Austin Weber: A Cavalier
Today’s note is a diversion from my regular fare.
In the winter of ‘04 I was accepted in to the Cavaliers Drum and Bugle Corps from Rosemont Illinois. To say something trite like, “The memories and lessons I learned there would last my entire life,” would be an understatement so impossibly grand. I truly lack the words to describe it appropriately. I exist the way I am now because of those experiences had in that group. The crucible of professional performance and execution is a hot one. I dare say I found myself melted into oblivion on a regular basis. The lucky fact that I solidified into the man I am today is directly related to the stresses that were put on me there.
The old championship group pic. From the bottom right: Myself, Andrew, Doug, Austin, Bryan.
Let me first say that this is a complicated sport, Drum corps. For those that are unfamiliar with it, feel free to look up Drum Corps International(DCI) or World Guard International(WGI) to find out a bit more.
…But I’m not here to talk about drum corps. I’m here, writing this and doing what I’m doing to remember my friends, one in particular, having learned so much from them in my first and most pivotal year there.
In a modern bass drum line there are five players. I was the singular new guy in a group of five young men. The four ahead of me in line were not only experienced professionals, but veterans in an activity that creates some of the best musicians and performers in the world, and spits out those who can’t find the merit at many times the rate. Drum corps is hard, it may be one of the last remaining true meritocracies available for young men and women. There is no safety net or second try if you cant find the will or motivation to perform at your best for almost four continuous months on tour. There are no breaks, no going home to think about things, and no second chances. If you cant do the deed, there’s someone else waiting in line who can. As Doug, our section leader used to put it. “You figure it out.”
I first met Austin at audition camps during the process of cycling through prospective players. It was obvious he and the other three veterans were exceptional and unbeatable, so that only left one spot left. They were musical savages, absolutely. Austin, however, was not what I expected. The image projected by the group suggested a clean cut, virtuosic professional. Someone from a exceptional feeder program, a gentleman, maybe even a well-off kid. Dare I say, a Cavalier. At the time members were required to keep the same trimmed haircut and be clean shaven for every show. Austin was raw. He hadn’t cut his hair in months, or shaved. He showed up wearing a shirt with a metal band on it behind his wide open members jacket in the dead of winter in Chicago and sporting silver septum piercing. I’m fairly certain he would leave the school where we were rehearsing and smoke on breaks. I considered myself a fan of hardcore music at the time and I didn’t expect to walk in to a place like this and find someone who outdid me in my own game. We were quite similar in that way. He was interested to see my cd collection and hear what bands I thought were cool, what shows I had seen.
The similarities ended in the social columns, however. He played… extremely well. He told me up until he died that he still didn’t know how to read music notation, yet he could figure out any part he wanted, hit floating partials in space(that’s bass drummer terms for he can play impossibly hard things), and rarely, perhaps never, did I ever personally witness a mistake. Basically, he could play like fucking hell.
But in reality, all four of the guys could. When I made the group I couldn’t believe I was going to spend the next year in the same space as them. I learned… far more than one could fathom from that season. Drum corps is one of those places where you work so hard for so long together, in such a specific set of circumstances, that at the end of it you think you’ve made friends, but you don’t know quite for sure. Everyone puts aside their differences to complete the mission, when it’s all over and done, those differences come rushing back. You and your friends have to go back to the state where they’re from, the job they had, the school they attended. The memories made last a lifetime, but the party is over, you fly home from neverland and you still have to wake up back in your own bed, broken bedsprings and all.
I had a particular experience with Austin that will live forever in my mind. That year after championships, DCI had added on a specific tour through southern California to grow interest and find new audience. It was called “The Tour of Champions.” All the touring groups who had won previous championships continued on after competition had ended to play some exhibition shows. We played in Qualcomm stadium(when it was called that), the Rose Bowl… and a host of other big venues… but for the most part we were all bored because there was no more competition. It would be like playing in the Super Bowl and then coming home to play in your high school alumni game. It’s fun, but the nerves aren’t there anymore. You do the thing, take off the superman suit and have a soda. Nobody wins anything.
We had lots of free time then. The staffs and admins knew we were basically all on relaxation mode. The gave us one free day in particular, all eight groups that is, in Los Angeles. I spent the day wandering around from friend group to friend group without ever really finding anyone to spend the whole day with. Imagine myself, a poor farm boy from Appalachia who had failed out of college, wandering around Rodeo Drive in my trashed sandals looking at the same top hats that people like Slash wore… and recoiling when the price tag was more money than I had ever had in my bank account ever. At the end of the day I felt a loss. Here I was across the country on an adventure that no one would understand when I took it home… and at the same time everyone I was with was already one they way home in their own minds, our connections were already thinning.
