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Essay by   •  December 24, 2010  •  Essay  •  822 Words (4 Pages)  •  846 Views

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A vigorous swarm of tiny fifth-graders viciously scrambled to their seats preparing for an assembly. As I carefully selected my seat among my pre-pubescent acquaintances, I could hear the telltale sounds of a jazz band warming up. The Middle School Jazz Band came to play for the elementary school. They performed Take the A Train. Although they were only a few years older than us, we looked up at the stage as if we were in the presence of professionals. It was the first time I really saw music up close. I generated instant respect for everyone in that jazz band. I fell in love with the music, and even though I was a lowly fifth-grader, I vowed to play jazz one day.

I knew nothing about music, but I loved the way it sounded. I always felt pleasure in tinkering on a keyboard, or memorizing and screaming the lyrics of my favorite Don McLean song. I watched in awe as my mother immersed herself in classical music, silently conducting her favorite Bach sonata. I never realized, however, the depth of music, a pure yet complicated series of sounds, difficult and rich. After witnessing music for the first time, I knew I wanted to be part of a group that appreciated the beauty of music. I rushed to the sign-up table, gawking at the numerous instruments on the list, ignorant to every one of them. I chose the one I saw featured on stage: it was a saxophone.

I was sorely disappointed when I realized only eighth graders could be in the Jazz Band. My first day of middle school was depressing as I glanced over my schedule only to see beginning band as my first period. I furrowed my brow in frustration as I yearned to play with the "older kids", to be in the jazz band and play awesome songs like "Take the A Train" and "Birdland". I trudged into my first day of rehearsal; my young mind was shocked to discover the band was full of complete novices like me. It was a rather pathetic little group, but with one commonality: we loved music. As I struggled to produce even the foulest of sounds (none sounding at all like "Mary Had a Little Lamb" or "Hot Cross Buns") I realized this would take a lot of work.

As the year progressed, I soon became best in my beginner's class (which is not saying much). Almost overnight, I transformed into a machine inhaling new techniques and style, and exhaling warm sonorous notes and emotion. Effort I put into music was more satisfying than anything else I had ever done. I dedicated a part of my day to music, and continued to fill the air of my house with the hoarse yet improving sound of my saxophone. For the latter two years of my middle school career, I was in the advanced symphonic band, first chair saxophone,



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