The Biggest Stage — My Time in Drum Corps International

The time I felt loneliest was in Louisville, Kentucky.

We’d spent four weeks on a farm, running through cornfields and forcing our paths into the grass, but that wasn’t the worst point.

It was still exciting then, being part of the Troopers Drum and Bugle Corps, a professional drum corp out of Casper, Wyoming. I was 17, embarking on three months of non-stop travel, rehearsal, and performances. I was also going to Indiana for the first time, which might sound like gloating but it certainly isn’t. At that point everything was still so new, drifting through the outskirts of Indianapolis, marching in the Indy 500 parade, bussing to laundromats and spending the day gorging on Walmart rations.

It was here, on the laminated wood floor of a nameless gym a thousand miles away from home, that I truly felt alone. Alone while surrounded by 150 other people who were, in full truth, little more than strangers.

This was also the last time I felt loneliest. Four years later I had a full row to myself on the tour bus and packed like a missionary — routine and just the essentials. I can recall some of the more memorable gyms, even ten years later. The ones with poorly drawn, muscular mascots bursting through the brick wall; the ones with the strangest mascots — here’s looking at you, midgets and orphans (Arkansas and Illinois, respectively); and especially the one that, after the lights went out, left a single spotlight on an eagle mural (Minnesota).

Then there was the one with incessant flies in Iowa, the one with the tornado shelter in Wyoming, and the one with acid rain in Texas. And who could forget the school in Michigan with a broken sundial on the side of the building (four years later that school would be condemned) or the one with a dark room full of standing mannequins at the top of a long and winding staircase.

There was nothing memorable about that first Kentucky gym, like a defining landscape choice, except that it was both full and empty. The service was terrible. And the lights were harsh.

This was a buildup years in the making. I had friends who marched for Drum Corps International, “marching music’s major league.” I’d never even seen a show before, which is the usual hook for people. It’s 20 minutes of marching band with more innovation, more precision, more volume. All I knew was that you got a good tan and became a better musician. Seeing the country was a boon as well.

I played saxophone at that point, picking up the baritone so I could begin learning brass, and switching to mellophone because the high school band needed one. I always needed to excel at things, especially at the start.

In under a year I was in a gym in Cheyenne, making excuses for a struggling high G, bringing home a stack of papers that was my first contract. Again, only 16 years old at this point, already signing myself away to some organization I’d only experienced through a video screen. In the ensuing months, my friends and I returned to gyms in Denver and Wyoming, finally putting drill on an indoor practice field in Laramie. I was officially a Trooper, made the cut. There was a lot of snow that year, even in April.

On the subject of fields. Is astroturf better, or is natural grass? Like all things it depends. Turf sure does provide less resistance, but it also feels like you’re combing a big plastic carpet. It’s fine, but leaves those black flakes in everything for at least a few weeks (along with plenty of room for other improvements). On the other hand, even the nicest cut grass can be a trudge if it’s dense enough.

One week every year, for spring training, we couldn’t stay at our 4H fairgrounds because of an annual horse and cattle show. On a lucky year, we’d get to pet some llamas before the full caravan arrived.

But in the meantime, we bused to a park in Lebanon, Indiana. The fields sat at the bottom of two hills, in a kind of bowl. There were two bathrooms at the tops of the slopes. We called it “the jungle,” because the grass seemingly hadn’t been mowed in quite a long time, and there was a tiger mural at the front of the field. But oddly, it was at a completely even height for the full field — a hearty two or so inches. But you reset and pump your legs, putting your feet into your sound, bending your legs like rubber bands, and praying for the day to end. There’s a repetitive statement anyone who marched in 2013 knows, but I hesitate to put it down for fear of triggering a muscle (after all, the process is important).

Of the three NFL stadiums I’ve performed in, two were astroturf (Atlanta and Indianapolis). The worst grass fields seemed to always be in Wisconsin or Mississippi. There was one with invisible divots and snake boroughs in Louisiana. On the opposite end, the golden standard of fields is at Mile High Stadium — which as a Coloradan, brings a lot of misplaced pride. There it’s like walking through concrete with peach fuzz, extremely firm but gliding. As a Troopers' “home show” the performance side of the stadium is packed with tens of thousands of fans, and they’re more generous with their affection than most other venues.

