For five years, I was the keyboardist in a band. They were some of the best years of my life.
Garage band? Nope. Girl obsessed with EDM? Guess again.
From ages 12 to 17, I was a proud member of the Vauxhall High School band.
My family had settled in the small town of 1,200 in January 2001, following a short stint in Taber upon our arrival in Wild Rose Country the previous September. Soon, I was enrolled in Vauxhall Junior/Senior High School, ready to resume my Grade 7 year.
On my first day, the principal handed me my class schedule. As my eyes surveyed the sheet, the usual subjects made an appearance: math, science, social studies, language arts. As I reached the bottom of the sheet, I noticed something different in big, bold letters: BAND. I looked up at the principal, puzzled.
“Band?” I stammered. “But I don’t know how to play anything.”
A smile crept across his face, and, in an enthusiastic voice, he exclaimed: “That’s OK! We can teach you. And, for the next two years, the course is mandatory.”
By “we”, he was of course referring to the school’s veteran band director, Bob Dick. By the time I arrived on the scene as a scrawny 12-year-old, Bob had been teaching kids like me to make music for the past 30 years. I didn’t know it then, but I later learned that, in the 80s, the man had transformed this small town band into a world stage attraction, taking 40-some prairie kids across the Atlantic to play in an international music festival in England.
So, it was clear the guy had chops. But whether he could work his magic on me remained to be seen. My attempts to master the recorder in Grade 4 had been disastrous, so naturally, I was skeptical.
Later that day, I met Bob (it feels so weird to use his first name; for five years, he was just ‘Mr. Dick’.) Anyway, I met him in his very own band room, tucked away in the back half of the school, next to the computer lab. The room looked well-worn: florescent lighting brightened the room’s ancient grey carpet; a green chalk board seemed to have permanent brush marks thanks to years of erasing and re-chalking; simple rows of chairs and music stands filled the majority of the room, save for the giant percussion set at the very back. But perhaps what distinguished the space most was the white stucco sound proofing covering the walls; thousands of tiny white balls protruded outward, shielding the rest of the school from any painful sounds our novice ways might produce. It was literally like being surrounded by foam.
The aid from my previous school was assisting me to transition to my new one, and we were using the room to complete my regimented daily physio routine. As I completed hamstring stretches on a floor mat, Bob strolled into the room and casually introduced himself. After the usual token pleasantries, he cut to the chase.
“So, what instrument do you want to play?”
I meekly replied that I wasn’t sure, to which he responded with the options: flute, clarinet, trumpet, trombone, saxophone, and percussion. None of the instruments involving valves or intricate fingering interested me; the lack of dexterity in my ring and pinky fingers made it difficult to play well, as I learned with the recorder (at the end of my Grade 4 year, the only sound I managed to master was the ability to produce a clear “B” note). Hardly a success in my books.
So, that only left percussion, which I seriously considered, until something caught my eye in the room’s back corner: a Cassio keyboard.
I piped up: “How about the keyboard?” Bob’s head turned, following the direction of my pointed finger. He was silent for a moment before responding with a simple “OK.”
My dad had scored a keyboard from someone in the early 90s, and when I was four, I spent hours pounding on the keys. When I was 10, I went to a kids’ camp; one of the communal chalets housed a grand piano, and when a counselor heard me playing with the keys, she encouraged me to pursue formal lessons. I never did, but now, at 12, I saw a unique opportunity and figured: why not?
When I arrived to my first class, kids were already seated with their instruments and music stands; although I was new, the other kids in my class were already three months into their musical tutelage; I was behind, starting a new instrument from scratch. It was clear I was going to have to work to catch up.
Before class began, Bob tapped me on the shoulder and said, “This is Wes. He’s going to help you learn how to play.”
Wes was my age, with glasses and dark hair. It turned out that Wes had been playing the piano since he was four and had a ridiculous amount of talent. Bob probably figured that given my late arrival in the year, it was best for me to receive one-on-one instruction while he focused on the rest of the class. (I found out years later that Wes was told by the powers that be that if he taught me the keyboard, he would earn high school credits for his labours; being a high achiever, he happily took the deal).
So, my journey into official band geekdom began. As Bob told the other students to take out their sheet music and take it from the top, Wes started to tutor me. First, he taught me about the physical keys and what notes they represented: the white keys range from A to G, with the first key on any piano or keyboard being a C. The black keys represented variants of those notes, called flats or sharps (A flat, B sharp and so on).
