Somewhere, someone (someone with a geriatric sort of existence) is kvetching about the fact that this drumline is wearing make up. I’ll admit, I don’t like it and I am taken a back by it, but this does not compare to the sheer, white hot neutrino star rage that this someone is feeling upon witnessing Carolina Crowns 2023 battery ensemble.
Back in their day, drum corps used to mean something. There were no melanated members, you got hazed and you also got tendonitis while chowing down on expired tuna cans in moldy highschool gyms. There was certainly no make up. Drum corps was about turning boys into men, but the mens aren’t even boys anymore and they got the TV saying there are more genders than there are subdivisions in the average early 21st century Blue Devils book. Part of them wants to burn it all down.
“When are they going to go back to parking and blowing!? When are they gonna play some real music and cut the ballerina dancing and props!?”
Another part wrestles with the formless futility of everything, and the inevitability of change. Time flows like moeller strokes off formica snares, and one day we will all be a downstroke that never comes back up, with no taps to follow.
All that is solid melts into air, echoes of G bugles decaying into San Antonio heat, reverberating over dozens of American suburbs. Something ineffable is lost in those soundwaves, but what is it?
Cold Hands in San Antonio hits diff ngl
Somewhere, someone (someone with a geriatric sort of existence) is kvetching about the fact that this drumline is wearing make up. I’ll admit, I don’t like it and I am taken a back by it, but this does not compare to the sheer, white hot neutrino star rage that this someone is feeling upon witnessing Carolina Crowns 2023 battery ensemble.
Back in their day, drum corps used to mean something. There were no melanated members, you got hazed and you also got tendonitis while chowing down on expired tuna cans in moldy highschool gyms. There was certainly no make up. Drum corps was about turning boys into men, but the mens aren’t even boys anymore and they got the TV saying there are more genders than there are subdivisions in the average early 21st century Blue Devils book. Part of them wants to burn it all down.
“When are they going to go back to parking and blowing!? When are they gonna play some real music and cut the ballerina dancing and props!?”
Another part wrestles with the formless futility of everything, and the inevitability of change. Time flows like moeller strokes off formica snares, and one day we will all be a downstroke that never comes back up, with no taps to follow.
All that is solid melts into air, echoes of G bugles decaying into San Antonio heat, reverberating over dozens of American suburbs. Something ineffable is lost in those soundwaves, but what is it?
This feels like a religious experience watching Crowns lot now.
I think they sound more better with remo heads
Goated drumline this year