I was watching Mr. Holland’s Opus last night for something like the twentieth time. I don’t always watch it all the way through; in fact, most of the time I seem to tune in right near the end where Mr. Holland (Richard Dreyfus) is being given the old heave-ho by the school district, all in an effort to balance the budget.
I won’t even tackle that whole issue. The arts always seems to take it in the a** when it comes time to cuts. Sports never gets the axe, or even a good knifing.
But back to the movie. So there Mr. Holland is, learning a good lesson that life isn’t about how much money we have or how much fame we gain. Life is about the people whose lives we touch and who touch ours. Says the governor: “We are your symphony Mr. Holland. We are the melodies and the notes of your opus. We are the music of your life.”
It’s then that the music comes up, a beautiful orchestra piece that yes, makes me all wispy. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen this scene, the result is always the same: teary eyes.
It’s not that I’m overly touched by the music, but by the experience. While everyone beats the drum about sports teaching teamwork and other valuable lessons, there’s nothing like playing in a concert band or orchestra (yes, there is a difference, concert bands don’t have the strings).
There was a time oh, so long ago that I had the most amazing experience in band. If I was to put it into the vernacular of sports, he big game was in progress, it was fourth down and long, our coach was sidelined with an injury and it was up to us to not only make the plays, but call them.
Now for the rest of the story. Every year the school put on several concerts, including the winter and spring concerts that featured all the band and glee programs. We prepared for it for some months, basically going from marching band in October to full-on winter concert band in November.
Our fearless leader had fallen on hard times. No, not economically, but physically. If I recall, Mr. Gleason had broken his leg not long before the concert. We had lost our director, the glue that holds a band together.
If you’ve ever been in concert band then you know that the director is the quarterback. He calls all the plays, his baton not only keeps you in proper time, but lets you know when to play louder, softer and when to come in at any particular place in the score.
We had lost our quarterback. And we were screwed.
It was then that one of our own took up the mantle. Sally took the baton and started working her way through the selection of songs we were to perform for the winter concert. Never have I seen a group of teenagers band together as we did; no nonsense, no shenanigans – all work and no play every single day. Instead of goofing off when we got home, we practiced like we had never practiced before.
The reason? We wanted to make Mr. Gleason proud. Yes, it’s a Glee kind of moment, where Mr. Shue is off in Washington D.C. fighting for the arts and it’s up to Finn to pull everyone together for Sectionals. Sally was our Finn.
That didn’t mean that we were perfect. Not by any stretch. There were parts we just couldn’t seem to nail down. Still, we soldiered on.
As we waited to take the stage that night, we were all very nervous. Mr. Gleason and his wife were in the audience, so the pressure was really on us. It didn’t help that we were near the end of the program, the choral groups and the cadet band and orchestra taking the stage before us.
Finally, it was time. We walked into the cafeteria (we didn’t have a theater, another long story) and took our rightful places on the risers. As a French horn player, I sat down next to Gary Westmoreland and John Buff on one of the upper risers.
And that’s when it happened. Something magical. Something that happens once in a lifetime. We couldn’t miss. Everyone was crisp, clean and “on.” The solos were crystal clear, everyone stopped together on rests. And when the arrangement was through, there wasn’t a single note from any member that dragged on. It was as if someone had turned the sound off in the room at the precise moment we finished the last note.
This went on song after song. We could do no wrong. We kept looking at each other, wondering if this was for real. Sally kept us all on task, the music was gorgeous and we could see Mr. Gleason in the audience, beaming.
He looked like a proud father whose children had suddenly found their way in the world. His expression drove us further towards perfection, not wanting to disappoint Mr. G, who I know desperately wanted to be on that podium, leading us through such an important performance.
I can’t remember what we played that night. But I still remember the feeling of achieving perfection. Perhaps it’s because no one really had any expectations of us that night. Or perhaps we simply rose to the occasion, performing beyond our own abilities to create something so rare, so amazing and so beautiful, that none of us wanted it to end.
But end it did. And when we finished the last note of the last song, the room erupted in applause. Soon, proud parents and even reluctant siblings rose to their feet, still applauding. We stood up and accepted their gracious accolades, still stunned by the experience, but relishing the moment.
I have played many songs since in many bands. But nothing could even hope to approach that moment in my life, when a bunch of high school students achieved perfection, if only for a brief moment in time.
In the Emerald City, nostalgically wanting to pull the French horn out of the closet,
– Robb