e Little River Review - Gorham High School!

Maybe if we play louder, people will think that we’re good
Arthur Lockman
Maybe if we play louder, people will think that we’re good
I stood outside room 320, and had only one thought in my head. Don’t mess it up, don’t mess it up.
Perhaps two, really. Mayonnaise was not an instrument. �is I knew. But what good would that do me for
my audition? None, that’s how much. I have to get that out of my head.
�e door opened. I walked in to the room, to see the smiling face of our Director looking up at me
from the adjudicators table. Next to him was a lady I’d never seen before. She didn’t look too pleased. Ugh,
another brass player. I’d become familiar with the look. Only snobby �autists could give that look. I knew
what she was all about.
Assembling my instrument, that was next. My mind was running in circles. Idle banter, that was
what I needed. I struck up a conversation with our Director about something or other. I was stalling, of
course. I was nervous as hell, and had no idea if I could even pull this o�. Sure, I had practiced. More
than I had ever done before. But still that little voice in the back of my head persisted. You’re going to
mess up, you don’t know what you’re doing. Mayonnaise is not an instrument. It just wouldn’t go away.
Horseradish isn’t an instrument either. Circling round, and round. Never letting me o� of its crazy ride.
Alright, let’s hear your piece. I snapped, sat straight up in my chair. Already my heart was
pounding. I tried not to show it though. A�er all, what kind of lame brass player gets nervous? We’re all
studs a�er all. I wasn’t, but I wasn’t about to let the unknown pompous �autist at the table know that.
I took a deep breath. You got this, don’t mess up. I blew a cautious note from my trombone. To me,
it sounded like the trumpeters of the fore horsemen of the apocalypse. �at note from hell was the �rst
thing that my adjudicators heard. Crap. What could I do now? Take another breath, play another note.
Argh. Another. Darn it all. Yet another. Not too bad. But I had only warmed up.
I set my piece out on the music stand in front of me. I knew it so well, yet it still looked terrifying.
Like I had almost never seen it before; I had no chance of getting it right. Butter�ies took wing in my
stomach. Deep breaths. I began.
First movement. As if you are a musician, playing at a royal ball. �at’s what my teacher had told
me. I tried my best to make it sound like that. One missed note. Two. �ree. Yet the director kept right on
smiling, as he always does during these things. �e �autist, however, stared grimly at her paper, viciously
scribbling illegible notes about me, how I was just another brass player, nothing to look much at. I had to
show her.
Second movement. Fast, bouncy, fun. �at was what I was playing, or trying to play. See, there
comes a point when a piece of music is physically too fast for a trombonist like myself to play. �is was
close to that point. My arm was falling o�. �e owner of the red sedan, you le� your lights on. All I could
see was Patrick Star, with a trombone stuck over his head, marching in to audition. �at’s how I thought I
sounded.
It was over. Our Director looked at me. Good job. Much better than last year. I packed up, thanked
my adjudicators, and walked out of the room. I thought, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the �autist
grinning. I turned around to look, but she was back to scowling. Brass players. Always think they’re so
good, hmm? I could say the same of woodwinds.
I walked out of the room, down the hall, where I signed out. Another person, a �ute player, walked
in behind me. I saw the �autist at the table grin. We’ll see how this goes, I thought. Her �rst note was a
squeak. Maybe if we play louder, people will think that we’re better.
~ 30 ~