August 10, 2026 – Along the Mill Brook, Waitsfield, Vermont
I am looking out at the Silver Bullet, my aging but reliable Volvo XC70. It is a 2016 and the last of its kind. Bug stains from eight states are spattered across the front grill and windshield. The box has been emptied. It sits, waiting expectantly, for the next adventure. We just returned from a thirteen-day, 2,687-mile odyssey to Indianapolis and back, following Drum Corps International competitions. This was my ninth trip to Indianapolis in ten years, all but 2020. Yesterday, my co-pilot, Chuck, and I left Indianapolis at 6:08 AM and arrived at his home in Southern New Hampshire at 9:28 PM for a total of 15 hours and 20 minutes, driving in two-hour shifts for 998 miles. This morning, I drove the 2 hours and 48 minutes home, arriving here in the Mad River Valley in Central Vermont. The entire tour, starting on July 29, traversed Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, before arriving in Indianapolis, Indiana, a week later. Once there, the Silver Bullet sat and rested for the long day’s drive home while I enjoyed four days of urban walking. Of course, the reason for traveling was to attend Drum Corps International competitions in Boston, Allentown, Downingtown, and Akron before the final three days of competition in Indianapolis. Along the way, I found shady spots to stop and chronicle the experience here in this blog. This entry will be the eighteenth of the season, up from an average of twelve since starting these series in 2017. Before it is all written and done, there will be over 25,000 words published. Not all of these words are about drum corps. These are extemporaneous, in situ, off-the-cuff musings about drum corps, my feelings, and life in general, written along the way.
Indy-bound in the Grey Ghost, my first XC70 in 2017.
Each year, I reach a point in the tour when I begin to question why I do this every summer. The time and treasure ($$) investment grows each year, reaching the point of irresponsible use of my limited amounts of both. But, reflecting back now, I am beginning to accept that I simply love to write about this amazing slice of Americana. For a fleeting few weeks each summer, we all get to escape the norm to a world of music, dance, family, love, and hope. We get to go into a world of blissful denial, not clicking on that news feed of absurdity that riles us up. Focusing on what is good in life.
Now, back home, I have dropped back into the real world of paying my credit card bill, fixing the car, coaching golf, mowing the lawn, and worrying about how my kids and grandkids are going to buy a home. I will probably fall back into the habit of checking the news and getting riled up again. But I will be that much more armed with hope, thanks to those thousands of amazing kids who have reminded me of their ability and optimism that will continue to make us better, and maybe fix some of the things that were broken during my generation.
Of course, there is always more than one reason to do a good thing.
October 14, 2026
Of course, there is always more than one reason to do a good thing. This blog post is somewhat like an acknowledgments section of a book and a historical perspective on the genesis of my interest in drum corps. First, I would like to acknowledge my grandfather, who started a band in the 1930’s. Later, when my father and uncle were old enough, they played together every weekend until about the time I was in Junior High band. Of course, being in a musical family, my brother, sisters, and I had to take piano lessons and another instrument of our choice. My parents were good at letting us make our own choices. I chose drums. Dad’s drummer was an American Legion drum corps instructor and judge, so I learned the rudiments and played snare. I was not very good. However, I joined the Grey Ghosts in Wampsville, New York, the summer of 72′. My brother Danny was the talented one. He played the coronet in the HS band and the traditional bugle in Boy Scouts. He was the chosen one to leave the marching band and walk out of sight in the cemetery to play taps during the ceremony at Memorial Day parades in our local communities. So, I talked him into joining the Grey Ghosts, too. He loved it. Though the Ghosts were not a competitive corps, we had fun and went to the big shows in Rochester to see the senior corps. At that time, that was marching music’s major league. Danny became a big fan and took my Minolta onto the field to capture many photos. Alas, motorcycle, alcohol, and guardrail collided to put an end to Danny. I went to college, and drum corps got left behind and long forgotten.
The author, suiting up in 1972.
Fast forward forty years to 2012. It was a rainy Saturday in February, so there were no ski lessons to teach that day. I sat at the computer, going down rabbit holes on YouTube, when the thought of drum corps and my brother popped into my head. So, I typed ‘drum corps’ into the search bar, and OMG, I clicked on “Space Chords,” the Blue Devils horn line warm-up sequence 2009. That was a seminal moment. You know, when one simple act can change the trajectory of your life significantly? I dove in further, learned about DCI, joined the Fan Network video archive, and began to catch up by watching every video in the archives over a two-year period.
I decided to go to a show that summer. The closest one was in Fort Edward, New York, about 95 miles from my home here along the Mill Brook in Waitsfield, Vermont. The ticket agent, noting that I was solo, said, “Let me see if I can get you a good seat.” I found myself at the highest point in the old stadium, directly on the 50-yard line. This was the sweet spot. It was early June, and I was amazed at how awesome the shows were. Teal Sound, Colts, Crossmen, Carolina Crown, and Cadets all blew me away, though a Christmas theme in June was a bit odd. I was stunned and dazed all the way home to Vermont. A trip to Boston later that season gave me a chance to see Carolina Crown again, though the Boston Crusaders were out in California that year. Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man was lodged in my brain for weeks. That was when I jumped in with both feet, deciding to go to Allentown for the two-day extravaganza.