I remember riding on some public transportation towards Venice Beach, it was a place I had only ever heard of in TV shows. When we arrived, everyone seemed to want to go their own direction, and the group I was with just… dissolved. I had taken the time to wander this far and suddenly, I was alone again. I was standing in a parking lot wondering how I should make my way back to the buses early when Austin appeared across the street, cig in his mouth.
He saw me. “Dude, Hungus!” (we all got nicknames back then, think what you wish) “What are you doin’, man?” He had a little bit of a Texas drawl, it fit well.
I was thrilled, thank god. He appeared like an adult to hold the hand of a lost child at a the mall.
“Uh, I don’t know. I-” I was just making up bullshit, I was glad to see him and already running across the street.
“Follow me, man. I’m going to see some Blue Devil dudes.” He replied.
Awesome. In all the time we had been on the secondary tour all our efforts to chill with some people from other groups had been impotent failures. The Cavaliers had won a week earlier at championships and it did not make for good cross group relations. It was great to know I would get at least one chance.
Venice beach. I remember peeking out over the cars and southern Cali fauna to see it in the distance. I had never seen the pacific ocean. We walked and shot the shit a little bit, Austin puffing away while I kept up. He let on he had done the same as I had, he was bouncing between groups all day, nowhere really to call home, nothing that important or interesting to do once competition was done. We were the ones who came here to find something better than we left at home. We didn’t have structure where we were from, not too many people to tell us how to get good jobs or what the good schools were.
We found a group of dudes waiting for us. A few of the guys from the Devils bass line and a horn player or two. They were southern California guys, the Devils being one of the other best groups out there. I was happy to find out they were the same as us. We sat on the windy beach in the sun in a circle and dug a hole in the sand so one of the guys could light up a bowl(That’s marijuana for you squares). I remember the sand in my hands and how rocky and dark it was, not like east coast sand. We sat and talked about nothing in particular and bonded a bit over some weak drugs. Oddly I had never felt so welcome amongst total strangers anywhere in my life. They were great guys, I hope they’re all well.
Afterwards, Austin and I wandered back to where the buses would be, slightly faded and enjoying the time. We boarded, fell asleep in our respective assigned seats, and did the same at the housing sight that night. I think either the next day or two we were all unceremoniously dropped off at the local airport for the trip home. Season over. In drum corps we have what’s called an age-out limit. That means after a player is twenty-one years old they’re no longer eligible. ‘04 was Austin’s last year.
I think I got to see him again at the banquet in the winter offseason. Later that year, we were invited by Yamaha corporation to go on a tour of Japan as a brand ambassador, unfortunately Austin wasn’t able to make the trip, the four of us dearly missed him. In my final year, ‘05, he was employed as an instructor for another group and I got to see him one time. Hair uncut for months, unshaven, nose ring a gauge larger. I remember being surprised that he was so excited to see me. So much so that it threw me off guard. It’s funny how when your that young, that closed in, that stupid really, you forget to tell people around you how much you’ve missed them.
That was my last year and I went on to be a lost twenty something after that. Austin was the same. Back then Facebook wasn’t really a thing yet, you had to be at a college that was in the network, if any of you can remember that far. Well, I failed out, and I don’t know if Austin cared enough about it. So it was many years of offhand AOL instant messenger conversations, losing phone numbers. It’s hard keeping touch with someone who cant be touched. Austin did his own thing.
For a while when Myspace existed I had found his band’s page and tried to talk to him when I could. They weren’t for the faint of heart, but I loved ‘em. Austin played bass, and he was fucking good. They’re still on Bandcamp…Like Dogs
But anyway, time moves forward and I lost track of him for a very long time.
Have you ever had that feeling that you need to talk to someone? Just hear their voice, or see a message? I got that feeling for a while regarding Austin. I can’t describe it. It’s like a nagging curiosity or wonder. From time to time I find my old friends, there’s Facebook groups and forums and social connections now. I had a few good conversations with Doug over the years, so I took a chance and asked him. It turned out Austin would bounce around on different Facebook burner profiles, so maybe you found him, maybe you didn’t. Doug had his phone number, thank god. And after I had stared at it in my phone for a few weeks, I called him, and left a voicemail.
