Comparison & Contrast

The lights dim. A hush spreads over the crowd. The conductor appears. A high school band concert is about to begin. While enjoying the beautiful music, few members of the audience bring into question the unity of the band. The sound seamlessly blends together, as if it came from one instrument. It is true that a great deal of teamwork is required to make a band sound good, but no high school band has ever been without the driving force that divides one group of instruments from another: sectional competition.

Since the beginning of time, woodwind players have been the absolute enemies of brass players, trombonists the enemies of trumpet players, and saxophonists the enemies of those who play French horn. In all cases of such competition, one musician believes his/her instrument to be superior to the competing musician’s, and in most instances neither person has concrete reasons. However, in the case of the French horn and the saxophone, there is substantial cause to believe that the French horn is infinitely above and beyond the saxophone in every possible way. The horn has a much more pleasant sound, has a unique history, is a brass instrument, and has several physical advantages over the saxophone.

First of all, the sound of a French horn is much more attractive than that of the saxophone. Though horns and saxes have a similar range and play the same parts in many musical pieces, this is a terrible injustice. The French horn has always been respected and admired for its warm, mellow tone. It has tremendous versatility, and the ability to be bright and cheerful, soft and soothing, or anything in-between. As the online article “French Horn FAQ’s” states, “It [the French horn] is the only true resident brass member of the symphony orchestra (trumpets, trombones and tubas often ‘sit out' many pieces) as it blends in well with woodwinds, strings as well as other brass. It is also very popular in Pop and R&B background orchestras.” On the other hand, the saxophone produces only one kind of sound: harsh, obnoxious noise. As trumpet player Chris Guard once said, “Saxophones are awfully shrill.” Also, Clark College Choir member Abby Engel agrees that the French horn “has a much nicer sound.” Whether a saxophone is playing jazz, pep band music, or an orchestra piece, the annoying buzz of notes never changes.

Secondly, the history of the French horn shows that it is a much more refined instrument. The French horn’s ancestor was a small valveless horn called a Scandinavian Lur, used for military purposes in the sixth century BC. It was developed into a larger, more circular horn used for hunting in the 1600’s. In the early 18th century “crooks” were created to allow the instrument to change keys. These later developed into valves (Bacon).

The saxophone was not created until 1846, when Adolphe Sax mutated a bass clarinet, trying to get a mixture of brass and woodwind sound (Faub). However, his design was somewhat faulty. Sax ended up with an instrument that sounded terrible, and was nearly impossible to tune. Because of its structure, the saxophone must be tuned on a different note than the rest of the band, and the pitch can only be affected by the specific placement of the mouthpiece. This makes tuning extremely difficult, especially in comparison to the French horn, which can be tuned by adjusting a number of different slides or the position of one’s hand in the bell. Whether it was because of a bad design or terrible tone quality, the saxophone had a very rough start. It was reported that a saxophone on display was “sent flying with a kick by an unknown person” at an exhibition in 1841 (Alvey). The instrument struggled for popularity until the 1860’s, and was not produced in the United States until 1885 (Faub). Sax developed the saxophone into many different varieties, five of which exist today: the soprano, alto, tenor, baritone, and bass saxophones. All these instruments maintain a similar shape, and vary only slightly in size and sound. Unfortunately, none of them resulted in Sax’s idea of a cross between brass and woodwind. Instead, the saxophone is a strange, awkward instrument, belonging to neither section.

The French horn is also known as being one of the hardest instruments to play, while the saxophone is one of the easiest. The embouchure, or “the shaping of the lips to the mouthpiece,” is extremely vital to playing the French horn (“Embouchure”). The tightness and position of the lips determines most of the notes on the horn, while a note on the saxophone is played by using the right fingering. As one website says, “It should be noted that the French horn is very difficult and only the dedicated student with an extremely good ear should attempt to play it” (“French”). Some may argue that the saxophone is better in this respect, since it is easier to play. However, this is simply not true. What ends up happening is that people with high levels of intelligence and perseverance discover they can successfully play the French horn, while people lacking such qualities find confidence in being able to play the easily-mastered saxophone. In short, the saxophone is not better – its players are simply less talented.

The French horn has many physical advantages over the saxophone as well. As brass player Matt Ellis once said, “The mouthpiece is harder to break than a reed.” This may seem like a minor detail, but having to protect a reed at all times is extremely inconvenient. In a crowded band room or a packed stadium, it is unbelievably easy to break a reed. Once the reed is broken, the instrument sounds even worse, and is nearly impossible to play. Saxophone keys are also very delicate, and can be easily bent. This can make certain notes rattle, or be completely unplayable. French horns, on the contrary, can undergo massive amounts of abuse before the sound of the horn is changed. Unless the instrument is dented in the leadpipe, it can be dropped several times without significant change.