In 2012 I had little to no affection for Mile High. We rolled in under a thunderstorm, which for several hours postponed the show. The first time close to home in a month and a half, and my girlfriend and mother were there too. At first, we huddled on the bus before getting a thumbs up that the field might be suitable for marching. At the front of the tunnel is a big sign reminding you you’re breathing at 5280 feet. It’s an explanation for the fatigue creeping into your lungs, the dizziness alongside the spectacle. The thumb goes down again and the brass shuffles to the visiting locker room. This would be the best free tour of the stadium except that the cards are crashing down and the show will be conceded.

Not all is lost; we’ll do a standstill in four arcs on the center field. No marching, just music and quiet counting under our breaths. When the call is made we’re in a huddle and I audibly gasp. Our caption head looks at me and, sarcastically, says “are you gonna be okay?”

Afterward, the other Colorado locals and I cry in separate corners of the locker room. After months of practice and performances, it suddenly feels like this was the only one that really mattered. We compensate by joking that we’re using the same bathroom as Peyton Manning.

A home show is an intangible thing. Just like loneliness.

There’s an entire language to the marching arts. “Hitting dots” and matching “cross steps.” Practicing the proper pivot foot to go from a front left slide at an 8 to 5 step into a backward right slide at a 5 to 5, making sure to nail the hip switch.

Early on we spent a long time learning dance, positions one through five, proper plié form and how to sachet on the concrete floor of a livestock building. My knees still hurt from doing “over the puppies” on those floors, an exercise by which you start in a perpendicular T with one hand on the ground, put your bottom foot back, and launch yourself over your hand to land in a kneeling position similar to a child’s pose in yoga.

An 8 to 5 is a standard marching step, signaling eight steps for every five yards. The most extreme distances are three and two to fives, at which point you’ll be “jazz running,” another balletic and swishing run that still allows you to contain the rumble of your steps in your feet, keeping your sound clear through your upper body (because you will usually be playing an instrument in these ridiculous circumstances).

One time, outside of rehearsal, someone attempted a 1 to 5 — it was successful, but he broke his foot and ended up missing out on his final season, what we call your “age out” year. More on that later.

The largest step size I ever had was my rookie year.

In all performances there’s a percussion break, where the brass is given a chance to “rest their chops” and the drum line and pit are put on feature. I needed to cover 35 yards in 12 or so counts, essentially sprinting from one end of the field to the other over a matter of 10 or so seconds (if I remember the tempo was pushing over 200 beats per minute — in other words, quite fast). Marching drill is usually written in a computer program, and if you’re lucky you’ll meet the drill writer in person three or four times a season. But this can lead to awkward transitions and unseen leaps.

On first attempt I was woefully short, having to dart through other performers en route to my final “dot” (my written position for the formation to land). As we rehearsed the visual caption head (the guy in charge of making sure we looked good marching) told everyone to keep out of Alec’s way, because he’s got a long way to go and he’s looking damn good doing it. Truth be told I fudged my starting dot to make the distance as far as it was by about five or so yards. I liked the attention, and it’s fun to point out the single person gliding across our stage in the final DVD of the season.

I always loved the visual side of marching. We marched what we called a “straight leg technique,” which is exactly what the name implies. In contrast, roll step marching — an arguably more antiquated method, whereby marchers pick up their legs to bend and roll through — is still practiced by a few corps.

We regularly held begrudging visual challenges during something called “circle drill.” In this exercise, the brass forms a perfect circle and expands and rotates this circle in perfect unison. It’s designed to be both an endurance exercise and to work nearly every angle you need to march in a show, forward and backward. It’s also designed for punishment, as was likely the case in 2012, in Huntsville, Alabama.

The show was going poorly. Scores were low, and so was morale. When it was announced that we’d be spending a full visual block, anywhere from 2–4 hours, on this single exercise, it felt like spite. But after completing several cycles at an increasing tempo, it was time for individual challenges. At this point we were two-thirds of the way through the season and everyone knew who excelled at marching and who didn’t. This was the time to put grievances and jealousies into the grass.

I was one of the favorites for visual rookie of the year, and was chosen to go against the other front runner. My muscles burned and we were reaching the hottest point of the day. Our horns went up and the exercise began. I placed strong pivot feet, slid into halts with resolution. On the final ring a leg gave way and I broke. It cost me the victory that day and, I believe, the victory I wanted at the end of the season, a grief that would only resolve two years later, when I won the visual MVP award for being the best marcher in the corp. But it stung in the moment.

