Descriptive Speech On Disgrace

Then, it comes out of nowhere. The biggest climax, suddenly brought on like a wave crashing against a cliff’s edge. The oboe melody recurs again, this time less sorrowful than inviting. Come back, it sings. And the flute comes skipping over the sound, the sun rising from behind black clouds. But the melody it plays sounds out of place, lower than and not as bright as what it could be. My fingers twitch, following the flute countermelody as if I were up there playing with them—as I should be.

* “when you speak with great educators, and look behind the test scores, the lessons learned in studying music, learning to play an instrument, playing in a band, learning to read music, all provide a richness to a child's education that will last a lifetime,” (par 1).

Underneath the sound of my voice is a song, “Seminole Wind.” If I still myself long enough to stop bringing my own voice and words to life, the song gives me images. The scenery that unfolds in my mind’s eye belongs to the memories of a young girl, who was so confused.

The sun beating down my sunglasses reflecting the harmful rays it offers. My skin sweating any water i've drank in the last 24 hours. The feeling of my tennis shoes hitting toe, ball, heel again and again. The words we’ve all heard a million times were said again “ One more time!”. Exhausted and in desperate need of a break you give all you have into that last time. Then you hear the words for millionth and one time “ One more time, this time for real.”. So once again, giving everything I had, then finally we finally receive a water break. This was my life last summer, this is marching band, and I wouldn’t have done it any other way.

Because we are a team, we are only as strong as our weakest player. Although there are many students who work on music and drill outside of class, unfortunately, that is not the case for everyone. This creates an imbalance of performance-readiness on the field. It starts to become very obvious who knows what they’re doing and who clearly, does not. Everyone needs to pull their own weight and be prepared for competitions whether that be having black socks ready and with them or making sure to go over drill charts the day before. In order to fix this problem, I think it’s important to let students know if they are not performing up to par and how they can improve themselves. In Wind Ensemble, I think calling out sections for not knowing their music really motivated them to try harder and practice more. This will result in a band that is confident in themselves and their performance because of the amount of hard work from each individual

The definition of a tragic hero is perceived as one who is neither wicked nor purely innocent, one who “is brave and noble but guilty of the tragic flaw of assuming that honorable ends justify dishonorable means”. In The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, Brutus takes the role of the tragic hero. Brutus’s honor, nobility, and self-righteousness makes him “a tragic figure, if not the hero” (Catherine C. Dominic).

I walked into the band room after the bell rang, The flutes always went before us so I had half an hour to calm my nerves, I went into the back room to practice. The time came for woodwinds to play, I was a wreck, my palms were sweaty, my heart

The wind tousled my hair around as I closed my eyes and took deep, shaky breaths. The faint sound of the crowd cheering upstage didn't help with my nerves, so, instead, I turned my ears to the delicate waves rolling up the beach. I opened my eyes and gazed out at the lake; now an open canvas for the golden sun which had began setting. Quietly, I plucked each string of my guitar- though I’d already tuned them several times. On the outside, I may have seemed ready, content, and excited; however, on the inside, no matter how tranquilizing the back stage scenery was, I was terrified to the core.

Boschnak’s “Expositions” tears into a puissant rhythm and groove after an intriguing intro featuring the deep tones of the bass clarinet, which, together with bowed bass reinforces the foundation’s density with swaggering stance. Rather intelligible than sprinting, the trumpet solo that follows, momentarily complemented with clarinet punctuations, disembogues in a bridge that leads to a vocalized ostinato interlude, obsessively iterate by the guest

The other band finished their song. The audience clapped, and hooted, and called out embarrassing pet names for their kids. We walked on stage and sat in our designated seats. The stage lights beating down on us were hot and I needed to squint to see. The audience was a collection of tiny dark specks I was looking out at past Brown’s wide yellow clad torso. Zoe had pulled the music stand in front of us into position, flipping through the pages in the folder and finding the song and the solo page. She handed the latter to me. I grabbed it hard, crinkling the side. And Brown began counting the tempo. Brendan stood and went over to the music stand. I would follow after twenty measures. We lifted our instruments into playing position, and I bit down hard into my mouthpiece. Brown was snapping his fingers softly and began to mouth the tempo. I let my foot fall into the rhythm of the

After reaching the outside edges of this musical arena, the true penetration of excitement occurs. An enormous steel plate decorated with a brilliant brass halo hangs on a slim, silver frame circumscribing the magnificent steel plate. A trapezoid of thin aluminum tiles placed in two meticulous rows across a thick ebony base rests gently, waiting for a majestic and seemingly undiscovered musician to compose amazing melodic tunes of grace and peace on its brittle keys. Sturdy skins of beastly predators stretch taut across their compressed wooden shell identical to a native American replication of a warrior’s cry as he marches his tribe into battle. Trailing in the forgotten distance perches a somber tower of drab coffers stacked with immense

I look down in front of me on my onyx stand holding my chalky discolored sheet music, with a bunch of pen drawn in notes and numbers. I count down the measures till I come in. Holding my resplendent, sterling trumpet I slowly bring it up to my lips. The trumpet is freezing cold in my hands. In the back of my head, I’m counting to four over and over. Staring out at the crowd inspecting all the faces makes my stomach ache up, I shiver a little

I felt the sticky, sweet summer air plaster my clothes to my perspiring body, the wood of my violin getting dangerously damp as I cranked out note after note; a mechanical doll spinning slowly around my room as I performed to nobody but myself and the smell of mochi rising from the kitchen.

Though a heavy depression weighed down on all of us, we still had to load up the semi. The work was difficult and tedious, but it was necessary. As we began to slowly push the vibraphone up the teetering ramp, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. The others continued up the steep incline once I halted to turn towards whoever had jabbed me. My day had been disastrous. Everyone seemed to be irritated both before and after the performance, barely anyone had actually aided in loading up the instruments into the truck, and we didn’t make it to semi-state. How could anything make that better? I turned to face three smiling girls, all of which were from a different marching band. They held out a pair of glittery sapphire fairy wings.

My first impression was that I was listening to a rock star. I had a notable physical reaction to the music; I felt a rush of adrenaline and my heart rate increased. The music was fast-paced and intense—undoubtedly physically and mentally demanding on Garrett. I am a pianist myself, and I felt a sense of empathy. I was exhausted on his behalf by simply hearing his talented performance. The music would slow down in some parts, only to pick back up with even more intensity and speed. The music aroused a familiar sense of pressure, such as the pressure to complete a difficult yet important task in a short period of time. The pressure and difficulty build to near unbearable proportions until the work is finally finished, and dissipates into the euphoria of accomplishment. If that scenario had a theme song, it could be Paganini’s “Caprice No. 24”. The music was passionate, chaotic, and ultimately satisfying. I felt that I had witnessed true mastery of the art of the violin in both Paganini’s written work and Garrett’s performance.