Progression

March 2023

The road into Perth was clear. The day was cloudy but dry.  A perfect day for the Regional Scottish Championship.  My band, Penicuik Silver Band, a band who can trace their roots back as far as the 1830’s, were competing.  There were four of us in the car, two bass players, a trombone player and me. I played cornet. I was sitting in the back with my fellow band member, his large trombone separating us. All I could see were his cheery red cheeks as I listened to his dulcet tones.  Brendan was calm and eternally positive, and he was trying to keep us right with directions. Both bass players were in the front, James and Ken to put names to them, James being the driver. They wore their fifty-year medal, their experience, and their hearing aids, concentration deafening them, in that moment. We had been before to Perth Concert Hall, but we always struggled to find the carpark. We travelled across and by the side of the river, where we saw Wetherspoon’s, twice, before finding our destination.

We lightened the load of the car as two basses, a trombone and a cornet proudly headed off, transported by four eager and nervous players. I speak for all. Nerves are natural. The glass door reflected our open valves, rolled aside to welcome us, and we walked into the modern concert hall. The noise hit my ears and the bass players’ hearing aids. Metallic appellation rang loudly, and movement flowed with the air. Around the entrance hall, stalls were set up, cornets, tenor horns, mouth pieces, music, lyres, valve oil, instrument stands, and mutes on sale. On the other side, the bar and café were located. Coffees all round. We took a seat together and we waited, watching as other bands congregated, black and red, variations of blue, gold braided uniforms, bringing colour to the neutral hues of the hall.   

Piece by piece our fellow band members appeared. Solo cornets, soprano, tenor horns, euphoniums, baritones, more trombones, timpani, and conductor, came to sit near us, nodding their greetings, some with a smile, others with a raise of eyebrows, a few with blank stares. Our completion was imminent. A facilitator called on us. We made our way upstairs to a room where we removed our instruments from cases, tucked in our shirt tails, smoothed down our hair. This was when I noticed we all had hair, the clangour of brass banding limited to hearing loss, at least. Once in the room, Douglas, our patient, enthusiastic, and smartly suited conductor, spoke. A pep talk. We then headed off to the registration desk where two steel haired, spectacle wearing gents perused our registration cards.  The trail of members marched from there to the practice room where we blew our instruments warm with a hymn. Blessed Assurance.

Closer, closer to performing. Nerves building. Light laughter, tickling coughs, idle chit chat, painted on smiles, tapping fingers, shuffling feet, were all in the orderly queue at the rear of the stage, where we waited, listening to the band before us reach the finale. My heart pounded. I wanted us to do well. We had come through the disbandment of Covid, the gradual return, disappointments, hard work, frustrations, practice, practice, practice, and now we were back trying for success.

The Fourth Division bands were all playing the same piece. Darrol Barry’s Hungerford Town. This piece was in four movements where Barry salutes the history of the Berkshire town.  It begins with ‘The Black Prince’ stirred by John O’Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, and the third surviving son of King Edward III of England. Edward The Black Prince was John’s elder brother and plagued by illness, giving Gaunt control.  He became a powerful political figure. The second movement follows without pausing. ‘The Coach Road’.  This was once the town’s resting place for coaches on route to London. ‘Saint Lawrence’s Church’ is next, the tranquil beauty reflected in the music. Finishing off is ‘The Bear’ a local Inn frequented by travellers. 

It was time. The stage managing group signalled us to proceed forward. We walked into the curtained den, greeted with applause and heralded out onto the stage. More applause. We fitted into positions smoothly, the lights propelling heat upon us. We stood by our stands as protocol insists, catching the audience out of the corner of our eyes, interested, anticipating our performance. We looked at Douglas, standing tall, facing us, mouthing a last piece of encouragement. We sat, twiddled our keys. One, two, three, four, his arms waved. We began.