When He called me back. I was transported back almost two decades to when I last saw him. He was excited to talk to me, and I him. But there was something different. Life seemed to have taken a major toll on my friend. Conversation didn’t go on for long before I pressed him about it. Apparently, less than six months earlier his wife had died in unfortunate circumstances. He had been trying to cope while living with his mother his own two small children.
Now, you have to remember, for those of you who have not experienced such a loss, the effects an event of this magnitude can be unexplainable and extremely debilitating. I had many conversations with Austin over the next few weeks. And as I had already been a trauma nurse for more than a decade, there were things I saw that mad me realize my friend was hurt on a level that most will not understand. We would have long conversations, he would lose track of time. He would call me the next day and we would have the same conversation. After a few repeats of that I realized it was because he was forgetting we had ever talked. Once, I lost service and he berated me over text and voicemail for ignoring him thinking I had ghosted him. I still called him back. He talked to my wife, I talked to his kids. He would call at inappropriate times and not realize how long the phone call was going. We went on like this for some time. I still enjoyed the calls. My clinical self was always guiding him to ask for help… until he fell off the map again.
After weeks of leaving messages every few days, he eventually called me back and I learned he had been in a rehab clinic. That was good news, honestly, because it was obvious he had attempted to cope through medication. We began talking often again and it seemed like he was doing better, even if slowly. Our conversations became less and less frequent, and when he dropped off the map again I figured I would find him again eventually. Then I heard he had had a stint in the hospital through group text started by Doug. I never really got the details but either he had injured his liver too much, or he had developed liver cancer. At that point, with someone who is actively undergoing severe emotional trauma, the details don’t matter that much, and you can only be supportive.
I called him once more and he told me how he was walking with a cane because he had been in the hospital bed for too long, and grumbled something about a transplant. I told him I would talk to him again soon. A few days later he called me while I didn’t have my phone on me and left a voicemail.
“Mr. Hungus, just calling to say what’s up. Hope you and your beautiful family are doing well. Talk to me whenever. Later.”
Ironically, I’m fairly certain he called while I was pushing one of my sons on the swing. I did not get to talk to him again. I had that message saved on my phone for a very long time until my provider deleted it because it was too old.
Doug let us all know in the group text. We all did our things, sent gifts, Made our phone calls, but it never seems like enough. My friend quietly died at forty years old leaving two children, his family, and the rest of us.
Travis, the gent from ‘03 whom I took over for after he aged out, was the only one who was able to physically come to Austin’s funeral as we live spread out across the country. He snapped this picture within a picture.
We’re old now, but were not that old. Loosing someone is hard. We all know this. Losing someone who should not have been lost is harder. As I said before, it’s hard to put into words what exactly you get out of an experience like drum corps. A fool assumes it’s about winning, “being the best,” whatever topical sports jargon you could come up with. For us, none of that really mattered. There I learned to focus inward, we the bass line and the group at large really only focused within. What can one do to make sure they themselves are not only great, but great enough that the others around them can also make the journey? We had an amazing time together making competitive art. We always thought, if you focused there rather than on the outward noise, scores took care of themselves. After that you go home and you know you achieved something, you found real truth, you are now wholly different than when you began. You will forever want to do it again, and you will want it for others. This is the gift that the Cavaliers and those four gave me. They asked for nothing in return. Austin, flawed that he was and similar as we were, was not my friend, necessarily. He and these men were not my peers, they were my leaders and they were my teachers. I exist now because of them.
The real truth is it actually costs a fair bit to go on tour with a group like this. Buses still need gas, staff needs paid, and the activity has not yet grown to the point where all these get covered by souvenir booths and corporate sponsorships. Take for example, football or hockey before the framework of the NFL and NHL provided financial stability. Playing members of the drum corps community pay yearly dues to be a part of these groups. At the time of this writing most groups must unfortunately charge members upwards of $5,000 to soften the cost of the yearly season and tour.
I started the Austin Weber Bass scholarship three years ago. Donations to The Cavaliers organization under this scholarship go directly to offset the cost to the five current members of the bass line. When one donates, 100% of the donation is used to cover the dues of the five.
To donate, go to The Cavaliers Arts and Performance & Education Giving Machine.
There, indicate “Yes” in the dropdown for supporting a specific scholarship or fund.
Then select “Austin Weber Scholarship Fund” from the scholarship dropdown to designate the donation.
Reading this after getting a contract for the Buccaneers and only six weeks left of indoor, has me in tears.