Blood-Related Ensemble

It was spring 2009. I stood in a vacant, five-hundred-seat auditorium in McMaster University’s music department. There, in the middle, sat a professor, notebook on lap and pen in hand.

I pulled out my laptop and speakers from my backpack, and placed them on the table at the front of the room. The speakers were small but powerful. I used them to listen to my distance course lectures, and knew they would suffice. I turned the speakers to face the professor.

The piano accompaniment to Alexander Geodicke’s “Concert Etude” trumpet solo appeared on my laptop screen. I had spent all night searching, purchasing and downloading accompaniments, and now, my index finger trembled above the Enter button, ready to start the music.

I felt my face burn as the professor’s eyes studied my every move. My chest felt tight, and breaths short and heavy. I was more nervous than I had ever been.

But it wasn’t my audition.

My youngest brother, Joe, stood to my right, holding his Bach silver trumpet, the one our father bought him several months before the audition. He placed his sheet music on the stand, took a sip of water, shrugged and rotated his shoulders. He straightened his back and held his head high. His eyes locked at the notes in front of him. He had completed the listening and written tests that morning. This was his last assessment.

Our oldest brother, Mo, was pacing outside the room. His shadows were visible from the crystallized window panels in the wall. Our second youngest, Medo, plugged my laptop charger in an outlet, and stepped behind me, rubbing his hands.

“Ready?” the prof said.

“Yup!” Joe looked at me. He lifted the trumpet to his lips. I was to wait for the nod – a signal we practiced the night before. Once he’d nod, I would press the button. This made sure his playing and the accompaniment were in sync.

I watched Joe’s head bob up. As his mouthpiece covered his lips, I pressed Enter.

His start was clean and strong. His pitch was perfect. He hit the notes flawlessly. His tempo slowed and accelerated as needed. In the first couple of rounds, his double tonguing was spotless. A grin tugged the sides of my lips.

(Not Joe's Playing)

But towards the end of his 3:28 piece, he slurred his notes and missed a couple. I glanced back at Medo. It’s OK, he mouthed. I then peered at the professor, and hoped and prayed he didn’t hear that. He probably did.

Even though Joe stumbled a little, he got to the end. Silence. Three pairs of eyes stared at the professor. He jotted his comments and looked up.

“Good. You have great technique,” the prof said. “What else do you have prepared?”

“Uh…Haydn Trumpet Concerto, 2^nd movement,” Joe said, while Medo and I scrambled to switch accompaniments.

I waited for the nod again, and pressed Enter. Joe’s slow, smooth playing filled the room, but it was the small fabric-covered computer speakers that had my attention. It vibrated. Static fogged the music. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stop it? Would Joe be upset if I do? Does he even hear the static?

I looked at Medo. He shook his head. It was too late to start over anyways. They’ll grade him on his playing, not on the accompaniment after all, right?

“Can you play the beginning part again,” the prof said after Joe was done. “Without the accompaniment?”

Joe took a deep breath and played. Notes pulsated from his trumpet, as he assorted his pitch and speed in vibrato. He swayed, as his fingers elevated on the three valves.

(Not Joe's Playing)

“Great. You should hear back from us by the end of the week, so in about four days,” the prof said. We thanked him and left.

* * *

A week and four days passed, and Joe still didn’t get the call. He slumped on the family room couch in his Catholic high school uniform.

“Why don’t you call and ask?” Dad said. Joe shrugged.

“Give me the number,” Dad said. “I’ll call.”

Dad dialed the number and we all waited.

“Hi, I’m calling to ask about the results of my son’s audition,” he said, then listened. “Well, honestly, he’s too afraid to call himself.” He let out a nervous laugh.

Dad lifted the handle away and pointed at Joe. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Shame on you!” said the secretary to Joe. It was loud enough for everyone to hear. Joe laughed and gave her his student number.

“I got in to the program?!” he said. “I made it?!” Mom was the first to clap and scream ‘Thank you!’

“Who was that?” the secretary asked Joe.

“That’s my mom.”

* * *

At 6 a.m. September 10, 2009, I saw light peeking through Joe's cracked bedroom door. I pushed open the door and walked in.

"Morning," I said.

Joe sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor, his silver trumpet balancing on his right knee. His leather trumpet case was open in front of him, its plush navy blue velvet interior shimmering under the light.

He unscrewed the three keys, trickled a couple of drops of valve oil in each, and screwed them back on. He grabbed a suede cloth and wiped down the bell. He pressed his trumpet in the case, flipped the lid and locked it.

He put on his backpack, carried his case, hopped down the stairs, and, with half a wave, ran out the door to catch his bus.