A Taste of Candor

Chapter 3

With a shrug, I set my case down and opened it to reveal my tenor. The handsome horn had its scratches, especially on the tubing leading up to the bell, and even a minor dent, but it'd served me well for all the years I'd had it. My family had never been well to do, but they'd saved to get me not just any saxophone, but the best they could find. That was just the sort of folks they were—didn't have much to give, but when they did, they gave the best.

I carefully put the horn together, placed a reed on the mouthpiece, and clamped it down. Though the others paid me no mind, I couldn't help but notice the alto saxophonist stared intently my way, no doubt waiting to hear what sort of tone came out the bell of my horn. I closed my eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and blew.

Nothing but a brief quack came out. I sighed and readjusted the reed before trying again. This time, I got the tone I wanted, a pretty full low D to which I added vibrato for color. A brief glance in the alto player's direction, and I saw a surprised smirk on his lips.

After that, I just played some slow warmup phrases with long tones and melodic sequences. I could've sworn the guitarist shifted his tune to accompany me, but he strummed too quietly for me to be sure.

Finally, a door opened in the back of the waiting room, and a fuming clarinetist stomped out. Behind him was a robust man with a thick beard and graying hair. I knew I was only assuming, but he sure looked like a bass player. He eyed one of the trumpeters and beckoned him forward.

"I see you're back again, Benjamin." he said in a deep voice fitting his size.

"I'm never gonna give up." the trumpeter said with conviction. "I want in."

The big man sighed deeply while smoothing his beard with his hand. "Let's see what you've learned in three weeks."

With that, the two of them disappeared into the back room, and I shortly heard shrill, sour tones peaking at high notes only the most skilled trumpeters could play and make them sound good. Even when he played lower, his fingering sounded faulty. Sure, he could articulate fast and get the general outline of a phrase, but he played many notes out of order. I'd be a hypocrite to critique someone's technique, given my own struggles, but at least I wasn't trying to show off goods I didn't have.

It wasn't all that long before the door opened, and the trumpeter exited with his head held high. He looked back at the big man with a confident smile. "I'll be back, you know. I want in."

"I know you will be. Keep practicing, young man." He glanced over the rest of us sitting around before singling me out and beckoning me over.

My heart raced as I rose up and headed toward the back room. It took conscious effort to keep my breaths deep and relaxed as they'd need to be for a good tenor sound. When the door clicked shut behind us, I prepared myself for whatever was ahead.

"Alright, young man, what's your name?" the bearded man asked.

"Declan, sir. Declan Otto."

"From Candor?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"What brings you here, then?'

I stammered for a moment, not expecting the audition to involve more than simply my playing. "Job opportunities, I guess. Nobody has extra money back home to be able to pay for concerts."

"Well, that's understandable. Let me hear a low C."

I readily obliged, setting my fingers in place and blowing the note with as full a sound as I could muster. But he immediately put up a hand to halt me and shook his head.