BAND DAD BEATS BAND DIRECTOR – EVERY TIME!
I am sending this to all of you - cause it's THAT time of year and we could all use a little love.
It's "Bandtober," and I am a band dad which means that for the past three weekends, I've been in the bleachers watching high school marching bands compete. I've seen truly extraordinary performances, remarkable teaching, and the kind of musical and visual excellence that even with my experience and training, still astounds me.
There I sit every Saturday, watching every band, taking it all in. I try to see and hear the subtle nuances that my training and experience afford to me. Things that most parents would miss. I look for the obstacles they have overcome, the gaps in achievement they are trying to close, and most importantly, the remarkable effort these young people are putting in. Now, more than ever, as a band dad and director, I appreciate the ever-evolving nature of this incredible activity.
What I don't care about are the results (scores). And for someone like me, that's a pretty big deal because I am as competitive as it gets. as a teacher the scores were never the "why", but they were the "what." It's not a music thing, I can turn eating dinner into a competition - and I WANT TO WIN!
But this past weekend, after the bands were through, I left the stands with a smile on my face, before the awards were even announced.
I've spent much of my adult life traveling the country, standing in front of bands, working with directors, and talking about what makes music programs great. I am fortunate enough to spend my life doing something I genuinely love.
I know what excellence looks and sounds like (even if some judges don't). I can recognize a dirty release from three football fields away, and have an almost supernatural ability to clean drill. It's a gift, really—a completely useless gift, but a gift nonetheless. I can see, assess, score, and rank bands as good as anyone in the judges box.
I just don't care.
Now, don't misunderstand me. I like winning. Always have. And I don't apologize for believing that excellence matters. I want the band to be good. Really good. I want for the judges to recognize it, the audience to appreciate it, and the students to experience it. However, these past three Saturdays, I've been watching something far more important. I've been watching my son.
But not just on the field.
I've watched him load the truck for competition alongside his friends, knowing what it took to get there. Five months of sweat-drenched rehearsals, late nights and early mornings. Days filled with sore muscles, and countless hours standing and moving in the Arizona heat. All in pursuit of doing something incredibly difficult with people who, somewhere along the way, became much more than classmates. I've watched these kids work, struggle, laugh, grow, all at the behest of Miles Denny and Alex DeFrances (his directors), who somehow convinced 125 teenagers that marching around a football field in Arizona's August heat was a good idea.
He convinced my son Evan, who I can't get my kid to pick up his clothes off the floor or empty the dishwasher to carry bass drum 6, without complaint, while giving it his all.
How could I possibly be anything but proud? How can I put a number to that? How could I ever rank anyone higher than my son?
Of course, the band director in me still shows up. I watch every step, listen to every note, evaluate every transition, and wonder about the design process. I notice the sharps, the flats, and the time tear that ALMOST happened. I mentally clean drill, adjust balance, and occasionally wonder whether, twenty-two years removed, I could create a similar product (hint: if I were being honest, probably not), at least not without a lot of re-learning.
When my son's band performs, the director melts away, and the dad comes out. I turn off my ears and put on my band dad goggles.
These goggles allow me to bypass the drill, ignore the errors, and focus on watching my kid and his friends do something really cool - making music, creating memories, and experiencing something he'll carry with him long after he leaves the band hall.
He worked hard for five months to earn those nine minutes, and I was lucky enough to be there to watch. For someone who has spent a lifetime watching marching bands, it was remarkable how little I cared about the actual performance, much less what seven judges thought of it.
That is the luxury I have as a band dad that I didn't as a band director.
This past Saturday, before the group took the field, I found my son's director and told him something I wanted him to hear. "The band is really great because you are really great."
I meant every word - but he just shrugged it off. He is nothing if not humble.
I wasn't talking about the drill, the music, or the scores. I was talking about the culture he's created, the expectations he's established, and the young people standing in front of us. I know how hard his job is. I've done his job. I've spent years helping other people do his job. But on that particular Saturday, I wasn't there as a music educator evaluating another music educator. I was a dad thanking someone for what he had given my son. I wish every director could hear that from a parent before their band takes the field.
Because here's something I didn't fully understand until I had a son in band. The pressure directors feel is not necessarily the pressure parents feel. As a director, you see the missed releases. Parents see the kid who practiced for hours to learn the music. You notice the small time tear. We notice the confidence of a child who once struggled to find their place. You hear the intonation problems, the balance issues, and the phrase that never quite reached its musical destination.
We hear the silence in our house, because our children are at school, filling their time, making music and memories with their friends. You worry about the score. We marvel at the growth. You replay the mistakes. We replay the memories.
While, as the director, you're standing on the sideline wondering whether the performance was good enough (hint: it was), we parents are sitting in the stands wondering how you got so good so quick!
Now, I know some parents care deeply about scores, rankings, and trophies. I understand that. I do. But I would trade a championship trophy in a heartbeat for the knowledge that my son is happy, challenged, included, and becoming a better person.
The trophy will collect dust. The score will be forgotten. But the friendships, the confidence, the sense of belonging, and the knowledge that they accomplished something difficult together? Those last a lifetime.
Please don't misunderstand. I'm not suggesting that achievement doesn't matter, because it does. It's a huge part of what makes the experience meaningful. Keep demanding excellence. Keep pushing students beyond what they believe they can do. Keep teaching them that details matter, preparation matters, and doing something well is worth the effort. My son needs that in his life. And you can give that to him in ways and places that I, as his father, can't.
But it's the process I will remember, not the product. It's the growth that's important to me, not the number.
The standards you, as a director, hold yourself to are far higher than those of the people watching from the stands—even this guy. You're measuring the distance between the performance you imagined and the one that actually happened. We're measuring the distance between the child who started the season and the one standing on the field today. Those are two very different rubrics.
I also know the extraordinary weight directors carry. The pressure to be better than last year. To meet expectations. To justify the hours, the sacrifices, and the resources. I can not remove that burden from your shoulders, but I do not want to add to it either.
You spend months preparing students for nine minutes, and then seven people in a press box spend fifteen minutes telling you what you could have done better. It's a peculiar profession. And after the contest, while parents hug their kids and take pictures, you're already thinking about what needs to improve before the next performance. I know because I've been that director. I've walked away from performances thinking about everything that went wrong while everyone around me celebrated everything that went right.
Here's what I wish I understood when I was standing on the podium.
When you're feeling pressure, we parents are feeling gratitude.
Gratitude that you care. Gratitude that you challenge our children. Gratitude that you've created a place where they belong, where they're needed, and where they can accomplish things they never imagined possible. And while you're already thinking about next season, we're wishing this one didn't have to end.
Let me end with this...
I am proud to be a music educator. I wear my 34 years in this profession with pride. I stand next to corporte CEO's and C-suite execs, confident that my impact in this world dwarfs theirs. But the title of what I used to be; band director doesn't compare to the title I have now.
Band dad.
Trust me, band dad beats band director. Every. Single. Time
But I couldn't be who I am, unless you are who you are. So thank you.
Have a great week(end everyone, and go easy on yourself).
Scott