When I arrived in Allentown about 3:00 PM on Friday, it was quiet at the J. Birney Crum Stadium, so I decided to take a walk. As I was walking along the road above the stadium, I heard the unmistakable horn fanfare in the distance and exclaimed out loud, “Crown!” I used the human superpower of stereo echolocation and, a few blocks later, witnessed my first drum corps rehearsal. That is when I learned that drum corps could make me cry. Sitting there on the bank with other fans, looking out at the sea of skin, tanned and muscular. These were amazing human specimens toiling away in the hot sun, doing take after take without a word or complaint. Frequent water breaks provided the only respite from toil. At that moment, I realized that this thing is much more than me enjoying being in the stands as a fan. Watching these kids work so hard, along with the amazing adults on the scaffolding and on the field instructing, coaching, and inspiring, and the fans and family surrounding me on the berm, changed my perspective and enhanced the experience exponentially as I sat in awe, tears streaming down my cheeks. That night, watching the highly proficient corps in late-season form was an amazing experience that I have now enjoyed every year since, the magic of Allentown.
My first unmasked encounter with the Bluecoats in 2012.
Then one day in the spring of 2014, I learned that the Boston Crusaders were encamped at Castleton University in Central Vermont, a little over an hour away from my home in the Mad River Valley, so I went down to sit in on a rehearsal. This began my early-season pilgrimage every year, a right of spring to watch and learn how they put these amazing programs together. By 2016, I had toured as far as Buffalo, then Massillon, Ohio, to add more shows. I flew to Minnesota and to Atlanta for a couple of regionals. I was really starting to get into this.
Perhaps the most fateful decision that I made was in 2017, when on the way home from a visit to BAC spring training in Castleton, I decided to run away with the drum corps. When I returned home, I signed up to volunteer for the first two shows in Ohio. So, with a week to prepare, I packed up the Volvo and headed west to Columbiana High School. With the help of a friend, I had started a blog to chronicle the experience with words and photos, and began to share with others whom I had met with the corps.
One such person was Garry Martin, then a board member with Inspire Arts Inc., the parent organization for BAC. He, too, was following the corps. I had observed Garry conversing with the staff that morning at breakfast. Later that evening at the show in Massillon, I saw Garry sitting under a shade tree talking to another gentleman, so I introduced myself and told them my story. That was when I met Doug Madar, a founder of Carolina Crown. At the next show in Hamilton, Ohio, Garry’s Brother Tim joined us. Tim served on the board of Carolina Crown. I learned that the four Martin brothers, including David and Scott, were from Rochester, NY, with a long legacy of drum corps, including the Rochester Crusaders and the Phoenix corps. Years later, Garry moved to Boston, and Tim moved to Charlotte, North Carolina. They both became instrumentally involved in their newly adopted corps. I immediately adopted them both as my drum corps brothers.
Garry Martin, drum corps Poobah.
It was Garry and Tim who encouraged me to continue to write and forwarded my work to Steve Vickers. I was so enrapt that I chose to remain on tour with BAC for two more shows in Indiana before turning the Volvo northeast. This was an experience that changed my life. When I returned home, I realized that I had tickets for the last four shows of the regular season that BAC was attending and jumped on board again, this time, going all the way to Indy for my first time. That second onboarding made it a total of 23 days on the road with the Boston Crusaders during their fateful resurgent year. All along the way, I was posting to my blog. My drum corps competition experience in the 70s was who got the best applause in stand still at the beer tent following the parade. I had now entered the highly exceptional world of Drum Corps International, giving my first-person accounting a rather newbie, astonished perspective. You do not tour with a drum corps for 23 days without making life-long friends. I am most grateful to the many alumni, board members, and fans of BAC, who have welcomed me into their fold over the decade. It has been wicked fun.
BAC indoor rehearsal before DCI finals 2017.
Serendipity has always played a major role in my life. Perhaps the most impactful coincidental moment in the last decade was meeting Steve Vickers that summer in Indianapolis. It was at the Stanbury Uniform tent during the drum battle outside the convention center. I was admiring the technical fabric and printing on the uniforms, and talking to the salesman about my running away with the drum corps. Little did I know that the person seated next to him happened to be Steve Vickers. Steve asked, “Are you, Kevin Russell? I have read your blog. Would you be interested in sharing your stories in my magazine in the off-season? Thus began a ten-year relationship that has shaped my life in many profound ways.
Steve Vickers, Publisher at his seat in 2018.
Steve was complimentary of my take on the activity as a fan trending toward fanatic. I was giving it a reality feel, in situ, extemporaneously describing the travel, the people, the shows, and describing the visceral reactions in creative ways. Perhaps allowing others to experience the tour vicariously through my words. I once described my reaction to the performance of Troopers closer in the show, Voracious at NightBEAT: “My eyes were shooting droplets like sparks.”
By sharing, I was receiving. At the end of each ski season, I did not dread, as drum corps seasons took over to get me through to the snow flying again in Autumn. Each month during the off-season, I was able to relive a part of the tour as I prepared each post for publication in Drum Corps World. If it were not for Steve, I would not have been motivated to carve out so much of my life for drum corps each summer and through the off-season. If it were not for Steve, I would not have met so many incredible people over the decade of touring to eight states and attending over a dozen shows each year. If it were not for Steve, I would not have had the opportunity to be down center and in his block of seats at the finals each year, sitting among the most interesting people, watching the best shows on earth. If it were not for Steve and drum corps, I would not be so involved with my local school music department. I am the requested substitute teacher for band and chorus. Hundreds of Vermont students now know about DCI. If it were not for Steve, I wouldn’t be saving an old schoolhouse to provide a location in our community for students to connect with our local musicians. If it were not for Steve, I would not be who I am today in so many ways.
I am grateful to have known Steve and had the chance to see him last August in his element, surrounded by his friends and colleagues. I am proud to be among them. Thank you, Steve. You allowed me to be me, and that it is ok for grown men to cry and to write about it. Your effect on me is only a small spark compared to your outsized lightning on the greater drum corps world. Where would I be if I had not met Steve? God only knows.
Peace out.
Kevin Russell
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