By the end of that Alabama day, looking from up the hill, you could see a perfectly spoked wheel pressed into the field.

When a member messes up, it’s called “ticking.” Repeat offenses make you a tick.

I’m not sure where the term comes from originally. In most cases the response is some form of verbal haranguing, usually tough love. Drum Corp comes from a military lineage, and in being so echoes the same machismo. It’s normal for a caption head to cuss you out over loudspeaker. You grit through injuries and bear it. I took pride in the fact that over four seasons, I never missed a block (even though one year, when my ankle was swollen and purple from stepping through a hidden hole in the field, I really should have). But this is a competitive sport, meaning it’s on you to rehearse the hiccups out of your show.

My final year I was section leader. As the most experienced so I made the most sense, even to me, but common sense has a certain entitlement built into it. I don’t know why I wanted it, truthfully, if not a little bit for ego. It’s very much an atmosphere where you can lead by example, which allows you to both keep to yourself and hope your confidence sheds to other members.

There were flashes of leadership in previous years. In 2013 there was one member who was particularly ill-suited to the intensity of the corp.

When one ticks it’s expected for there to be some kind of punishment — 10 push-ups for each mistake that rep, for example. On several occasions I joined in with him, knowing that it’s easier to be hard on yourself than lenient. Like when I popped my horn up a single count early at a show in Mankato, Minnesota, and I punched the bus afterward in frustration, which caused my hand to bleed and which I felt for the next two weeks. My first year our section leader made the section run a mile in South Dakota after rehearsal because he felt I didn’t have the right tone when I gave him an answer to a question. I didn’t even realize the offense, but that set the tone for how I didn’t want to be in the later years. People can snap when you’re on the road for so long.

At times it’s a separate world where rules don’t matter (until they do).

At shows you get the most free time, which usually means exploration. Once your performance is done you’re free to do what you want until AIS (Ass in Seat). The best housing sites in the Midwest are close to a Culver’s, where you can fill up on hamburgers and custard. In the south, it’s a good omen to perform by a Raising Canes or a Whataburger.

The greatest luxury is a free day.

There was always one guaranteed free day every summer, at the San Antonio regional show, one of the four competitions when every corp is present. In 2012 we had a free day at a water park in South Dakota. That same year we were free to roam Pigeon Forge, Tennessee (to be honest I can’t remember what we did that day). Every two weeks we’d get a laundry day, which might include a short block in the morning before our four busses descended on several local laundromats. These were the days to make Walmart runs and stock up on bus snacks (like a 2 lb bag of Mike and Ike’s and several graphic t-shirts). I can remember the looks of fear from the locals already patiently waiting on a washer.

Outside of show performances, free days, and laundry days, we were technically not allowed to leave the grounds of whatever our housing site was — but we always did, hiding in bushes to avoid the lurking black Chevy Tahoe of the corp chaperone on the way back from a Sonic in Mississippi or a breakfast diner in Schuylkill Haven, Pennsylvania.

This reminds me of what, in 2014, we dubbed “The Best Day Ever.” Fayetteville, Arkansas.

Every member has a tour job to help make daily operations possible. The scaffolding crew drives an ATV with a trailer full of, well, scaffolding, which the staff uses to get a birds-eye view of the field. Meal crew helps the volunteer chefs unload and load the food truck, where we had four meals a day. A housing crew makes sure everything is cleaned up where we stayed. Bus loaders is petty self-explanatory. I was on field lining, which included two crews. We were the early crew, which meant waking up more than an hour before the rest of the corp to paint fields at our sites (it was the exception to be at a site with an already lined AstroTurf field, and most sites required us to paint at least two fields, often three).

The secret to painting a field from nothing is triangulation — you use geometry and long tape measures to find the first corners of the field, mark the 50-yard line, and measure out the hypotenuse to make sure the angle of the field is exact. And yes, we’ve accidentally forced the corp to march on a tilted field.

It’s not a job many covet. The one benefit is that you’re up and awake before the rest of the corp, and while some people return to their air mattresses, I would enjoy the morning quiet by drinking coffee and watching the sunrise.

