snare drumming

Demigods as Instruments They Learned to Play as a Kid
  • Percy: Piano. He never took lessons because they couldn't pay for it, but his elementary music teacher noticed that he was pretty good at keyboard when they played in class, and offered to teach him it.
  • Annabeth: Saxophone. She played it in the school band but never took it too seriously once she ran away. Every once in awhile she plays and it reminds her of simpler times.
  • Piper: Ukulele. She has a perfect singing voice to match the chords, and enjoys learning popular songs and making covers. Her cover to House Of Gold is breathtaking.
  • Jason: Violin. Because this nerd really enjoys classical music. There is an orchestra at New Rome, which got a lot more popular after the boy on violin became praetor.
  • Leo: Snare Drums. Typical high school band drummer. Taps constantly. Swirls a drumstick 24/7.
  • Frank: Trumpet. He can go super high on it, which is extremely hard, but has trouble hitting a lot of the low notes. Probably could be in a professional jazz band if he wanted to.
  • Hazel: Tuba. It's almost the same size as her, but that doesn't stop her from excelling at it. Her and Sammy were the top in their section back in school.
  • Nico: Flute. Wanting to be like Bianca, he picked the same instrument as her in elementary school. He secretly still plays every once in awhile with Grover, since reed pipes are similar enough.
The Instruments if they were Pokémon

Piccolo: Fairy/Flying type, Evolves to Flute with High Friendship.

Flute: Fairy/Flying type, Evolves from Piccolo and Mega-Evolves into Hyperbass Flute.

Clarinet: Dark type, evolves from E flat Clarinet with high friendship, evolves into Bass Clarinet with a dusk stone.

Bass Clarinet: Dark/Steel type, evolves from Clarinet, Mega-Evolves into Contrabass Clarinet.

Oboe: Fairy/Grass type, Evolves into English Horn at level 18.

English Horn: Fairy/Psychic type, Evolves into Heckelphone with a sunstone or into Bass Oboe with a moonstone.

Bassoon: Fighting/Grass type, Evolves into Contrabassoon at level 32.

Contrabassoon: Fighting/Grass type, Evolves from Bassoon, Mega-Evolves into Contraforte.

Saxophones: All Fighting/Steel type. Alto evolves into Tenor at level 16, Tenor evolves into Bari at level 32, Bari Mega-Evolves into Contrabass.

French Horn: Dragon/Electric type. No evolutions.

Trumpet: Dragon/Fairy type. No evolutions.

Trombone: Electric/Fighting type. Evolves into Bass Trombone which Mega-Evolves into Contrabass.

Baritone: Electric/Ground type. Evolves from Alto Horn with a Thunder Stone.

Euphonium: Electric/Ground type. Evolves into Tuba at level 50.

Tuba: Electric/Ground type. Mega-Evolves into Sousaphone.

Mallets: All Grass/Psychic type. Xylophone evolves into Vibraphone at level 16, Vibes evolve into Marimba at level 32.

Snare Drum: Steel/Rock type. Evolves into Bass Drum at level 46, or into Timpani when traded holding the Metal Coat.

Violin: Normal/Psychic type, Evolves into Viola with a moonstone. Comes in 2 forms: 1st and 2nd Violins.

Viola: Dark/Psychic type, Evolves into Cello at level 17, or into Bass if traded holding the Cracked Rosin.

Cello: Fairy/Psychic type, Evolves from Viola.

Bass: Dark/Psychic type, Evolves from Viola, Mega-Evolves into Octobass.

Piano: Normal/Dark type. Comes in many different forms: Upright, Honky Tonk, Grand, Toy, and Electric. Evolves into Organ at level 70. Basically the Pikachu.

Guitar: Normal type. Has an Alolan Form (Hawaiian Guitar) Evolves from Ukulele.

I am a Musician. You are a Musician

I am a musician. I have to work harder and harder everyday to improve who I am, and to make sure I become what I want to become.

Let me tell you something, sugar. Music isn’t easy. Music is probably one of the hardest careers out there, and before you start telling me about something that’s harder, read the rest of this.

