The Marching Virginians: "Wants" vs. "Needs"

This is a post about college marching bands, but stick with me, I promise it'll be interesting.  The F-word comes up a lot.

College marching bands do tons of work for very little credit.  Literally.  At UW, I earned 2 music credits every fall quarter for (typically) 20 hours of work every week.  But that was the least of our problems.  There was minimal space for equipment storage.  There was no dedicated practice field.  There was no space for changing clothes.  The uniforms were wool, hot, smelled like hairy ass when they got wet, and looked stupid on everybody.  Worst of all:  I don't know if you've heard, but Seattle weather in late fall fucking sucks.

I also made lifelong friends.  I enjoyed the best seats at every home game (the band sat at the 50-yard line).  I received tons of free swag.  I got to travel the country on UW and NCAA dime.  Sure you have to put up with tons of bullshit, but the stories you get to tell for years afterward are numerous (as many friends will attest to with an eye-roll), and often hilarious.  So, you know... it works out.

Now, with all of that in mind, watch this:

So let me get this straight.  In order to address the issues that 99% of college marching bands have to deal with, the Marching Virginians want their own opulent palace on Chicken Hill, complete with 7000 square foot rehearsal hall, and artificial turf practice field.

Give me a fucking break.

First of all, very few bands have their own practice field.  Arizona State had one, and it still sucked.  The field was a rocky dried-out piece of shit, because (SURPRISE) upkeep of the band practice field was low on the priority list for maintenance.  Also, it was hidden behind a strip mall, and convenient to nothing (at least a 5-10 minute walk from anything).  The Marching Virginians complain because their normal practice field (the outdoor track) is across the fucking street from a shelter?  Bitches please.

Secondly, at 3:04:  "Imagine learning a new tune, without wind blowing the music out of your hands."  One time, during practice in a nasty storm, wind picked up a large heavy tarp and took out a dozen of my fellow band nerds.  A couple of them had to be helped off the field with twisted ankles.  And then we had to stop practice because the wind kept blowing the music out of our hands.  HA HA JUST KIDDING, we kept practicing because we were fucking grown-ups.

Thirdly, at 3:46:  "...a great acoustically engineered facility, where we can rehearse every day..."  Yeah, sure, acoustics.  Those are really important when your main performance venue is a giant concrete open-air football stadium.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Could someone please rent these guys a conference room so they'll stop bitching?

Lastly, I'll be blunt.  The Marching Virginians, like 90% of college marching bands, suck.  They walk leisurely around the field twice per game, they have an inappropriately weak sound for the venue, and they play totally irrelevant music.  Oh really, you're doing a Bon Jovi halftime show?  That's awesome, because I REALLY need a piss break.

You know who DOESN'T have their own baller practice facility?  The Southern University Human Jukebox.

You know who ELSE doesn't have their own baller practice facility?   The Ohio Marching 110.

You know who ELSE doesn't have their own baller practice facility?  The Cal Band.

You know who ELSE doesn't have their own baller practice facility?  Fucking Oregon.  And they literally burn money to keep the football team warm during November practices.

As a Hokie fan, you should love your Marching Virginians.  And if you feel so inclined, you should absolutely give to the campaign to help them build their own little nerd castle.  Hell, if they outline some reasons other than "the wind blows the music out of our hands," I might even be persuaded to part with some of my happy hour funds.

But to this impartial observer and marching band alum, that fundraising video was a bunch of whiny, entitled bullshit.  Just shut the fuck up and play Tech Triumph again.