks for the first time in six months and save our relationship. He promises me I am the only thing that is more important to him than music. He even went the three weeks without playing just to be with me, even though within two days of his return to New Zealand he had three gigs and a brass band contest. He now has no money, and still has an old crappy trumpet, but he’s gained a fiancée.

I love him to bits and I know that a new trumpet would make him so happy. He has worked so hard to get where he is and this would make the sacrifice of playing a bad trumpet for so many years worthwhile.


B

The most fantastic moment in my playing life so far has been the closing night of a local amateur production of the musical Chess. The musical came near the end of my History degree, a time when I would soon have to be making some very big career decisions.

Because the show didn’t have the greatest conductor and we were sight-reading, at first the music from Chess made little sense to the band, and not surprisingly I wasn’t very fond of it. However, after a few practices we ironed out the dodgy bits (thankfully, so did the conductor) and I not only began to tolerate the music… I loved it. I had done several musicals before, but this one really seemed to connect with me. I felt like both a real musician, and a part of the whole production. We were doing the same thing every night for two weeks, but I never got bored. In fact, by closing night, I was sad to play and hear the tunes for the last time.

I had realised that music was my true passion. Despite almost having a History degree, having planned to study journalism for years, and having always told myself music was simply a hobby and I can’t rely on it, I decided I would follow my nana’s old advice: to just do whatever it is I want to do. I finally knew that was music. I figured pursuing music would be tricky, but I decided then and there to take it far more seriously, and do whatever it takes to reach my dream of playing bigger shows overseas.

Additionally, my musical commitments leading up to and including Chess had put excessive strain on the four-and-a-half-year relationship with my non-musical girlfriend. Previously I would have tried to make sacrifices for her, but not this time; I only wanted to play more and more music, and so we sadly, but mutually, put an end to the relationship early in the season of Chess.

Then, in a series of events almost too coincidental to be true, my former accompanist (a lovely and incredibly musical young lady) turned up to watch on closing night. After the show we got to talking about music among many other things, and she was the first person I told in-depth about the radical changes I had been going through in my mind. It was the longest we’d ever talked for. We somehow managed to meet at another few musical events later that year, and inevitably we ended up together…

Julia is now my fiancée, personal accompanist and inspiration. Whenever I play, I tell myself not to let her down, but to make her proud, and I perform at my best when she’s beside me at the piano. To think that this has been possible because of our bumping into each other on the closing night of Chess – in addition to the spine-shivering inspiration I felt that very night from being a part of the musical alone – almost makes one believe in destiny.

I’ve won numerous solo and band competitions, recorded CDs, and toured with bands nationally and internationally… but the most fantastic moment in my playing life did not score me any trophies, instant fame or a cash prize (this was confirmed when we got given our cheques). Instead this fantastic moment, the closing night of Chess, gathered my erratic thoughts, confirmed my ambitions to just play trumpet and to take it seriously, and made me realise I’d already met the perfect woman.

__________________
-=iii=<()

Phil Dias

Here goes with my entry.....

The Funny Photo_

The family pet didn't take kindly to recorders either...



Back To School_

Introducing the new Stringergy Trumpet
Made entirely from string and tissue paper, a breakthrough for string instrument innovation...

The best string instrument ever???


More pictures...
http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q...s/PICT1237.jpg
http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q...s/PICT1236.jpg
http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q...s/PICT1234.jpg
http://i137.photobucket.com/albums/q...s/PICT1232.jpg



Mandatory A - written by my teacher_

Put simply, Philip is diligent, focused, persevering and hard working when it comes to his playing. His playing requirements cover all disciplines; classical, wind band, big band and small jazz combo. His standards are high and he therefore needs an instrument that meets his requirements, which is why I wholeheartedly endorse this entry for the Eclipse trumpet.


Mandatory B_

I have been playing trumpet for 8 years, which compared to most experienced players is not that long, but in this time I have had so many fantastic experiences, it is difficult to name a single event as the best. Being so keen on jazz, any gig I go to is invaluable for inspiration when it comes to improvisation and general playing in a jazz group, be it big band or small combo. Courtney Pine, Polar Bear, Gerard Presencer, JTQ with Nick Smart on trumpet, World Sax Quartet, Sonny Rollins and Dennis Rollins’ Badbone & Co with Jay Phelps on trumpet are the main gigs that stick in my mind. They were all superb for getting ideas and a further thirst for jazz, but in terms of learning experience, a workshop that happened at my school has to be at the top.

We were lucky enough to have Soweto Kinch and Abram Wilson visit to make a br