Every now and then, something happens that sort of brings life in to a different perspective. I guess it's something like when retrospect collides with the here and now and stirs up emotions that were once thought dead. If that last sentence made sense, then I might be able to put into words the experience of seeing Maynard Ferguson, live in concert last night. I'm writing this barely 8 hours later just to make sure I don't forget what I just experienced.
I first heard about him and his band coming to town in the middle of this last week. Nonchalantly, my daughter showed me a flyer she was given at her intermediate school. It read something like "The legendary Maynard Ferguson will be performing live at the Conroe High School auditorium..." My daughter and I were definitely going to this show!
My oldest daughter began taking band this year and her band director told the class "this, kids, is a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity" to see a living legend. She actually just made the switch to french horn over the last few weeks. But the fact that her grandpa and I were also trumpet players fueled her interest when the school year started. She used both of our trumpets so she wouldn't have to carry one to and from school. Seeing her play the same horn I once played and carry the same case that I once carried stirred up emotions that I thought were long since dead.
You see, years ago, I was once a promising trumpet player. I started playing in the elementary school band in Malakoff, Texas in the sixth grade. I excelled early on, performing with high school band in the jazz band ensemble and earning first chair in my section during in my seventh grade year. In the eighth grade, our school got a new band director, James Sprayberry, an old alcoholic cajun, who had been band director at other area schools. He and I bonded very quickly and that bond ruined my plans to quit the band after my eighth grade year to get in to Agriculture whenever I entered high school. Imagine that, me as a cowboy or the FFA type! Thank you, Mr. Sprayberry!!!
After football season, I started taking private lessons with Mr. Sprayberry. He told me to listen to Maynard because he thought I could relate to his style. If you've ever played the trumpet, or know someone who has, playing in the upper registers, a Ferguson trademark, has instant appeal. I spent weeks on end with "Spray," as he was affectionately called at our school, perfecting my technique. I bought an Arban's Technique for Trumpet book and Spray worked me over. It wasn't long before it was time "chair tryouts," or whatever they were called, and surpassed two seniors for first chair. I also made 2nd chair at a district band competition that year, as well. My sophomore year saw similar success, only it was not quite as dramatic as the year before. I was also involved in high school sports which divided my attentions. Still, Spray was very quick to offer encouragement, even though sports kept me away from the band hall after school. That year, at the spring concert, Spray organized a Jazz Ensemble that played that night. We played a piece called "Dixieland Jam," a medley of dixieland favorites. We practically brought down the small-town house.
Three days into my junior year of high school (September 1985), Mr. Sprayberry died suddenly, stricken with a heart attack. Our school was devastated. Moreover, my mentor was gone. In the course of the year, I had personality clashes with his successor and lost my love for the trumpet. I won't go into what happened here because I've already written more of the background for last night than I wanted to.
The opening act last night was a tight area jazz quartet that I thought would set the tone for the evening. I simply was not prepared for what happened next. Before a short intermission, another quartet, part of Ferguson's band, was non-chalantly introduced. They played a couple of songs and their style was a much more aggressive form of jazz. It merely left the audience thirsty for more. After the intermission, we all got what we payed to see. The trumbone player, Reggie, spoke into the microphone "please welcome to the stage, the legendary Maynard Ferguson." The old, white-headed, heavy-set bandleader sauntered out to the middle of the stage, as the band played a song that reminded me of what used to be played on the Johnny Carson Show. He smiled, pointed toward the audience and winked, and then lifted a worn-looking Bb trumpet to his mouth. For the next hour and fifteen minutes, I and my daughter were mesmerized. Flanked by a world-class pianist, bassist, drummer, trumbone, two saxaphones and three incredible trumpet players who obviously have benefitted from his tutelage, Mr. Ferguson was the master of ceremonies in his own traveling, musical carnival. Playing songs like Bird Land and a medley, including the hit from Rocky, Gonna Fly Now, I was taken back to that side-room in the high school band hall where I had spent so much time over 20 years ago. I experienced a highlight of my life.
2 comments:
James Sprayberry was my orchestra director in Shreveport. Great teacher. Sad to hear he passed.
In the mid-1960s, James Sprayberry was a music student at Northwestern State in Natchitoches, 70 miles south of Shreveport. I was a student at Natchitoches High, which was located on the campus of Northwestern. As a high school musician, I played in the Northwestern jazz band with James, and he recruited me to play club gigs with his R&B group. I lost track of him after I graduated from high school. Good memories.
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