Once again, a day has come that bandsfolk in the United States do well to commemorate. A bit of a pun, March Fourth associates in some communities and in some times with John Philip Sousa, the March King, long-time conductor of the US Marine Corps Band and composer most notably–though hardly exclusively–of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” The eponym of a prominent bandhall, of a bridge, of a marching instrument in wide use, and of what is often considered the highest award that can be given to a high-school bandsperson, Sousa continues to exert influence on the musical culture of the United States and on the broader culture enfolding the same.

It is a small thing, to be sure. I do not have the numbers ready to hand, but I’d wager that current and former bandsfolk are in the minority here. (My experience is skewed by having been a bandsman from a family of bandsfolk and by passing that tradition forward; Ms. 8 is a tubist and an award-winning one already.) Bandsfolk are not prominently represented in popular culture; bands are present, sure, but they rarely appear as central groups, their members as central characters. (There are exceptions, I know; Mr. Holland’s Opus and Drumline come to mind, dating me, and The Music Man also suggests itself. But two movies and a musical out of thousands of each…) They are part of the background of the world, as music itself often is, and this does lead to some tendency towards disdain for them. (Again, there are exceptions. I am aware of this. I am also aware of what the word “tendency” means.)

As often, though, I might refer to things many others have stated more eloquently than I: remove music, even as background, from the world, and it is far less good a place. For there to be music, there must be musicians–even in an era prone to AI slop and “good enough.” And for musicians to be, there must be the structures that allow them to be; there must be those who study and teach the making of music, and there must be time and space for the development of the skills and muscle memory–because the performance of music is a thing of muscles–that allow enough proficiency that the notes can be known and hit, again and again.

On this day, as much else goes on in the world, no little of it worth mourning, it might be well to reflect on such things and to work towards an existence that does more to promote them than to offer yet more over which to sorrow. Those who are grieving have their right to do so; I do not say that they should not. But those who are not grieving might find good use for their thoughts in such things. And perhaps both might well be done, there being elegies and requia and dirges aplenty.

There are worse things for which to wind a horn.

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Today is, of course, the anniversary of the declaration at Washington-on-the-Brazos of the independence of the Republic of Texas from Mexico. It is something I acknowledge, of course, and not only because it is good for me as a professional to do so as a signification of my participation in the broader community of this state (despite not being a native, which disqualifies me from being a “True” Texan). Despite the many negative stereotypes about the state and its people–and there are reasons the stereotypes exist–I do continue to claim my Texanness, to assert that I am and belong here.

And why should I not? I have lived more years than not in the Hill Country; it’s where I grew up, it’s where my family is, it’s where my name is on the walls and where it remains spoken. It is where I have worked these many years, and it is where the work I do conduces to the health of the broader community, including children, the indigent, business leaders, and visitors in and out of season. It is where I have put down roots once again and from where I picked them up a time or two. And while there are problems to be found in it, as there are in all places, there is also much good, and if it is to our discredit that the bad is often elided or ignored, it would very much be to our discredit were we to set aside the good that is (and for nerd communities, no less; Texas has given rise to no few artists in several genres on whose work much hangs).

At its best, Texas–like many other places, to be sure–is a promise and an endorsement. Nobody is always at their best; I certainly am not, and I do not think it would befit for me to expect the state of which I am a part to be such if none of us who live here can claim to be so. But, damn it, I and others try, and even trying, we can do a damned lot of good.

(Just so you know, I’m not abandoning the Robin Hobb reread; it’ll resume next week. Too, yes, I know this posted later than usual. It was busy. But I didn’t forget.)

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