Running With The Stallions

The slush pump, or more commonly known as the slide trombone. The instrument which has mystified children since the day it was created — “Mommy, where does that tube go when he slides it back and forth. Into his mouth?”

The instrument which mystified me for over 50 years — “Cripes, where do I position the slide so I don’t make the sound of a bellowing cow?”

I started playing the trombone in fifth grade under the direction of Mr. John Warden who was creating a feeder team of musicians for his middle school band. I had the choice of the trombone or the triangle. I decided against the triangle as a career instrument since the thought of calling in ranch hands for lunch was not my long-term goal in life. I settled on the trombone not realizing that for the next 25 years I would be chasing that darn slide across the band room floor and bending it up going through swinging doors.

There are a minimum of two slides on a basic trombone. The long one in front moves back and forth to give you the notes. At the other end of the horn, behind your head is the tuning slide which tunes the horn to B-flat. (I never figured out how that whole thing worked.) The long slide in front also has a spit valve which I found could accidentally get caught in the hair of the girl sitting in front of me in the band room, and one time, scored me a nice dangling earring.

Sometimes when you are a big slobberer, the horn fills up with spit to the point that it gurgles — much like when I have slipped in the bathtub and lay face first in the bubble bath. The spit valve has a small cork seal which keeps saliva from leaking out the end of the slide onto the shoulder and top of the head of the said girl who sat in front of me. The quick-thinking lass, named Bette, remedied that little problem by wearing a shower cap to band.

At the back end of the horn on the tuning slide is a counterweight which balances the horn against the weight of the front slide. If it were not there, the front row of trombones in a marching band would either have their slides pointed at their feet or the musician would need to spend far more hours in the gym building muscles in their neck, back, and biceps to hold the horn level. Which brings me to my senior year in high school.

I was the “right guide” in the front row of trombones in the marching band. The person in that position sets the pace for the whole band which is marching behind him. When he or she speeds up or slows down, the whole marching band must do the same.

When a trombonist is not playing their instrument while marching, the horn is held in the right hand with the tuning slide under the armpit between the arm and your right side with the horn horizontal to the ground. When you are ready to play, you pull the horn out from under your arm pit, switching the horn to your left hand bringing the mouthpiece to your lips to play with the horn horizontal to the ground.

Somewhere on Cornwall Avenue in Bellingham, during the Ski to Sea Parade, the thundering Bellingham High School Marching Band was coming down the street. The crowds on both sidewalks were standing and cheering.  I was the “right guide” leading the speed of the band.

The drum major, Barry Buchanan, called for a “roll off”. The drum section roared to life. The trombonists pulled their horns out from under their right arm pits, putting their mouthpieces to their lips. Their horns were sharply horizontal to the ground . . . except for my horn. Upon pulling my horn out from under my armpit, I also pulled the tuning slide and counterweight off the back of my horn, and it fell onto the street.

Now, the right guide cannot just stop, bend over and pick up a tuning slide off the road while you have 150 marchers behind you. That would cause what we call in the business, a big band pileup. So, I brought my horn up and played like there was nothing wrong.

Now, three things happened. First, since the sound wasn’t making it out to the bell, it instead went out the back of the horn sounding like a cow in heat playing a kazoo. Second, my tuning slide was now being stepped on and kicked by 15 rows of marchers. I would occasionally hear it tinkle on the ground as someone kicked it back to the front line again. Thirdly, with all the noise and spit coming out the back of my horn, it was spraying right into the face of the girl behind me who was the same lass who sat in front of me in the band room. What sheer brilliance of her to remember to bring her shower cap.

By the time my tuning slide was handed back to me, it was so badly bent that it did not really fit back into the horn again. I lip-synced the rest of the parade much to the relief of the girl behind me who could not see out of her glasses now anyway.

It’s funny how little embarrassing moments in life teach you important lessons. I learned that by lip synching my trombone in a parade, I didn’t have to learn that pesky Sousa music, and I had more time to chew on the saltwater taffy thrown at me from the crowds on the sidewalk.

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