O dusty relic of the percussion room, hiding behind the bass drum in the gloom, while timpani thunder and cymbals gleam, you wait, forgotten, for your moment supreme.
Noble marching machine, wooden and worn, splinter-giver, blister-born— you are the instrument that dares to ask: "What if fence-slapping were a musical task?"
They say a composer, centuries past, needed an army (on a budget, alas), stroked his impractical beard and declared: "Let's slap some wood together! Who's scared?"
And so you were born, O character actor, two lines in the script, but a crowd-pleaser factor, mimicking boots on cobblestone streets, the thunder of war in your squeaky wooden beats.
Every semester, the ritual's the same: scan the percussion section, call out a name. "Tyler! Congratulations, you've been assigned the marching machine—please don't fall behind."
Tyler approaches with questioning eyes, surveys your frame with a look of surprise. "So... do I hit it?" he asks with care. Yes, Tyler. You hit it. With rhythm. Right there.
Create the illusion of soldiers marching to war, (though it sounds like someone's crossing a squeaky floor).
Your greatest performances, let's not forget: that part where an army marches (or was it a threat?), that other scene where different soldiers walk, and occasionally, villagers who mob-stalk.
Your versatility knows very specific bounds, yet oh, what gloriously wooden sounds!
The triangle player fears missing THE note, but you, dear machine, inspire a different quote: "How does one look dignified," your player thinks, "while crouching and slapping like the world's on the brink?"
No elegant stance, no bow to be taken, just alternating slats while your dignity's shaken. And yet—when done well—what magic occurs! The audience hears armies! Movement! Marching! They're stirred!
They hear everything except what is true: one teen counting beats, thinking, "Can I just use my shoe?"
Your care instructions are simple and clear:
- Store you where you'll forget you're here
- Remember eight measures before you're due
- Panic, then dig you out from the music stand zoo
- Hope your slats still work and haven't turned to dust
- Play through the grime, because play you must
You pair beautifully with awkward silence and dread, and the phrase every teacher has frantically said: "Has anyone seen the marching machine?"
So here's to you, O unloved percussion friend, the instrument assigned at the section's end, when all the good parts have been given away, and someone still needs to make marching-boot-play.
You're not in auditions, you're not on display, you won't win a concerto, you won't save the day. But when Holst or Grainger calls soldiers to battle, when history's weight needs that boot-stomping rattle—
We'll reluctantly pull you from storage's embrace, dust off your slats, and grant you your place.
O marching machine, you unglamorous treasure, you giver of splinters, you keeper of measure, we honor your service, we salute your devotion— you are the percussive embodiment of "going through the motions."
And that is why we love you. (Sort of.)
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