As has been well documented by, well, me, I played in an Old Tyme Band (yes, the “y” is necessary, but no one knows why) in high school. The leader of the band, a 60-something-year-old man by the name of Aloysius, could play anything – anything – on the accordion and would gleefully shout the chord changes to us over his shoulder in a German accent.
Sure I know “Autumn Leaves”! Just shout the chord changes to me, Al!
There was an array of players, and the band could go from four to a dozen easily, dependent on how much the ballroom was willing to pay. We were a goofy lot. Sax, trumpet, and tuba players from the U of M drifted in and out, bringing coolers of beer and weed with them. We even had Eddie Berger, a jazz great in Minneapolis, join us for a bit, shortly after rehab.
In the summers, it was not unusual for us to play in parades. Dressed in black pants, white shirts, we played our little two-stepping hearts out, smiling and sweating past sidewalks lined with small-town America, babies on their fathers’ shoulders, children dashing into the streets and between the floats, snatching the wrapped candies thrown by the Shriners.
Can you see it? A polka band – accordion, clarinet, trumpet, and drums – in a parade.
On a float.
Behind the goats.
Nervous, pooping goats.
At least they weren’t elephants.
At some point, I believe I began to joke – as is my wont – about being stuck behind the business end of a herd of farm animals and continually having our float pulled through mounds of pellet-shaped goat droppings.
Aloysius beamed a sweaty, Teutonic smile at me from behind his accordion. “Ach,” he sputtered, “Das ist gut for you! Tink of dem as smart pills!”
Smart pills.
Even today, that makes me smile.
That load of crap in front of you? Looked at in the right light, it’s only going to make you smarter.