The Leader of the Band

Mr. Banim looked decidedly uneasy. As he motioned with his baton for us to pick up our instruments and get ready, he looked over his shoulder at the assembled dignitaries. His normally relaxed, confident appearance looked a bit strained.

The rest of us felt it, too. And probably with good cause.

My introduction to playing in a school band was in the seventh grade.

Mr. Bowman was our teacher, an exceedingly kind, patient guy. None of us knew even how to properly hold our instruments, let alone anything to do with music.

For him, it was like setting up dozens of blank canvases with paints, and standing back as the bell rang and 40-50 clueless adolescents poured into his band room, talking and laughing. He was expected to not only teach each kid how to paint; but how to paint their particular piece of a huge jigsaw puzzle that would come together at the end-of-year concert.

And to think he did this every year. I imagine Mr. Bowman, like Pop, enjoyed his nightly bourbon and Coke.

Both that year and the next, I gradually gained proficiency on my trumpet. I learned how to read and write music. He taught us about scales, musical sections and theory, and how a concert slowly, incrementally comes together. I had no idea of the amount of time and effort involved. Mr. Bowman and I became close.

About halfway through my second year in eighth grade, he appeared one day with Xs on his throat. Nobody dared ask him what they meant; but one day in a practice room, just he and I, he caught me staring. He absently moved his hand to his throat.

“Oh,” he said simply. “That tells them where to aim the X-rays.” I didn’t ask anything else, nor did he say anything; but I figured it out. I never heard what became of him; I hope he taught many more budding musicians.

In ninth grade, we advanced to Boca Raton High School where we came under the tutelage of band director Mr. Banim. If we thought it was merely to be an extension of Middle School…cool, some new songs…we were mistaken. Suddenly, we were not only expected to memorize music; but also play it while marching. In heavy wool uniforms, in Florida, in August. Some of us had less than stellar squad leaders, who were supposed to be our mentors.

And unlike the affable Mr. Bowman, we learned quickly that patience was not Mr. Banim’s strong suit. He had an air of reserved coolness, of savior-faire; he drove a sporty MGB convertible and had a Burt Reynolds-esque mustache. He expected excellence.

He had painstakingly crafted the upperclassmen into marching machines and we rookies fresh out of Middle School boot camp were lumps of clay, merely to be tolerated until he could mold us as well.

We found that neither in the band room nor on the football field was it wise to draw his attention. He used his baton and his bullhorn with equal vigor. Practice at home was a necessity for self-preservation.

A band is organized into sections: low brass, high brass, woodwinds, percussion. During indoor practice, he could hear which section(s) were playing incorrectly. He’d stop and go down the offending section kid by kid, pointing at each in turn with his baton.

If you hadn’t practiced, if you didn’t know the music, it induced a low-grade panic as he moved closer to you. You couldn’t simply get up and leave; there was no escape, no way out. All you could was sit there until his eye and his baton—and the attention of the whole band—was fixed solely on you.

If you knew the music, phew, his gaze shifted to the next kid. If you didn’t…it was a deep inhalation; a pitiful, off-pitch blatting or squawking; and lastly, a long withering look of contempt. The other kids looked stricken as their turn came.

But the perfection he demanded paid off. Our marching band was known through Palm Beach county as “The Pride of the Gold Coast.” We were announced as such from the press box at halftime during football games, and we took pride when our show went well and spectators in the bleachers applauded. We consistently earned top honors at state-wide marching band contests. Mr Banim was respected by the other teachers and his peers at other schools.

We were to be envied. Until the McDonald’s incident.

Boca Raton is one of the wealthiest communities in the US, and the standards of the 1970s and early 80s were very high. So when McDonald’s expressed an interest in opening a franchise in Boca, the gasps could be heard from City Hall to the locker rooms of the Boca Raton Bath and Tennis Club. Good Lord, Lovey, what next…an automobile dealership?

Corporate McDonald’s was anxious to stake a claim in Boca and made numerous concessions to the city brass. No big Golden Arches sign. A stucco building painted in a tasteful beige (“afternoon seagrass”). No riff-raffy drive-through.