On the best day ever the early crew went across the street to a Waffle House. We talked about show designs over bottomless coffee and platters of eggs and bacon. Afterward, we grabbed Starbucks, and in our first rehearsal block the four of us sprinted around the field, trying our best to jazz up the newly awoken.

There isn’t anything particularly remarkable here — but something about it was timeless, and maybe it has to do with comfort. It was one of the most comfortable days in all of my four years, where fellowship became brotherhood, and where Fayetteville, Arkansas managed to feel worlds away from that first stay in Louisville.

That night it was on to the next city, next state, next competition.

Drum corp has tight age restrictions. You can only march from ages 14–21 (or 22 if your birthday is during the summer). Each year there’s an annual “age out” ceremony, where the leaving members from every corp are invited onto the field at Lucas Oil Stadium. You’re allowed to leave whatever you want (I left a Denver Broncos hat I wore for three full summers, once blue but nearly white by then). Then it’s time to head to the nearby bars and let the staff buy you a drink.

I could really keep going. The incredible views from a Sioux City bluff, the drive over the Mississippi into LaCrosse, Wisconsin, looking up to a second standing ovation at Mile High Stadium. Waking up after an early morning arrival and realizing you’re sleeping on the cafeteria floor at Little Rock Central High School. The annual university tour in Graceland, Iowa. “The Bando Show” in Muncie, Indiana, where high school students are bussed in from across the state and will cheer for most anything you do. Walking through a neighborhood in Arkansas and hearing “The South will rise again” from a man on his porch. Stay strong PJ. Christmas in July. The annual run to Lake Eerie in Pennsylvania. Having to play duck duck goose as punishment. Reading Pablo Neruda to audience snaps as part of corp talent night on a long bus ride in New York. A staff member giving me his access pass on the night of the World Championships, my rookie year, and watching the winning show from the box on the 50-yard line. Missing out on a spot in the final 12 by less than a tenth of a point.

Every year the corp shares the metrics of our journeys. Dozens of states driven through, tens of thousands of pounds of food, enough driving milage to go coast to coast several times. Spring training is 12 hours of rehearsal a day, and on the road it shifts to 4–8 hours a day. I can’t fathom the compounded scale of my four years (or the magnitude of those who manage to make it the full eight).

This is usually the point where I’d talk about the lifelong skills I learned as a result of this activity (which cost upwards of $2,000-$3,000 a summer); where it taught me how to be dedicated to something, where it got me out of my comfort zone as a late teen, and where I forged lifelong friendships. Not that those things aren’t true, but it’s sappy bullshit.

I’ve left out the most heinous things (use your imagination — a bunch of teenagers shuffling from box to box, largely away from supervision). Every year it was three months of frustrations and jubilations, pain and success. It was some of the loneliest times and the most communal. And yes, it did forever change me, in ways that I’m grateful for, but also in ways that make me wonder about the alternatives. Teenagers, shuffling around the country in a convoy, sleeping on gym floors and dedicating their world to the same 20 minutes of marching music. It was my whole world, until it wasn’t.

After my final season, I largely quit interacting with the activity. I joined alumni Facebook groups and then left them. I didn’t watch new shows, keep tabs on scores. I didn’t want to be a ‘forever’ band kid. Some people meet their future spouse on tour, and their kids are destined for it too. But even as I excelled in the activity, and even as I loved it, that wasn’t me. I was a kid, and this my odyssey toward a redefined home. Whenever anyone asks I just say I did professional marching band, and wince a little at how crude a definition that is. It’s hard to understand if you’re on the outside.

This year I went to see a show outside Seattle and was surprised by what I felt seeing the tanned kids, shuffling their feet on the asphalt, carefully moving their water jugs so the handles were in perfect alignment. I hugged old friends I hadn’t seen in the six years since aging out.

Every member gets a corps jacket at the end of their first season, a christening. Every subsequent year you’re given a scarf ring, which you pin to your jacket alongside event patches, and when you age out you’re given the cross-saber pin from your hat. It was a hot day but I wore mine nonetheless, always a little showy, and I felt an adolescent pride as both young and old attendees turned to study my history. There’s always too much to say, and so we tell our stories in these small universal languages.

What a distant and welcoming world.

HLD >”< Troopers ‘12, ‘13, ‘14, 16’