The Universal Language
Matthew Murphy
ENG 111 Introduction to Composition
Spring 2014

The Universal Language My journey began with a telephone call. This was before everyone had a cell phone. The house phone rang in my parent’s kitchen. I was a junior in high school, hadn’t travelled much yet, wanted to get out and experience the country. When I picked up the phone a voice that I didn’t recognize asked for me. All that I could think was “Damn, another recruiter.” As it turns out I was correct, just not in the way I thought. The voice on the phone introduced himself as Nic Simons of the Troopers Drum and Bugle Corps. Now I had head of the Troopers, My primary musical influence had performed with them and treasured the experience. Nic offered me a position with the Troopers playing something called a contrabass bugle; all I had to do was get to Casper Wyoming, in three days with $500. The deal sounded like winning the lottery with a kicker of performing live! Of course I was in. When I arrived in Casper, having scraped together the last of my savings I didn’t know what to expect. My folks dropped me off at the Corps office, which was connected to a bingo hall, the smell of cigarette smoke pervasive, as if it would invade everything and there was no stopping it. After my parents signed paperwork giving their official permission to leave for the summer ad travel around the country with a group of people they had never met, we said a short goodbye that had my mom in tears. Shortly after they had headed off on the 3 hour drive home I was picked up for rehearsal. The lady who picked me up introduced herself as Traute Gilbert, informed me that I would be staying at her house during my time in Casper, and loaded me up in a rusty old van. I soon learned that everyone in the Troopers referred to her as Mom. My nerves started getting to me as we headed across town to the rehearsal. Here I was, a 16 year old kid, away from family for the first time of any significance, surrounded by strangers, and truthfully wondering what I had gotten myself into. We arrived at an ancient junior high school and “Mom” wished me luck in my first rehearsal. I walked in and followed the sound of the horn line. I felt like a leaf, hanging from a tree in autumn, shivering in the wind but too stubborn to fly away. As I walked into the rehearsal room, all activity stopped. A mix of curiosity and dread filled me as I introduced myself to the guy conducting the group. He had somebody grab me a horn and told me to get in my section. I looked at my horn, thinking “what the hell is this thing?” It was beautiful even from that first moment, smooth and gleaming, a silver sculpture of power and grace. Music was placed in front of me. One major issue, I read bass clef music, this is treble clef what was I supposed to do with this? I had no idea what to do so I played by ear. Picking out notes and missing plenty of them, while figuring out that I was in way over my head with this. After the rehearsal people trickled up and introduced themselves, little did I know that by the end of my summer these people would be my family, just as much as my sisters were. That first day started a whirlwind that consumed me; I had no concept of time other than rehearsal or sleep for the first two weeks. What day it was seemed irrelevant, all I needed to do was learn my part, march my show, and play the notes on the page. Those two weeks forced me to learn how to read in a new style, play on a vastly different horn, and do it all while moving around a football field. I think it was in those first two weeks that I began to realize that music was more than just sound. Music is emotion, expression, feeling, and grace all wrapped into a single entity. I had never realized that learning a new form of music could expand my world so totally, while at the same time locking me into a rigid schedule. At the end of the whirlwind 12-14 hour rehearsal days we loaded up on three busses, one semi loaded with equipment, and one semi that was a mobile kitchen and headed out on a cross country competitive tour. This was it, three months of long rehearsals, exhausting workouts, and making the tiniest corrections to the music. The day was finally here. What started as a motley group of kids from across the nation was finally ready to show the world our best show of the season. I glanced down at my horn, a King model K-90 Contrabass bugle. Three months before I had not even had a concept as to how much that horn would mean to me. It was vastly different from my tuba I usually played, a different set of fingerings, two valves instead of four, and such a rich, dark sound. The sound that my horn could produce was like a deep shadow. It engulfed whatever it touched and cradled the crowd in its luscious tones. It was time. I was ready.
We lined up in the tunnel in Citrus Bowl Stadium in Orlando, Florida. We had sung the corps song moments before, and the feeling still ran up and down my spine like the arcs from a tesla coil. The time was now, one chance to compete for our place in the activity. As the corps ahead of us finished their show the roar of the crowd hit, a wave of sound that vibrated the air around us and fired us into a controlled frenzy. We moved out into the oppressive Florida sunlight, so focused on the task ahead of us that we didn’t care about our individual discomfort. All that mattered was the corps, the field, the massive crowd, and 11.5 minutes of music. It went by in the blink of an eye, the next thing I knew we were done, 18,000 people on their feet cheering for what we had just given them. As we left the field there was an immense satisfaction, a job well done. From that day to now, I have lived with a fundamental knowledge. Music is not just sounds hitting the ear. It is not pretty noise that we can dance to. Music is a language that we can use to communicate with anyone. We can inspire people to greatness, or fill them with despair. Music can change the world, if only the right people hear it. The first step is that blind leap, that unfathomable decision to learn the language of music, become literate in it, and share it with others. Literacy in music is difficult, and a constant quest. It is never finished, never truly perfect, but entirely worth the effort.