All in all, French horns are superior to saxophones in many ways. They sound much better, are more highly developed, require more intelligent musicians to play them, and are more physically resilient than saxes. It is obvious that the French horn is much more praiseworthy than the saxophone, in all aspects.

Alvey, Rick. “Saxophone History.” SaxKing.com. 2002. 21 Oct. 2003. http://www.fortunecity.co.uk/madchester/rave/360/sax_history.html.

Bacon, Thomas. “The Cyberhorn Museum.” Hornplanet.com. 1996-2003. 21 Oct. 2003. http://www.hornplanet.com/hornpage/museum/history/horn_history1.html.

Ellis, Matt. Personal interview. 22 Oct. 2003.

“Embouchure.” Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary. 1998.

Engel, Abby. Instant messenger interview. 21 Oct. 2003.

Faub, Robert. “Saxophone History Timeline 1814-1995.” 21 Oct. 2003. http://www2.potsdam.edu/CRANE/mcallitp/timeline.

“French Horn FAQ’s.” 1998. 21 Oct. 2003. http://home.earthlink.net/~poboycorre/be02000.htm.

Guard, Chris. Personal interview. 21 Oct. 2003.

I first met the Finches when my husband, John, and I were a young engaged couple and “living in sin,” as my mother referred to our situation. Greg Finch had been John’s fraternity brother in college and was now married to his former high school sweetheart, three years his junior. John had been in their wedding some months earlier and said I should meet them because I would like them; they had a very personal and special relationship. I sensed he saw something in their marriage he wanted to emulate in ours. Knowing how difficult it can be to find a compatible couple with whom to socialize, I extended a dinner invitation.

The Finches arrived on time for dinner. They were arguably the most attractive couple I had ever seen. Tall and athletic looking with his strong jaw and dimpled chin, Greg looked as if he came from the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly. His dark, curly hair was just short enough to be respectable for a young, new CPA. Ramona Finch was tall and slender with impossibly long legs. Sporting brown doe eyes and flawless skin that required no makeup, she was demure, yet confident. A brunette cascade of smooth, tangle-free hair framed her radiant face. An aura of chaste, virginal sexuality surrounded Ramona in her tasteful sweater and tweed miniskirt. She was a member of the same master race that had mystified and intimidated me in high school: girls who knew the Sacred Secrets. They were a sisterhood of young women who instinctively understood the right thing to wear or do or say. Their glossy hair never became oily or disheveled and blemishes were unknown to them. Poised and serene, they seemed to adapt effortlessly to any circumstance.

At the door, I welcomed Greg and Ramona as they stepped over the threshold of our dilapidated rental house. For two-hundred and fifty dollars (cheap, even in 1979), we had a residence in a neighborhood of such dubious safety that I slept with a hunting knife under my pillow when John was out of town. Greg proffered a bottle of wine as they entered. I saw Ramona’s eyes scan the room, inspecting the décor, which could be best described as a cross between early attic and traditional dorm room. John offered them a tour of the premises and silently, I groaned. He beamed naively, as he led our guests through the four tiny rooms of peeling paint and stained carpet. I could only imagine what they would think of the bathroom. A person could conceivably use the toilet, sink, and chipped claw-footed tub without ever changing position. If I was lucky, he wouldn’t tell them how we put out mousetraps a few nights before, and then lay in bed listening to the succession of multiple snaps in the dark. Somehow, the evening progressed, my shame passed, and we agreed to get together again soon.

Over the next few years we saw the Finches socially. We married, bought a house, and had a baby girl. They bought a second, larger house and had a baby girl. When we were together, I observed Greg and Ramona’s interaction as a couple. They were so solicitous toward one another. He would hold the door, hold her chair at dinner, and rub her feet. They would garden or cook together while having intimate conversations about their deepest thoughts and feelings. Their physical contact in public hinted at a very fulfilling sex life. When we would play cards together, they would apologize profusely to each other if one was forced to bid against the other in play. To complete the scenario, their home was beautifully appointed and maintained, unlike the chaos and disrepair of the old farmhouse we had purchased.

What was wrong with our marriage? Why wasn’t John fetching me a footstool and massaging my back when I was pregnant? Why didn’t we seem to have some secret language all our own? Why weren’t we dreamy-eyed over each other after being up all night with a sick baby? We didn’t seem to share as many activities or romantic moments as the Finches.

By the time we each had a second child, our contact with the Finches had become sporadic. We attended a wedding where I knew I would see them. Determined not to feel frumpy or inferior in their presence, I’m embarrassed now to admit how I dieted, exercised, and carefully chose my wedding clothes in anticipation of our meeting. When we arrived at the wedding, I felt inappropriately gleeful to discover I was wearing the same dress as Ramona. My thinking was so distorted, I believed this was the ultimate evidence that I had developed good taste. The four of us chatted at the reception and Greg suggested meeting for dinner in the near future.

