Sforzando

by Timothy Reilly

For Jo-Anne

The boy played for me a piece of music his middle school band had been rehearsing. He had trouble with simple rhythmic patterns, and his sound was pinched and underfed. I asked him to let me try out his tuba: a shopworn ¾ size King (three-valve-double-B-flat). I removed his mouthpiece and inserted my own. The tuba had a good sound. Its piston valves were a little noisy but they did the job.

My private students had always been college music majors, or advanced high school musicians. But Will Jacobs—a former private student and current middle school band director—asked me if I would take on one of his “struggling” students.

‘His name is David,’ said Will. ‘His mother has been going through a messy divorce from a violent alcoholic husband. She told me the tuba is the only thing bringing any joy into David’s life. It’s the only thing he cares about.’

I said I’d be happy to do whatever I could.

At the first lesson David’s mother, Marilyn Slinger, showed up for introductions, but she left before David played a single note. ‘I just don’t want to get in the way,’ she said. ‘But I’ll come back near the end of the lesson.’ This would be the routine for all subsequent lessons.

‘Listen carefully as I play this passage from your concert band music,’ I said to David. ‘You have to feel the three eighth notes hidden inside the dotted quarter note.’ After playing the excerpt, two times, I removed my mouthpiece and handed David his tuba. ‘Your turn,’ I said.  

I could tell he was desperately trying to apply the concept of the dotted quarter note, but he had too many deficiencies working against him.

‘That’s a start,’ I said. ‘We’ll come back to it later.’ At this juncture I realized we’d have to focus on rudiments.

Besides his concert music, David brought with him the tuba part from a Method for Beginning Band. I placed the book on my music stand and clipped it open to a page with long-tone exercises: whole-note low B-flats, followed by whole-note rests. I set my metronome to largo (60 beats-per-minute). David performed the rhythm correctly; but his breathing, attacks, and sound were less than adequate.

‘Good job with the rhythm,’ I said. ‘But we need to work on your breathing. First off: don’t breathe in through your nose. You can’t take in enough air through that body part. You have to take the air in through your mouth. Don’t raise your shoulders when you breathe in. And never puff your cheeks when you play. They do that in cartoons and movies, but good brass players never puff their cheeks.’ (I avoided mentioning the grand exception of Dizzy Gillespy.) ‘You need to open your throat, so you can take in more air.’ I told him to carefully stick his thump into his mouth, so he could feel his throat open by reflex. ‘When you breathe in, you have to fill your lungs from the bottom up—like filling a glass of water.’ I placed his hand on my diaphragm to demonstrate the push as I filled my lungs from the bottom up. ‘Lastly. Remember this. Without pushing down any valves, your open B-flat tuba is eighteen feet of tubing. It takes a strong diaphragm muscle to push air through all that tubing.’

David was on the small side for an eighth-grader. He didn’t talk much and he didn’t smile. His brow seemed permanently furrowed. But a light shone in his eyes. And that light shone brighter when he was holding his tuba.   

For the remainder of the lesson I had David sustain low B-flats as long as he could. His sound started to open up a bit, and he was beginning to comprehend the breathing concepts. I circled a few pages in his method book for him to practice. I also loaned him my Wittner Super-Mini-Taktell.

‘Always use a metronome when you practice,’ I said. ‘It’s an indispensable tool for serious musicians.’

The following week I had coffee with Will Jacobs. ‘David’s already showing signs of improvement,’ he said. ‘Nothing dramatic. But something’s going on. He’s been using his lunch recess to practice in the band room with a metronome.’

A few days later Marilyn Slinger called me to say her estranged husband threw the metronome against a wall. ‘He told David that classical music was for homos,’ she said. ‘He was drunk—as always. I filed a restraining order against him. David said he wants nothing more to do with his so-called father. Please allow me pay for the metronome.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘But I do suggest you buy David a new metronome.’

I continued to work with David on rudiments. I added scales and articulation to the mix. In time I xeroxed some easy solos for him to enjoy. I wanted to let him know that the tuba is capable of producing a beautiful singing voice—as melodious as a French horn or cello.