After about a week or so, it was time for me to learn to read sheet music (which, admittedly, I found grossly more challenging). Regardless, I listened to Wes talk about whole notes, half notes, quarter notes and staccatos, and how each note had its own specific length and style of play. I think what I found difficult to master was not how to play the notes, it was how to read them based on where they sat on the staff (the fancy lines notes sit on when you look at a piece of sheet music). They all looked the same. So, when it came time to learn to play my first song (a now outdated number called “Shortnin’ Bread”), I watched Wes’ fingers on the keys and tried to imitate his movements. Based on this method of learning, it didn’t take me long to master the track.
But, when Wes realized that I was learning strictly by memory, he cautioned me: “The songs we play will get more and more complicated, making them impossible to memorize. YOU NEED to learn to read music.”
I knew he was right. So, one Saturday, I locked myself in my bedroom, sat down in front of my dad’s old keyboard with my sheet music, and began trying to understand. I was given a few learning techniques, which I applied. After a few hours of trial and error, a switch suddenly flipped in my brain and I began to understand what I was seeing. All of a sudden, I could read and play music. I was so proud.
On Monday, I burst into the band room and told Wes. He shared my enthusiasm, and as a reward, agreed to buy me a slurpee. Little did he know that this was only the first of hundreds of slurpees he would buy me over the next five years (I MAY have developed a slight addiction).
As my musical confidence grew and I learned to play comfortably, I joined the rest of the band, and my relationship with Wes moved from tutor to friend. He sat next to me playing his trumpet or trombone while I jammed on the keyboard. Over the years, our band played everything from traditional marches and 60s songs by Simon and Garfunkel to the music found in movies such as Shrek and Aladdin. Bob always found the coolest stuff to teach!
Soon, band became my favourite class if you could even call it that. I enjoyed playing music so much that it didn’t even feel like work. I couldn’t believe that every day, I got to spend 40 minutes jamming and letting my cares disappear with the music. I was determined to be in band as long as it was offered.
By the end of Grade 7, we were ready for our first concert in front of the school. I was extremely nervous about messing things up and making mistakes, when Wes gave me a piece of sage advice:
“No one is even going to notice your mistakes because no one watching can play the keyboard.”
It was such a simple statement, but it was effective. It essentially quashed all my jitters and gave me the confidence to play my heart out in front of ANY crowd over the next five years.
I knew I wasn’t the best. Due to my aforementioned lack of dexterity, I wasn’t a five-finger keyboard player; I was a three-finger player on both hands. Luckily, my musical contributions were considered part of the band’s bass line, which played accompaniment, not full melodies. So, my adaptive style of playing was perfectly suited to the part. Even when it wasn’t, Bob didn’t care. All that mattered to him was that his students try their best. If you did, you got a good mark. If you didn’t and acted like a lippy jerk with a bad attitude, you got a bad mark. Simple as that.
It always floored me that some kids would just refuse to try. I get that band isn’t everyone’s “thing”, but sometimes I just wanted to get in their face and scream: “YOU GET TO PLAY THE DRUMS FOR GOD’S SAKE! THAT’S AWESOME! WOULD YOU RATHER BE SITTING IN A CLASSROOM DOING MATH PROBLEMS?” (In Grade 9, I was forced to miss band for three months straight due to my inability to understand algebra. I was told I would not be able to return to class until I had grasped the concept. They were the hardest and most sadistic months of my young life; when I finally made my triumphant return to keyboard glory, it was like winning the lottery. So, I had no time for mouthy guys who were “too cool”).
But, being the quiet girl that I was, I always kept it zipped and let Bob tell them to participate or get out. Nine times out of 10, the ones who didn’t want to be there got out, and the band was better for it.
What you were left with was a group of people who loved to be there as much as I did, and some of us soon became close friends. That said, we WERE teenagers, not above pulling shenanigans of our own.
In Grade 8, we were learning a light-hearted, silly piece; the person with the bass accompaniment part (me), was supposed to yell “STRAW” when there was a break in the song (yes, these instructions WERE actually written on the sheet music). Well, we’d been playing it for three months, and nobody in the class ever asked, or expected, me to yell that, so Bob just looked past it.