Weeks later, I was planning a surprise birthday party for John. I invited the Finches, but they didn’t respond to my written invitation and I was unable to reach them by phone. On the night of the party, I saw a guest who also knew the Finches. I asked him if he had seen them recently, and mentioned I hadn’t heard from them. He looked surprised, and asked if I hadn’t heard. Greg and Ramona had separated that week and were filing for divorce. There had been serious marital problems for quite some time. I was dumbfounded. No, wait. I was an idiot!

How could I have been so foolish, placing such importance on the behavior of other people and what they think of us? I had been judging the success of their marriage by the façade; their insides by their outsides. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with our marriage; we were just more honest in presenting our relationship to the world. I remembered the old adage: “If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.” I thought about all the time I had wasted feeling as if there was something we were missing. And I smiled in gratitude. I had a very good time that night.

Several years and another baby later, John and I ran in to Greg and Ramona at a grade school basketball game, where our daughters’ teams were competing. They were each with new, shiny spouses, and had blended families in tow. There were a few awkward minutes of conversation, and I realized Ramona wasn’t nearly as tall as I remembered.

My daughter wants to start dating and I am terrified. After all, I was a teenager once too. Winter is coming and she wants to start taking the school snow bus up to Mt. Hood with boys. While I know this is a natural progression, I would rather she goes up with boys that ski, instead of snowboard.

For starters, both her father and I ski, and when I began to think about it, that could come in handy. What better way to keep an eye on her and a date than by taking them up to the mountain ourselves, and thereby being able to keep a closer parental eye on those two hormonally-charged creatures? No sitting in the back of the bus playing kissy face. Nope, they’d be right behind us in the back seat. We could offer the excuse, " Well, we have a ski rack, not a snowboard rack."

I have found from watching the Olympics that skiers have nice names like John, Matt, Alberto, and Sven. They dress in turtlenecks, wear ski pants that fit, and are not prone to wearing hats that look like multicolored tendrils growing out of their heads. Snowboarders, I’ve found, have names like Slash, Speedfreakin’, and Pipedreamer. They also wear their pants so baggy that I wonder if they carry an extra board in case they lose one. I have yet to see a nice turtleneck on a snowboarder.

Skiers, when they are coming down a hill, will call to you and say, "On your right!" or "On your left." They will say "Sorry" if they bump you in line, and will always stop to pick you up if they accidentally knock you down, with an "Oh, so sorry." Snowboarders will try to take you out and then complain that you are slow. They also have such nice slang terms for older folks on skis. One I heard last year was, "Dude (Dude seems to be a common name among snowboarders), check out the Grays on double trays." Meaning, I was skiing on two "trays," not one, like they were. "Outta the way, Elmer Fudd!" That was one of the more obvious ones. A snowboarder stopping to help pick you up after they flattened you on a steep turn? Won’t happen. What you will get is a, "Wow, that’s gonna leave a nice tattoo." Meaning, I’m going to have a great bruise in the shape of their snowboard on my backside for the next three months.

Why do snowboarders walk with a swagger? I’m guessing it’s to keep their pants from falling down, and what about all those funny hand motions? When they talk, they move their hands and arms in a way that looks like they are in pain. I think it must be a shoulder problem. Skiers don’t swagger; they may walk like Frankenstein because of their ski boots, but swagger? No. Funny hand motions? No, not unless they are falling down after walking on a patch of ice in their boots.

A friend of mine told me what she thought was a joke the other day: "What do you call a snowboarder without a girlfriend? Homeless!" she laughed. Argggh! Visions of living with a young man whose greatest ambition is to pull off the perfect Boner Grinder does not sit well. My daughter told me that this is basically a manual grind (whatever that is) where you pull the front of your board up as far as you can with both hands to make it look like your board has a boner. This was not something I needed to hear from her. Skiers do nice things like Jumps and Flips. I did not think my friend’s joke was funny. Nope, not when it’s my daughter that snowboarder may want to date.

I’m thinking I should hand out an application for boys when they want to date my daughter. It will be a questionnaire, which lists among many things, winter sports preferences. The snowboarders will go in the recycle bin (or maybe the shredder, as that seems to be some sort of snowboard move they like to do a lot), and the others I’ll consider based on skiing. Maybe I’ll ask what the parents do for winter sports activities too. Heck, if they also ski, we can all go up together! I’m not so sure my daughter would agree, but I think it’s a great idea. I just hope she doesn’t pick someone who can leave her dad and I in the powder. I could also pray for a drought and no snow until she goes off to college. Barring that, I guess there is always the convent.