The template for the March Fourth
Marching Band could, I suppose, be said to be the marching band of
high school and college tradition. When you see March Fourth in
action, you recognize certain elements: ornamental headgear;
two-toned, button-down jackets and matching pants; batons; percussion
and brass in great numbers; team spirit.
Yet March Fourth is sort of a marching
band on acid. The 23-member ensemble travels the world in a Merry
Prankster-ish bus named Razzle Dazzle. Its sound is as much klezmer
as John Philip Sousa; in its costuming and choreography I see a
little Vaudeville, a little of the Jazz Age, a little Sergeant
Pepper's. Where a traditional marching band moves in formation, March
Fourth has stiltwalkers striding hither and thither among its
rambunctious fans, hoisting up children, dancing, performing short
comic skits. Where a traditional marching band places an emphasis on
uniformity, March Fourth's presentation is ad-libbed and libertarian.
Traditional marching bands dress their ranks and cover down their
files, while March Fourth performers are often in something of a
state of quasi-dress and un-cover, with fishnets as common as pith
helmets. A traditional marching band, for all its color and volume,
is regimented, while the carnivalesque, improvisational
March Fourth seems barely contained within a “corps”: it's a
military-style band that has exploded, leaving the air a-flutter with
confetti and sparkles.
Rick and I are lucky not only to count
ourselves among March Fourth's fans, but to have a friend in the
band, and a few weekends ago we were gifted a pair of tickets to the
band's show (on March 4th; when else?) as a chemo-is-over
celebration. We attended the matinee (the night show was past our
bedtime) among the crazy
angles, “floating” mechanical dance floor and painted plaster
faces of Portland's famous Crystal Ballroom. We sat in the balcony
with (we suspect) moms and pops of the performers. This daytime show
included a cameo by budding musicians who had attended a March Fourth
summer band camp for teenagers last year, as well as the usual
dizzying retinue of hula hoop artists, giant human marionettes and
dancers. The emphasis of the circus acts is on whimsy and exuberance
rather than acrobatic virtuosity, but make no mistake: the musicians
are top-notch, and their sound—comprised entirely of drums, horns
and electric guitars—is like nothing else you've ever heard. March
Fourth describes its own output as “a full-blown big-stage
brass-rock-funk assault peppered with moments of swing, jazz,
bollywood, ska and metal,” if you can grok that.
I am filled with wonder at the
spectacle, and have many questions for the band, like: how does one
compose music for such an ensemble? How are decisions made? (Not, I
suspect, by dictatorial fiat of a band leader—yet surely not by
consensus democracy, either—with 23 members?) Do you ship Razzle
Dazzle to Europe when you play there? And most of all, where do I
sign up for summer band camp for 47-year-olds?
At any rate, our getting to be present
in the audience that day was gift enough—so I was flabbergasted to
learn that our friend in the band had composed a song in my
honor, which debuted then and there. This is surely the only time
anyone has ever written a piece of music for me—and what piece it is! The tune
is called “Janjar.” Our friend, Taylor Aglipay, was wearing a pink sleeveless cowboy shirt for the occasion, along with an enormous piece of
headgear fashioned—I am not making this up—from the hair of a
goat in Azerbaijan. Evidently the hat still smells faintly goaty.
Fabulous!
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