by Jessica Barno

Created on: May 01, 2009

I don't know what in my jumbled mind compelled me to join the jazz band my sophomore year of high school. I'm not even sure how I got lured in. I knew nothing about jazz. I couldn't even tell you what instrument Dizzy Gillespie played. Maybe it was the music, or the fact that a few of my friends were in it - I don't know. What I do know is that every morning, I walked into the school, down the performing arts hallway to my locker, and was surrounded by the sound of trumpets squealing, bass pumping, and the beat of the drum set, which seemed to signal that Animal from the Muppets had crashed the 6:30 AM jam session. Yes, 6:30 in the morning was the ungodly time that the jazz band began rehearsal every morning, five days a week, all school year long. There were about fifteen or twenty faithful members, who were about as disillusioned as I had become of the "glories" of being a part of the high school's jazz band. I was on the drumline in the marching band and played percussion in the concert season Wind Ensemble, but I had no clue how to play a drum set. I had no experience playing a wind instrument whatsoever, either. What I did have, however, was a year of piano lessons under my belt, and the jazz band's senior (and only) pianist had just quit. They were desperate, so I was in, no questions asked.

The night before my debut practice, I winced as I set my alarm clock to its new time: 5:00am - a full hour before my usual wake-up time. My ride - another disillusioned jazz student - would pick me up at 6:00. I awoke the next morning to my alarm clock screaming at precisely 5:00, and forced myself out of bed. I chiseled the sleep out of my eyes and got ready for my day. By 6:00 I was ready, and I sat down on my living room sofa to wait for my ride to come pick me up. 6:20 rolled around and still, no ride. I called his cell phone only to learn that he had forgotten about me, and that my mom would have to drive me. Needless to say, my mom was not pleased, but she drove me anyway.

I arrived to rehearsal ten minutes late, but to my relief, rehearsal had not formally begun. "What a first impression," I thought. I tentatively seated myself at the ancient honky-tonk-esque upright piano and set my music in front of me. Before I knew what was going on, I had people swarming me, telling me things like, "You'll love it!" and "I know it's early, but you'll get used to it," and even, "Please don't quit..." It gave me the impression that they were pretty desperate for a pianist,

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