Noise Pollution

In the right hands, the ”Ave Maria” is a beautiful hymn that can inspire love, harmony, and images of verdant meadows and fluffy white clouds. In the wrong hands, it may become a weapon of mass destruction that can shatter glass and tear even more holes in our already depleted ozone layer. Today, I heard the latter.

I shouldn't talk. Doubtless when I work parades and feasts there are scores of people in the neighborhood who didn't ask to have a brass band march or stroll down their street blaring Sousa or the Tarantella. But nine times out of ten, we're at least in tune when we do it. The cracking voice that warbled forth from giant speakers across the street from the church in Hoboken was, as our band leader put it in the words of Randy Jackson, “pitchy”.(and I just learned he's Samuel L.'s cousin--cool!)

Perhaps there was something off with the acoustics in the church. Perhaps the amplifiers were set way too high and the voice was distorted. All I know is that as I looked at the faces in the crowd, spectators and musicians alike were either grimacing, cringing, or blatantly holding their ears in agony. Again, perhaps I shouldn't talk. The ensuing five hour procession was a blur to me in the three-digit weather, and our instruments weren't always in tune because of the effects of the heat on the metal. Several times my valves froze up completely, despite being oiled every time. The people seemed grateful afterwards, but I can make the same joke that our drummer made when the speakers exploded with uproarious applause at the end of the singer's solo: “they're just happy it's over.”

Surprisingly, the day held very few other complications. I wasn't sure how carrying a musical instrument in a large military-looking green dufflebag would fly on the trains. The presence of police and soldiers to inspect backpacks and carry-ons didn't result in a single inspection of OUR belongings. Perhaps they recognized the outline of musical instruments, or saw the brass bells peering out from the drawstring openings. I think anyone who's seen Desperado would think twice about underestimating an instrument or a case. If a guitar case can house a flamethrower, why not a Baritone Horn? Apparently you not only need to play a guitar to get respect from the ladies, but from the authorities as well. Our rides on the LIRR and the PATH trains were mostly uneventful, although on the way home the LIRR came to a dead stop in the middle of an iron yard in Queens just after emerging from the tunnel. I suspect the air conditioning and the rush hour overload combined with the heat to create an electrical problem, and we sat there for several minutes in the middle of nowhere before they got the train running again. I should say that I STOOD there; I let my dad get the last seat and I was among the 30-40 passengers standing in our car.

I wasn't in the mood for company, but my mom's friend and her husband had driven up from Florida. She entertained them during the day but they were still here when we got home, sporting matching t-shirts that said “I survived the Blackout of 2003”, which occurred on their last visit. My mom, I noted, was wearing one as well, a gift from her friends. My mom's friend made my exhausted father and I take out our instruments and pose on the lawn for a photo. They're nice people, but it was torture after the day I've had. In fact, they're still here and from my dad's shouts, it sounds like they let the cat get in the basement and need me to retrieve him. I'll share one more anecdote from my day before I return to the geriatric party down the hall. I noticed several great billboard ads at various stops with charts comparing Vitamin Water to Tropicana. The headline above the chart reads: “OJ Found GUILTY(of being high in sugar, that is). I would LOVE to work for an agency that gets to come up with stuff like that someday.