Research Paper On Trumpet Call

Cold frost and the sound of trumpets permeated my warm sleeping bag. "Everyone up!" my counselor shouted, his shrill voice piercing my tired eardrums. My breath turned to frost as I exited the cot with a creak. As soon as my bare skin touched the open air of the cabin the cold seeped into my bones. I put on extra layers and rushed to the door where my cabin mates and I put our shoes on. We clumped near the doorway and waited for the last trumpet call. Every few moments, I fell back asleep, only to be awoken once more by my eccentric counselor. Even after three weeks, I never got used to the jarring morning routine at Interlochen Arts Camp. The last trumpet call played across the camp and we squeezed through the doorway. Pajama legs fluttered

At the bottom of a stairwell, a long hallway stretched out before me, filled with lesson rooms. I walked along the doorways until I saw the room I was looking for. "Zach Shemon, Saxophone Instructor," read the sign. Zach Shemon teaches at UMKC in Kansas City, and he also plays with the world renowned PRISM Quartet. Zach and I met at Interlochen last year, and I have studied with him privately ever since. I knocked and he motioned for me to enter. His quiet demeanor has always intimidated me, and I have always felt small when standing next to him. We worked on the Glazunov concerto for the first half of our lesson. Like always, his lesson reminded me how much more I need to practice. He waved his hands, and stopped me in the middle of a phrase, which was quite unusual.
“Take a seat, ” he motioned with his hands.
"As you know, at the end of these seven weeks you should know whether saxophone performance is a career possibility. Either you go home and realize you are serious about saxophone, or you say "I enjoy playing, but I don't want to do this my entire life"."
"Ya that makes sense," I replied, "I think it’s a very real possibility I may try and double major.”
He responded quickly, "You have to be careful though. because if you choose to double major, it creates a lot of stress. You have

It was an open performance hall, and I could see the glistening waters of the lake from the windows behind my seat. Rows and rows of empty seats stretched to the very back of the immense auditorium, where a few curious spectators were listening. I only had a couple seconds to savor this exquisite moment before Mr. Davis jumped onto the stage shouting, “Movement nine to the end! GO!” The entirety of his seven foot body rushed upon the group like a tsunami. He towered over us and raised his baton like a lumberjack would an axe. He caught several students off guard who were talking to their friends. They quickly rushed to their places, toppling music stands and knocking over chairs in a frantic attempt to play on Mr. Davis’ downbeat. Movement nine and ten of Pictures at an Exhibition created the dramatic climax of Ravel’s thirty minute masterwork. Mr. Davis liked starting his rehearsals with loud and exciting music such as this, because it got his students energized and engaged. We continued playing, until Mr. Davis yelled over the wind symphony. “LOUDER! MORE! COME ON!” You could feel the band under his control, swelling and releasing under the strokes of his baton. It was one of the most existential moments of my entire life. The entire band felt connected by some invisible force, one that allowed us to push and pull in unison. We finished the tenth movement with a resounding bang and I felt all of