The Leader of the Band

The world I live in got a little quieter today. My band director from college passed away quietly last night surrounded by his family. On Facebook we all wrote our memories for the last few days of the man who changed all of our lives. A teacher by profession, he taught us so much more than music or rhythm or even style of what near perfection looked like, he taught character, strength, perseverance, and unity. He wasn't a guy, he was the guy. Most everyone who got the opportunity to be directed by Mr. Socciarelli had already worked under several directors. We knew what it was like to play under people who used their arms, hands and batons to lead us into the depths of a musical piece, but Mr. S. was different and we instantly felt it the minute he climbed the ladder to direct the band. He was the band director at Ohio University when I was privileged enough to meet him. He had established his bands as the best any university in Ohio had to offer. I was in the Marching 110, a disciplined group of musicians who were expected without apology to do the impossible in the middle of a football field. We didn't play ordinary, worn out marching band tunes, Mr. S. had our music custom arranged to be musically outstanding at every show. With the precision of surgeon, the tenacity of a drill sergeant, and the influence of a mob boss, Mr. S. pulled the music and marching from us until for him it was right, which meant for every one of us, it was flawless. It's hard to describe the influence he had on his students. We were dog loyal to him, even now, people tell the stories of how he changed them, how he had been able to reach them in a way no one had before. He was funny, really funny, his mannerisms, his ability to say the perfect thing at the exact perfect moment. He had a temper, a fiery Italian temper that had him taking out his frustration on his poor megaphone, whether he was throwing it half way down the field or kicking it down 100 yards, making the field goal kicker envious. On the ladder when he moved his hand even if it could barely be seen, the entire band of over 100 people yielded to it's will. When Mr. S. spoke, we listened as if he were Ghandi, because for us, he was. He was the leader of the band. Michael and I met at band. I credit Mr. S. for bringing us together. Mr. S. knew nothing of us as a couple, but if not for him, we would not have been in the OU 110. Mr. S. created a life long legacy of loyalty and unity in that band. The greatest lesson I received from him was a silly story about recording the band album. The marching season was over, everyone was tired and recording the album was the last thing to do before the season was officially closed. We stood for hours playing and replaying all the charts we had learned for that season. The last song to be played for us as a group was the Alma Mater. I knew the music to that Alma Mater in my sleep, because it was the same tune I had played in high school. We had played it every game, ended all our events with it and we had to play it one more time to put the album to bed. We played a sloppy, sluggish version and wanted to be done. Mr. S. stopped us several times and restarted frustrated at the poor version we were producing. Exasperated, Mr. S. told us to put down our horns. "Sing it!" he commanded. I was rather stunned, looking at the older players for some sort of sign what we were supposed to do. Socc looked at all of us and once again commanded in his booming voice, "You are going to sing this!" The room went dead silent and we got ready to sing our parts. In all of the years and directors I had known I had never been asked to sing my trumpet part. As he lifted his baton into the air their was an audible inhalation as everyone got ready to open their mouths and sing. Mr. S. marching band sang the Alma Mater, bringing with them a melodic beauty to the notes we had just previously butchered. It was magnificent, listening as the different voices of what would have been instruments swirled around the room. Once finished, he looked at us and simply said, "Now play it like that." And we did. Mr. S. looking satisfied ended the day and the season was over. To this day when I can't get a song or phrase right, I sing my part. I have been pretty lucky having known certain people, having worked with those who thought seeking perfection was the only way to live, and Mr. S. was one of those people who taught me to ask for what I wanted and work to get it. The Homecomings when Mr. S. would show up hundreds of alumni would travel hours to get there hoping for the opportunity to play for him one more time. I was always so surprised at the sheer magnitude of his force, the extent of his reach into the lives of those who played for him. Long before the internet, or iphones, or ipads, or apps, there was a stream of communication between bandies at the very idea of Mr. S. being in our presence. Somehow we all knew, or found out, and we all came. Every director since Mr. S. has had the daunting task of living up to his legacy. I pity them, because Socc was a phenomenon not to be repeated again. The very depth and breadth of his work, his teachings will last long after we are all gone. The world is indeed a little quieter today, as hundreds and hundreds of band alumni mourn the loss of our leader. What remains at the end of the day is the strength of the group, the unified whole of people from every corner coming together once again just for him.