In the music industry, you will never be ‘the best’. There is no way around it. You will never be the best, and you have to accept that. Somewhere, there’s someone with more experience and more time under their belt than you. They will be better.

But.

There will be a point where you will be one of the best. Not ‘the best’, but pretty dang close. YOU will be the person that a young boy or girl looks up to as they force themselves to play their scales over and over until they are in tune because they know that YOU practice your scales. They know that you didn’t give up on what you loved, and they’re looking at you now, hoping that one day they may stand on the same stages as you. Play with the same orchestras as you. Play the same pieces as you.

One day, you’ll be watching an interview of a musician in their late twenties/early thirties, they will be asked a question along the lines of ‘Who do you look up to most?’, then they will smile, look into the camera, and say your name. Why?

Because you are a musician.

marching band au

OK SO shiro and allura head rival marching bands, both as senior drum majors. iverson and coran respectively are the conductors.

lance, the beautiful boy that he is, is co-captain of allura’s band’s color guard (insert cliché langst trope about him always being second best)

hunk is the sousaphone because he can basically carry the entire band if he needs to, has incredible lung power, and impeccable rythym

slide on over to shiro’s band where we find pidge heading up the pit/front ensemble because it takes a lot of technical skill and varied knowledge of multiple instruments

and finally keith as the drum line section leader and a snare drum. he’s technically very good but his anger tends to get in the way of his leadership, so more often than not the drum line is a fucking mess lmao and he breaks sticks all the time

so basically fuck that noise of pit and drum line hating each other (even tho its true) because here we see conspiracy bros hanging out and discussing percussion shit

anyway so the plot is one day lance’s fam decides to move school districts and its Devastating. lance doesnt want to leave hunk or the guard or all these people who appreciate him, especially for a rival school. he gets to the new school and they dont have a color guard. so lance is thrown to the bottom of the totem pole (a middle sized bass drum ofc) and he has to deal with Angry Mullet McGee and his perfectionism and anger-driven performances

lance tries to start up a color guard but iverson is hearing nothing of it, saying they only let lance into the band anyway because keith thought he had potential. keith denies saying this to lance, who now constantly says “you liiiiiike me” at inappropriate times

lance goes above iversons head to the school board and they say yeah you can make a color guard team but youve gotta do all the work yourself buddy so lance Goes for it

unfortunately everyone else is too scared of iverson to leave their spot in the band so lance is the only person in the guard. he writes and choreographs drill and dances for himself to go along with their show and brings it to shiro who is delighted to see someone so passionate about band

when lance finally performs his solo routine along with the band, standing and grinning in front of the crowd, everyone goes fucking wild and loves it and they end up beating lances old school in the competition

hunk is congratulating him after the big performance when keith approaches, so hunk awkwardly leaves with an eyebrow wiggle because hey keith is cute underneath that rage and everyone knows it

“listen lance you were. really good out there. i just wanted to say that you didnt have to leave the drum line though. you were a good player even if you were annoying and never stopped flirting with everyone. what im trying to say is, you dont need to do everything alone, but that sounds stupid so ill just go”

lance is so touched because hes starting to feel as good as he did at his old school here with the help of new friends and eventually he gets more ppl to join the guard (shay, nyma, plaxum, maybe slav lmao)

and happily ever after, so basically im here for Happy Endings And Band Fun stop hurting lance in fics 2k17

Grande Finale
Studio Killers
Grande Finale

I’ve been a dirty bastard
But I will clean my act up
I wanna stop doing bad
I wanna meet your mum and dad

It’s not an unpretending
Little happy ending
This is a Grande Finale

Rolling snare drums echo
The rain sounds like applause

I’ve finally found you
The one that I’ve been waiting for
I’ve finally found what
I’d already stopped looking for

anonymous asked:

