"Mr. Wagner has beautiful moments but bad quarters of an hour." ~ Gioacchino Rossini (1792-1868)

Segments of modern drum corps are like taking a sleeping pill and a laxative at the same show. I like music in my face, titillating, zinging off the bell rim, and straightening my hair follicles while permanently curling the snare strands. Serve my music on a Manhasset silver tray in vibrant color, not sepia. Gape my pie hole.

It's alfresco, not squished into a chamber...At times, it is a chamber, a torture chamber.

Cut the cackle! I'm not just some high-note soprano who likes it full bore 24/7. I've proudly sung Berlioz's "Requiem," performed in my college symphony orchestra, concert bands and wind ensembles, occasionally gig for musicals, play mariachi in minor, and, to this night, peruse and pick out worthy high-brow performances. I've worked many Winter Guard International Championships, both Guard and Percussion, enthralled by the avant-garde emphasis. Consider, I'm an alumnus of Miamisburg, OH, High School, bastion of scholastic guard, headquarters of Fred J. Miller, Inc.

Wondering about the fuzzy concept of Entertainment, I went to the GE skyscraper building, General Effect, Inc., on Main Street, downtown Corpsdom, noticing the vaporous fumes of fumaroles as I approached the revolving doors. I had woodshedded with a cockatiel-nibbled dictionary and Thesaurus beforehand in order to better communicate with the corps corporate cognoscenti who make The Decisions. Dawdling in the lobby until I felt the first shift was shifting into overtime, I was finally called forward by the lady behind the counter. She peered over her librarian spectacles and flatly stated, "You may now see the receptionist."

The receptionist, with a blasé digital clock hung on a pacifying orange wall beyond her pinned up coiffure, queried, "Do you have an appointment regarding the upcoming season?" Glancing at my clockworks, "Yes, I made an appointment 15 years ago." "Oh, yes, the scabrous scribe," she quipped, like Tina Fey behind a podium. "You may have a seat, and you need not be so invidious." I didn't fully comprehend the word, but I easily interpreted the asp-like hiss, as if she were a Japanese businessman who had lost face. "And you'll be with me sometime this millennium?" I pondered aloud.

Persisting, I aspired to be marched into the inner sanctum of the Grand Pooh-bah of punctilious General Effect. Looking at the Otis lift of the building that required no airlock, I saw that I would have to pass a phalanx of sentinels to get onto any elevator before I could get to the apical corporate corpsdom penthouse...Alas, I was given another address and found myself in a warehouse district. A lackey gofor was expecting me. We passed ancient arcs, eventually passing into an even larger warehouse.

"Here is your GE," the expediter boorishly stated. Seeing skids of data, I asked, "Just how much info is here?" "Currently, we have 15 pegabytes in the GE database, which would make a stack of CDs 12 miles high." Wrinkling my high brow, I queried, "And, if I climbed that legume, will I find my answer?"

Exasperated, I had a nagging suspicion I'm climbing a mythical beanstalk while druids ordered androids to chop away at the base of General Effect.

Mimicking Al Murray in the spirit of Groucho Marx, I gesticulated with an "air cigar," side-lipping, "I've had a wonderful time, but this wasn't it," as I wore out and spun into a Donny Allen penguin walk to exit the warehouse, sans tux tails.

No major corps honcho, this forklift driver asked, "Well, if you'd been able to have your appointment with The Big Bosses, what were you going to say?"

"Methinks some judges and a plethora of designers are turning corpsdom into a technocracy where emotions, interpreting the notes, pushing the envelope in individualistic ways, et cetera, are to be bulldozed into the deep crevices of the Universe by a Briggs boson of 'No! Don't do that!' Hung over with bluster and righteousness, maverick soloists, those braggadocio buglers, are rolled into a conformist dough, spread on a cookie cutter pie plate, with hangovers trimmed off neatly around the rim, style be darned. Like needlepoint, no variances are darned into the pattern, an ikebana of conformism. While I'm not implying drum corps has been reduced to a dilettante art form, plumbing the depths of style in numerous genres is being shriveled to 'My way or the highway.'

"Once upon a time, our niche activity had a 'corpsucopia' of entertainment. Some egghead officials are swelled with an embonpoint of ego. Somnolent sonatinas prevail. Multitudes of avid fan$ want to gormandize gorp corps.

"Drum corps once rattled Richter Scales. The minority now, the majority of drum corps used to have decibel meter pegging applause and cheering for musical desserts that pleased like Mom's banana pudding and cheesecake. Now, it's often more like cheesesparing. Without an advanced education in music, many in the stands need a gizzard to help digest the complexion and flatline notes. This is a foul fowl and should be called."

In exasperation, I stomped out of the moldy dusty warehouse, ignoring the elevator music.

I like my music erectifying!

"More than anybody else I'd like to thank Count Basie for teaching me how to perform." ~ Tony Bennett

Publisher's Note: Cozy's Corpsdom features updates from the world of drum corps as only Cozy Baker can deliver...in his own unique style and presentation. A featured Drum Corps World reporter and contributing columnist for many years, Cozy travels the country as a competitive marching member, instructor, observer, and commentator on the state-of-the-activity. The opinions expressed in this column are strictly those of the author. (Cozy mug photo by Christina Mavroudis-Dempsey.) You may write to Cozy directly at mailto: \n This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it .