The train wreck at the altar

You think I'm going to write about someone's wedding, don't you? Well, the joke's on you. Sure, we all know marriages which have been disasters waiting to happen. But this is something completely different.

Yesterday I went to Mass at St. Hedwig, where I graduated from high school over 40 years ago now. It reminded me of a band concert from way back then.

I was in the high school band, playing tuba. Yes, it was surely the best use of Marty's blowhard ability ever, if the least inspired. We would have our Christmas concerts in the Church. The altar would be moved aside, and risers put in place for the choir. The band would be arranged below the choir, closer to the altar rail. Carols and hymns would be sung and played. Those concerts were always great fun.

Anyway, one year we set up for the concert. At seven that night we began. All went well for the first four or five numbers; we sounded quite good, I thought. I played almost exclusively background as tubas do. I had the melody part for all of two measures in my entire high school band career, and I nailed it. But more on that, perhaps, later.

Anyway again, it was on about the sixth tune that we lost it. Mister Bacharowski, our band director, Mr. B as we were allowed to call him, tapped the dais. One, two, three, he mouthed, in the timing he wanted. Yet before he could raise his baton for us to start, someone jumped the gun. I don't know who, but it happened.

An instrument began playing, followed by his section. Then the choir began, and the winds, then the brass, and pretty soon there was the oddest cacophony of noise ever heard from a Church altar. Every voice, every instrument was rising to a crescendo then dying, the sounds mixing into themselves like a torrent of ill wind followed by vaguely quiet confusion. And then repeated. Every person and instrument sought something which would bring order to the mess. Everyone stole glances at everyone else, seeking some hint as what to do. Let me tell you, you cannot make order out of such chaos. It was an awful din. It wasn't even as organized as an orchestra warming up before a performance. You could at least glimpse a hint of real tunes, real organization in that.

Mr. B finally gave up, tapped for us to stop, turned and made some quip to the assembly, and returned to his minions. His raised eyebrow said to forget what just happened and move on. So we did, and finished the concert in proper style.

The song we botched by the way was Do You Hear What I Hear? There is a certain irony in that, don't you think?