describe how each high school year by semester went for you

9th grade: We don’t call it a play date anymore, it is hanging out, hanging by our toes like wet lipped fruit bats, like jungle gym monkey kids. Young and swollen. Blood, immature blood, pink blood, fresh meat blood pepto bismol up the wazoo, and spit under my bed. Code names aren’t for spies, they’re for 14 year old girls with googley eyes, not that we needed them. Kevin and Grace, Ellie and Joshua, Paloma and Matt which is weird because I’m hot for him, and they kinda look like siblings. Pink shorts, black tights, Jimmy Eat World, pizza bagels and lucky charms under a fresh white linen morning like detergent sealed crust between my eyelids, you tore them open. I mean, not yet. But soon. I discover neon sex scenes, Sky Ferreira, and Skins and this is where the final hopscotch box stops; at the end of the subway platform. This is where I’m supposed to jump. Monkey balls fall on our heads as we walk home, and autumn leaves crunch like drum line snare beats. All godless girls with snakes and cherry lollipops and 9 millimeters pointed at our clits, Bend it Like Beckham under your itchy wool blankets, Alice’s mom thinks I’m cool, and I stay for dinner and crack some risky jokes like a fox among wolves. (I think he looks at me when I look away). Me and Hana FaceTime I take screenshots of her dancing with her cat. The girls who play soft ball in short shorts, the girls who call them sluts, the boys who watch. We dance through rainbows in the sprinklers on the way to the Homecoming dance and pretend we don’t care we don’t have dates. We’re floating in the cytoplasm, floating on the cotton candy overdose cause our parents drop us off at the bowling alley but we are too loyal to sneak out the back. We pool our money every Friday after school for the spring break road trip we’re going on when Hana gets a car, and one of us has lost our virginity, and none of us are scared of the dark.

Miss Budd yelled at me for not standing for the pledge of allegiance, and I was 4 years old again. My English teacher held me back, and held my hand, and gave me a safety pin for my missing button, and told me it would be. Okay.

10th grade: We were on the news that year. Cristo’s curls on KTLA, solemn, and not the boy cross eyed and high with his pants around his ankles. Suddenly we’re all standing up straight, suddenly we’re being told we can’t wear leggings because somebody posted a video of Penelope having sex with Max on Facebook. Suddenly we’re underground in the girls locker room (red varsity knee socks, Dina drowning the spider nests with Victoria’s Secret rose perfume, humid with shame and lesbian suspicion) holding our arms in front of our naked breasts, single file like ants for the syphilis test. The boys who drew penises in fire and salt on the soccer field grass, like druid frat boys, but not the boys who put gorilla glue in the classroom locks, and not the boys who wrote their hit list in the red pen on the back of Mr. Chan’s syllabus and ended up in court, who called in a bomb threat, just to get the test pushed back. We all took turns getting our ghosts exorcized in the principals office. It was pompeii and pandemonium, and nobody was safe, not even us girls sleeping wrapped in the dust of library encyclopedias. You moved away from me like I was illiciting the restless black dreams on your grandmas shitty air mattress. The sheets are clean enough, but this attic is haunted, you keep waking up in the middle of the night to your body sinking like a pirate ship caught by the Kraken, the floor gnawing at your bones again so you just. Got up. And slept somewhere else. My English teacher held me back, and told me I was a good writer but don’t be so angry, and I cried right there, and she gave me a kleenex from her Shakespeare tissue holder and I blew this stupid pain head first out of my nose. I never told you about that. Maybe if I had you would’ve felt bad for me and stayed a little longer. But you hung out with those buckwild kids under the spot by the willow tree, and it was easy. it was just snuffing out an annoyance. A mosquito licking the ruby of your earrings that you shooed away. Our birthstones were both rubies, you know, we were twin cancers with balmy skin and busted appendixes, the aliens took you once and the only explanation was a scar on your spine, and I reckon I should’ve known they’d come back for you.

(You are gonna tell your kids about these cherry cola years of golden suburbia, and midnight blue debauchery snapping teenage knees, and furrow your brow forgetting the name of the girl you spent the first two calling your best friend.) You cheered at football games. You got drunk with them at night, and you were bursting and missing teeth like a watermelon smile, you rubbed up against each other like cats they touched you in all the right places and you didn’t text me anymore. You went to sleepovers and posted photos on Instagram, I wasn’t invited, I thought this bullshit was supposed to stop happening in elementary school. All the things we thought would never happen, lockdown drills, fire drills, earthquake drills and we still weren’t prepared. It was. Pandemonium. It was. Chemical fires in Mr. Dow’s science class. And me and my plans were just. so fucking boring standing next to your cherry blossom hurricane. You didn’t wait for me after class anymore and I just. Looked so stupid trying to catch up. Blood, mature blood, cows blood in the manure for the roses to eat. Black blood, like storm sky, I dish out this milkshake I pick the scab and I lick the blood away. Thomas comes out and dubs himself the gay cliche, we walk home together on the yellow brick road, and we pray a tornado will land the school library on our corpses so we can die with those sparkly shoes on. Those ruby shoes on. The Fates gagged me with a pack of jolly ranchers. I got straight A’s while Rome was falling. Nobody has ever made me feel so small.