One day, Wes came to me with a challenge: “If you yell “STRAW!” I will give you this loonie and this pack of Dentyne. Well, who was I to refuse? I was no coward! So I told him game on! When Bob gave the cue to begin the song with the stroke of his baton, I steeled myself. Wes sat on a stool next to me, trumpet in hand.
We began the song as usual, and, when we got to the break, I yelled as loud as I possibly could. The music stopped immediately, and everyone in the room erupted with laughter, including me. For someone who is usually reserved in group situations, I had surprised myself with how confidently I put myself out there. I think it just spoke to how comfortable I was in that environment. That room was my safe place.
After class was over, I turned to Wes with my palm out and said “Pay up.” To which he replied as he reached into his pocket: “OK, here you go, but joke’s on you because the gum is actually expired.” To which I retorted: “Gum is in airtight packaging… nice try!” Whether that was true I had no idea, but I was taking what was mine, expired or not.
In Grade 10, my friend and I were coming down the senior hallway when another friend came toward me and began tickling me. Naturally, I jerked away as fits of laughter erupted from me. The next thing I know, I’m on the floor in the hallway, having fallen out of my wheelchair. (I was going through a phase at 15 when I decided that wearing a seatbelt “wasn’t cool”). Well, that day, I learned that doing a face plant in front of hot Grade 12 seniors wasn’t cool either. It was completely mortifying.
As a teacher’s assistant spots what’s happening, she runs over and hastily assists me back into my chair. I don’t believe I’m seriously hurt, so I quickly try to ease people’s concerns with “I’m OK.” However, I soon realized that in all the excitement, I had bloodied my nose. So, I ran (rolled, whatever) to the bathroom, and cleaned myself up. The teacher who had assisted me insisted I put a band aid over the bridge of my nose, as it seemed tender. I did this reluctantly, fully aware that my score on the dork-meter had just skyrocketed.
But, it was time to go back to class. And what class did I have right after lunch on Monday, Wednesday and Friday? Band. Ironically, so did my two friends involved in my little tumble. So, we went to class, with them on either side of me, apologizing profusely. I waved it off as “no big deal” and “hilarious” (which it totally was). But, the truly hilarious thing about the whole incident? The three of us were all members of the school’s newly launched “Safe And Caring Committee” to make the school a safer place. Clearly, we were terrible role models. But, in that moment, we strolled through the band room’s double doors, confident as fuck and ready to play on.
Aside from yearly school concerts, our band also had several opportunities to take the show on the road. Bob was getting older and could no longer make the trek to England; however, that didn’t rule out trips by bus to Calgary and B.C., which he did with students at least every second year.
I’ll never forget my first trip to Calgary with the gang. It was June 2001; the school had rented a Carefree Express bus for the journey, and it was packed to the gills! All of the instruments, including my keyboard, were stored under the bus in various cargo holds. Students excited chatter and laughter filled the bus; I took one of the front seats and tried to absorb it all. It was a beautiful day. I couldn’t believe I was going to part of this concert in the big city, even though it was just at the retirement home which housed Bob’s mother. Adrenaline pulsed through me. Soon, the engine roared awake and we were on our way.
After about a half an hour, one of the Grade 12 students made their way to the front of the bus and asked Bob if they could put on a movie, which she handed to him.
He quickly responded: “Kyoot Ugly?” Then he turned to the driver and said incredulously, “Can you believe this movie’s called Kyoot Ugly?”
He was of course referring to Coyote Ugly, a movie that had come out the previous year and was all the rage. But, thanks to Bob’s well ingrained southern Alberta pronunciation, the whole bus soon roared with laughter. Bob made some joke about tanning all of our hides and popped the movie in.
We arrived at the retirement home and played our set without a hitch. The seniors nodded and smiled appreciatively, thanking us for our time. Next, we were off to the Calgary Zoo, and after a few hours, we began the journey home.
We nearly made it to Bassano when the bus suddenly stalled. The extreme heat that day had done a number on the engine, and there was no other choice but to call for assistance and wait. Naturally, the air conditioning quit working and everyone made the choice to exit the bus and wait outside. Bob thought “why not make the best of a bad situation?” So, he asked the group to gather on the grass in front of the bus and snapped a photo. It was particularly windy that evening, and as you can tell from the photo below, I could barely stay upright. But, every time I’ve come across the photo over the years, I remember that day with fondness. Help arrived soon after, and we all made it home in one piece. It’s those types of situations that really make lasting memories.