For the next six months, one of the most decorous McDonald’s in America was built as kids rode by on their bikes and the zoning people camped out with magnifying glasses. As the grand opening drew closer, it was decided that the “Pride of the Gold Coast” would be engaged to play the McDonald’s tune from commercials, You Deserve a Break Today. Mr. Banim was uncharacteristically excited as he told us the news; he was practically rubbing his hands.

We had about a month to get the song down. But first we needed the sheet music.

Half a week went by; no music. Eight, nine days, still nothing. Daily phone calls to McDonalds became the norm. They kept promising it, but in that era, snail mail was it. Every morning Mr. Banim would anxiously check his mailbox in the administration building; and every morning, he’d walk dejectedly into the band room empty handed.

Finally, three or four days before the Saturday grand opening, the music arrived. Memorization was out of the question; we would sacrifice style over substance and use clunky music clips that attached to our instruments. We practiced until 10:00 pm. Kids called in sick to their jobs, parents sat in the parking lot reading magazines and swatting mosquitoes.

Mr. Banim’s cool facade began to crack as the hours sped by with no discernible improvement. Even the down-the-line routine was scrapped. We were a hot-air balloon going down fast even though we were jettisoning stuff as fast as we could.

The planners couldn’t have ordered nicer weather for the big day. Beaming Boca officials sat up front with McDonald’s executives, flanking a podium. There was quite a turnout from residents, who sat on bleachers. We sat off to one side, 96 musicians, dressed in our wool uniforms. The epaulets and our caps pulled down low over our brows lent a military look that the mucky mucks seemed to like.

As speeches were made with polite applause, the Boca officials and McDonalds execs exchanged quiet comments, nods and smiles; the air of bonhomie was palpable.

The mayor stepped to the podium. “We will now hear from The Pride of the Gold Coast,” he said. He smiled and applauded and everybody joined him.

At that moment, I felt for Mr. Banim. He’d been dealt a crummy hand but he took it manfully; no whining, no excuses, no blame-throwing, He turned and faced us in his tie and sports jacket. He was quite the dashing figure when he wanted to turn on the charm, but we knew and he knew what was coming.

He gave us a sickly smile…raised his baton up…and then down. And from “The Pride of the Gold Coast” came this cacophony of squawking, squealing woodwinds, blatting trumpets, low brass omphing and tooting, percussion banging and crashing. If you listened hard, you could just barely make out pieces of the tune here and there.

The smiles became fixed. Then there were scowls and soundless conversations between the McDonald’s guys, while the city brass were looking around as if it was all a joke and the real band was hiding behind the bleachers. Everybody else just stared.

Mr. Banim’s face was red and the veins on his neck stood out as he futilely waved his baton, wide-eyed, trying to establish some semblance of order by sheer force of will. But it was no good; it went on until we eventually all just sort of wound down, like a bagpipe running out of air.

By Monday morning, the wounds had begun to granulate, at least for us; but Mr. Banim said something about not feeling well, went into his office and closed the door. That whole week we just goofed off as holed up in his office, probably with a flask.

I don’t imagine he was a fan of the theme song or the Big Mac after that. I’m thinking every time he heard there is nothing so clean… as my burger machine, he winced.

But like with all things, time is merciful. By the next Fall, we were sophomores and no longer lowly boot camp inductees. The Pride of the Gold Coast redeemed itself with a Superior rating at the annual competition, and we were selected to march in Tampa’s annual Gasparilla Pirate Festival parade.

And curiously, the whole thing changed Mr. Banim somehow: He became a personification of Proverbs 11:2; When pride comes, disgrace follows; but with humility comes wisdom. He became much more Mr. Bowman-ish.

The detached aloofness disappeared over the summer. The baton stopped being the rod and became more the staff. He became more approachable, and while he still expected excellence, he just seemed to enjoy himself and us more.

He left after my senior year. I learned he passed away in California in 2019 after many years of leading bands and shaping musicians.

Somewhere, I hope he’s still waving his baton. 😎

Images by author and Meta AI.

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