The prevailing belief in our field is that we work hard to ensure that final performance is as perfect as possible. We meet with our ensembles regularly over months of preparation, all culminating in a single final performance. While that’s absolutely a correct assertion, the further I get into my career, the more I realize I relish the rehearsals more than the performances.
This week, my school is on Spring Break. Between relaxing and working on house projects, I tackled a lingering task: sorting through a giant ziploc bag of unnamed USB drives in my desk drawer. Among the fifteen-plus drives—mostly UIL recordings—I found a file from a few years ago. It was a recording of my soul band. No ensemble is perfect, and this group was no exception. I had individuals who drove me nuts with their quirks all year, but what I remember most was their collective eagerness and buy in to everything I was selling them! Because of this, we were able to play challenging, fun music at a very high level. They were so engaged that rehearsals would occasionally unravel into laughter and chatter, but they were always easy to refocus because they truly cared about the work we were doing. It’s what every band director dreams of, I think!
I’ll never forget one of the final rehearsals we had before UIL, with a guest clinician. When rehearsal was about to begin, sudden silence fell over the room. The air felt timid—charged with a hint of fear. They wanted to be great so badly. They were waiting for instructions. Keep in mind, this was a non-varsity middle school band! I can still see my squirrely trombones, visibly fighting the impulse to wiggle, sustained by a fierce desire to be great for the rest of the ensemble. Of course, I calmed them, showered them with love, and we proceeded to have an excellent rehearsal…but that feeling radiating from a band of 55, 12-year-old Gen Z kids I will never forget!
That group went to contest and earned Sweepstakes, which was well deserved. But to me, that UIL performance felt like every other performance in the band hall—admittedly, with a few more intonation issues I’d chalk up to nerves, but that is the reality of live performance.
I share this because when I listen to those recordings now, I’m not just transported back to that one moment on stage. I’m brought back to the band hall—to the sectionals, the breakthroughs, and the many velcro-kid moments in between. The final performance is vital, but I’ve learned to view the concert as a celebration of the growth that came before it. I’ve realized why I treasure these recordings so much: they don’t just capture music; they evoke all the memories that came along the way. Music is powerful, but the process of making it together? The best!