In late-autumn David’s middle school band began rehearsing in earnest for their Christmas Concert. Two weeks before the concert, David presented me with an “Official Invitation” to attend the annual event.

‘I’ll be there with bells on,’ I said. It was the first time I saw him smile.

The Christmas Concert took place in the school’s multipurpose room—evoking my own childhood memories of junior high band concerts: the chattering parents…the exuberance and back-stage jitters of budding musicians.

The concert began with the school’s mixed choir singing Christmas Favorites. After a short intermission, the festivities continued with the concert band performing a lengthy Christmas Medley—including a finale sing-along of “Hark the Herold Angels Sing.”

After the concert David introduced me to his fellow tubists: Zach and Brian. I congratulated them on their fine performance. I then presented David with the Christmas gift of a professional Roger Bobo mouthpiece.

‘You’ve earned this,’ I said. ‘But hold on to your old mouthpiece. Keep it in your car’s glovebox for tuba emergencies.’

David’s mother soon joined us. I noticed stitches in her bottom lip, but I didn’t stare.  

‘I’ll bet you’re proud of your son,’ I said, my hand on David’s shoulder.

‘To say the least,’ said Ms. Slinger.

Later, I met up with Will Jacobs. He took me aside and warned me about David’s father: Garth. ‘He’s a first-class psycho,’ said Will. ‘He’s huge—about six-foot-six. And covered in weird tattoos—like the guy in Moby Dick. What’s his name?’

‘Queequeg?’ I said.

‘That’s the one. A few days ago he tried to force David into his pick-up truck. I knew about the restraining order, so I called security to “escort” the jerk off campus. Keep an eye out for him. He’s dangerous.’

‘He should be easy to spot,’ I said.

‘I’m not joking. He’s already threatened me. I’m sure he knows about you.’

David resumed his lessons after the Christmas break. We started out with the usual warm-up exercises. I then asked him to play the etude I’d assigned before Christmas. His performance was little rough, but he did better on the repeat. To help boost his confidence, I played along with him on a third try.

‘Is there any band music you need to work on?’ I said.

‘Mr. Jacobs wants us to work on this march,’ he said, handing me the music.

I wasn’t familiar with the march (or its composer) but it looked to be in standard form—complete with a low-brass “dog fight.”

I explained to David the term sight-reading: ‘You play the piece from start to finish—without stopping,’ I said. ‘Do the best you can—don’t worry about making mistakes. Just keep going.’  I set my metronome for 120 bpm, and gave him four beats to start.

He stumbled, here and there, and missed all the repeat signs, but he kept going.

For the remainder of the lesson we worked on the dog fight. As we were rapping up, David asked me about the sfz marked under the last note of the march.

‘It’s an abbreviation for sforzando—an Italian term that means forceful. With power. You punch the note hard.’

After the lesson I walked David out to where his mother was waiting in their car. I offered my salutations and then went back inside my house. A moment later I heard the growling of eight-cylinders and I looked out the window to see a massive pickup truck blocking my driveway. A huge man—fitting Will Jacobs’ description to a tee—jumped out of the truck and started shouting curses and kicking the driver’s side door of Ms. Slinger’s car. Before I could grab my pepper spray, David exited the car and shouted back at the man in a voice deeper and more powerful than any eighth-grader I’d ever heard. There was about a ten-foot distance between the two of them, and when the huge man took a step forward, David let fly an object he’d been clutching in his right hand—striking the man in the forehead. The projectile made a metallic sound when it hit the driveway. The man fell to one knee—blood streaming down his face. David calmly retrieved his “glovebox mouthpiece” and got back into his car. The huge man staggered into the cab of his pick-up truck and drove off on his to way to nowhere. David and his mother proceeded in the opposite direction.

oOo

Timothy Reilly had been a professional tubist (including a stint with the Teatro Regio of Turin, Italy) until around 1980, when a condition called “Embouchure Dystonia” ended his music career. He has published in Zone 3, Green Hills Literary Lantern, The Main Street Rag, Fictive Dream, and other journals. His chapbook, Short Story Quartet, is available through Bottlecap Press ( He lives in Southern California with his wife, Jo-Anne Cappeluti: a poet and scholar.