11th grade: New school. The kids talk different here. Depression in California is like getting a cold in mid-July. So ironic it’s almost insulting. I’m pretty sure it was raining all year, but don’t count on it, I lived sub-terrestrialy with my mothers tulip bulbs. Today’s Wednesday? I thought it was Friday? I thought yesterday was Sunday? Depression in California is like running after a rabbit in the woods. It doesn’t matter how sunny it is, you will suddenly look up and it’s night, and the trees are not your friends, even when they are as skinny and shaky as you. You will get stuck in the swamp, leave your shoes behind, and not even remember why you were out here in the first place.

Headache. Stomach ache. Lots of those, those are easy to fake. Menstrual cramps, vomiting, gut wrenching, kinda vomiting. A personal favorite. I got to get my hands dirty for that one, I got to reach for the gag reflex like a remote control and press fast forward and feel my arc capsizing, until the static buzzed and I was pale like southern gothic tragedy, I’m not bulimic I just don’t wanna go to school. Depression in California is like an abandoned zoo. Everything echoing animal shrieks. They set them free but the cages were empty long before that. I make some friends, nice ones who laugh at my jokes, and I feel like I should get a sticker for it, but I do more nervous shaking than laughing.

Depression in California is like a badly maintenanced carnival. We’ve gone around the ferris wheel 8 times now and nobody seems to notice. The cotton candy polluting my blood, running slow and globby while the kids below spin, the kids drop, the kids could die, but they just giggle hand in hand with smiling clowns who pump them full of teeth rotting sweets, the winking lights are blurry this far away, and it feels like eons before we’ll get back to the bottom. I’m out of tokens. I think I’m just gonna jump.  

12th grade: Trump won. I think I might like girls. My dad jokes about his own death so I know what it means to be angry now, like femurs forged from the goddamn ring of Isildur. Is this what’s normal now? Fucking boys who are oil slick and easy living, and lose my socks in their dorm rooms? Meet them for diner food and xans on the weekend, and everything just temporary? Is that just what everybody wants now? My brother got a green card marriage, but I guess he loves her for real now. We watch the Walking Dead until the streetlights glaze over our eyes, he asks me if I have a boyfriend, no. If I’ve had any since I last saw him, no. If no is my favorite word, yes. Thing is I’ve never been anyone’s girl cause I’ve got a volcano where I should have a stomach. I know what it is to live on the red planet. But I ignore all that and go to concerts that bleed beer and swoon for boys who drink the blood. I guess we’re used to falling off of things so we do it on purpose now. It’s not over but I know how it’s gonna end. Cracked skull, and police lights. And to the break of dawn on Brandon’s roof, boxers stained with mayonnaise, and Deadpool is probably his favorite movie or some dumb white boy shit like that. I’m not gonna cry when I leave for college, I’m gonna cry at the car rental watching the sun bleed out on the trees. I’m gonna cry in the knothole of an oak tree, hiding from the freshman mixer party in the woods I knew I shouldn’t have come to once the social anxiety starts clawing up soaked in the gallon of strawberry Crush I downed to calm myself down. You know, in some other parallel universe, my parents never divorced and we dispute where the sugar pantry should be at inopportune times, and I don’t straight jacket myself with the echoplex sound of my mother screaming over my dead body just to not inhale the chlorox under the sink. I was so bloody, I just wanted to be clean.