On another trip to Calgary in Grade 11, after our concert, we were taken to a mall and given time to look around. My friends and I spotted a Speakers Corner booth and began playing to the camera. My friend and I had recently tried to make “wheelchair dancing” a thing, so we showed off our best moves. Whether that actually aired, I never knew. But you know how the saying goes: “When in cattle country….”
That day, I also bought Kelly Clarkson’s smash 2004 album Breakaway. I thought the album was amazing, jamming with my headphones on all the way home. Every time I hear that album now, I’m right back on that bus.
There were times when we would take our act on the road and hauling around a massive keyboard just wasn’t feasible. Like the time we played in Vauxhall’s Canada Day parade in 2005; because the band would need to be walking and playing, it was decided that someone would push me in my wheelchair and that I would play a cymbal that Bob had duct taped to the side of the chair that morning. As we got in formation and were just about ready to march, Bob gave me a few quick lessons on the beat and keeping time. This was pretty cool, I thought. With that, we were off, like a real marching band. I proudly made my way through town with my peers, watching people wave, and smile as I went by. My introduction to the cymbal had been a success.
A few months later, Bob informed us that we would receive the opportunity to play in another parade, this time in Taber. The day came, and I was jacked to be able to take our music to the streets again. When we arrived and began unpacking gear, Wes piped up and said: “I think we forgot the cymbal for Christina. It’s not here.”
No cymbal? No problem. Wes was going to be pushing me with one hand while playing his trumpet with the other (something only HE could pull off), and he insisted that because his trumpet was brass, if I hit it with my drumstick, it would make a similar sound. As a teenager, I had too much bravado and attitude to be embarrassed by how it might look, so I said sure. I figured it was better than sitting there looking like some helpless girl simply being pushed.
So, we got in formation again and began marching. As Wes played, I tapped his trumpet to the beat with vigor. By the time we were finished, we were both laughing hysterically. He claimed afterward that I had put dents in his trumpet, to which I simply shrugged my shoulders and began laughing hysterically all over again.
While band brought me nothing but pure joy most of the time, I did have to endure two major disappointments: during my five years with the band, the group went to Vancouver and Victoria twice: once when I was in Grade 8, and once when I was in Grade 12. Sadly, I went on neither of these trips due to circumstances beyond my control. At the time, it angered me and broke my heart.
But, all these years later, those heartbreaks are not what resonates. What resonates are the countless wonderful and irreplaceable memories I was given; the sense of belonging and inclusion; the relationships formed.
Thanks to meeting in that little band room, Wes and I have been in each other’s lives for the past 19 years, making him my oldest friend. Even though he has given up his multi-instrumental ways for a life in Canada’s North, and I have shelved my keyboard for more adult ambitions, the experiences we shared in that ancient, foamy band room planted the seeds for something permanent and meaningful. For that, I am incredibly grateful.
After I graduated in 2006, Bob would teach for three more years before retiring. In 2018, I received word that Bob had passed away. Shocked and saddened, I was determined to honour my former teacher the best way I knew how: to write about him (following high school, I became a journalist).
So, I called the editor of the Vauxhall Advance, explained I was Bob’s former student, and asked if I could write an article on his immense impact. He immediately agreed. Excitedly, I put a call on social media, hoping to share the memories of as many of his former students as possible. I was unprepared for the explosive response I received.
Within a few hours, dozens of former students were messaging me with their own tales and memories of their wonderful days with Bob during the 70s, 80s, 90s, and 00s. I quickly realized that Bob had been making band a safe place for decades, and hundreds of students experienced the same joy that I had.
I shared countless voices echoing how much Bob loved music, how deeply he cared for his students, and how much fun it was to play in that band room. It was an absolute privilege to write that story, knowing the impact he made on me as well. You can read that story here.
However, not included in the story were my own experiences; as a journalist, I have a strong belief in objectivity, and I hate those journalism pieces where the writer inserts themselves into the action. It just seems tactical and forced. So, I let others do the talking, knowing their memories were also at the heart of my own.
But, since this blog is dedicated to showcasing music’s impact on my life, I would be remiss not to share just how much being a Vauxhall band babe meant to me. They are some of my most cherished memories.
It’s been a true joy to venture down that road again. I hope you enjoyed the journey as much as I.
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