I thought it was like the 80’s, the rusty exhaust pipe of Matt’s car turning the snow black while he’s wasting time daydreaming of my piston pumping sloppy hips, and rumored things that happen in the backseat, and kicking cans in no particular direction, and first love sticky and first love stabbed into your kidney and you never really recover. I thought it was sixteen candles, and say anything, but it’s getting bloodshot squirrelly smoking hash in the disabled bathroom stall. It’s a personality disorder grown up from the ground like a mushroom that is poison to the touch, and thrown away birthday presents, and valentines day balloons stuck in the trees. It’s dropping the last slice of college acceptance celebration cake on the floor for your dogs breakfast, and cartoon rain puddles for eyes talking about how scary it is to drive on the freeway. Karina and Maddie rough housing like pit bulls in fifth period cause we don’t do shit in that class and pretending that we are not all gonna be strangers in 6 weeks before we. Before we. Please don’t make me say it out loud.

My English teacher held me back, and told me to make up the quiz I missed, and that was the only time I will ever be happy that some strangers just stay that way. And Daddy, I will miss you when you leave me, and Daddy I will meet you in the next life you just gotta wait for me ok?

I am not the kind of girl people have crushes on. I am the kind of girl who can survive 18 stealing food from parties, couch surfing, living like a lightning bolt. There one minute, and gone the next.

senior syndrome

pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood

setting: modern, non-magical, college vampire au

word count: 3,131 

written for: HAPPY BIRTHDAY @bunimalsfiberdolls !!!!!!! 

notes: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯


Marcus wakes up thirsty.

He blinks, scrubbing at the corners of his eyes. There’s a suspiciously crusty stain on the inside of his bedspread; it isn’t white, but it’s not not white, either. He doesn’t know which pledge had laundry duty last week, but he thinks it was probably Goyle. Goyle always forgets to add detergent. Possibly, Goyle isn’t actually aware he’s supposed to add detergent.

Whatever.

Marcus rolls over. His tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth, and his throat feels dry and rough and a little like he might’ve accidentally gargled paint thinner. A strange burning sensation is piercing his gut; if he concentrates, he can almost trace it back to a gently pulsating spot between his tonsils.  

Swallowing hurts.  

Swallowing hurts a lot.  

He vows not to try that again, and then idly wonders if he’s getting sick. That would suck. Hooch is picking captains at the end of the week, and Marcus would really enjoy stripping that fuzzy felt “C” off Wood’s jersey. Especially now. Especially after three months of silence and stupid passive aggressive Snap stories featuring way too many fishing boats. And lakes. And sad, ugly, shirtless Canadian bros who definitely didn’t need to, like, molest Wood so thoroughly.  

Jesus.  

Marcus’s stomach rumbles.

He instinctively swipes at his teeth with the tip of his tongue.

Keep reading

percussion during a slow piece
  • percussion instructor: *sitting there fuming*
  • snare: "what's that? did I turn the snare off- of course I turned the snare off, why would I forget to d- shIT I left the snare on-"
  • bass drum: I wonder if I held that pause on that rest on for long enough? I don't think the 42 bars of rest really prepared me for that moment so forgive me if I'm mistaken
  • auxiliary percussion: "must. not. touch them until it's time... ten bars to go-- whO BREATHED ON THE WIND CHIMES-"
  • triangle: how am I expected to make a dynamic contrast who do you think am are
  • suspended cymbal: ssssssshhhHHHHHHHINGG oh wait that was supposed to be pp
  • glockenspiel: alright, I've got a pretty good part here, maybe it's the tune, not much else going on s--crap everyone heard me mess up time to die
  • vibraphone: "what's that? did I turn the brakes- of course I turned the brakes on, I'm using the pedal! why would I forget to t- shIT I'm sliding forwards-"
  • drumkit: *rocking backwards and forwards in a corner*
  • timpani: ppp? I think I'll just blow on the drum, don't worry my 73 bars of rest will give me time to take a nice deep breath

even if your not the best drummer your still a percussionist? i don’t care if you play the triangle or the quads, you are important no matter what part you are. i know snares get all the credit and fame, but your part is just as important as theirs and your director notices this even if he never comments on or praises you. you and your part is essential to the group, never forget that.

youtube

Drum Roll please.
*Snare drum rolls*, *Stinger!*

It’s RWBY CHIBI Time once Again!