Sam Quinones’s book, The Perfect Tuba: Forging Fulfillment from the Bass Horn, Band, and Hard Work, is a deeply captivating journey that elevates the low-pitched brass instrument from a punchline to a powerful metaphor.

The narrative uses the history, culture, and dedicated players of the tuba as a lens to explore themes of purpose, community, and the rewards of hard work in modern America. After years of chronicling the darkness of America’s opioid crisis, Quinones shifts his focus to a pursuit of light, finding it in the dedicated people who master the cumbersome, often-overlooked tuba. His core argument – that true fulfillment comes not from instant gratification, but from the slow, communal process of hard, persistent work – deeply resonated with me.

That’s because, unlike the glamorous trumpets and melodic flutes, the tuba and its cousins – the baritone horn and the euphonium – are instruments of humble service. They demand dedication, physical strength, and a willingness to be the anchor rather than the star. I know this firsthand; for years, I hauled the tenor voice of the low brass, first a baritone horn and later a four-valve euphonium (also known as a tenor tuba), through the chaotic world of high school and community bands.

From Cornet to Conical Bore

My mother, a music teacher, ensured my brother and I picked an instrument in elementary school and stuck with it at least through high school. My brother chose the alto saxophone; I started my musical life in the 5th grade on the cornet, enjoying its bright, mellow tone. But by 7th grade, the band director needed more depth, and I shifted to the baritone horn, pitched an octave lower and playing the critical tenor harmony line. It was here, in the heart of the low brass section, that I began to understand the quiet power of support.

The baritone horn offered no instant gratification. You couldn’t wail solos or dazzle a crowd with flashy finger work. Your part was the foundation, the quiet, harmonic filler that blended with the rest of the bass instruments to give the melody its depth and weight. It was the aural equivalent of the unsung road crew that paves the highway for the celebrity motorcade.

Yet, this lack of celebrity bred a certain camaraderie among the low brass. We were the ballast of the band – and we knew it. We had to work harder than anyone else just to be heard clearly, not to mention perfectly in tune. My fondest high school memories aren’t of scoring a winning point in a game, but of those exhausting, sweaty band camp practices under the summer sun, where we meticulously drilled the rhythmic march patterns. The sense of accomplishment culminated in the summer of 1975, when my band participated in a national competition, including marching in Walt Disney World’s “America on Parade,” celebrating the nation’s Bicentennial. That shared, unforgettable experience was an early, invaluable lesson in purpose. The goal wasn’t just to play the notes right; it was to hold the entire structure of the music together. When the band director, who procured a brand-new euphonium before my senior year, would stop practice and say, “The low brass is carrying this,” a silent, deep satisfaction would run through our section. The five of us were not the stars, but we were essential.

Finding Community in the Commitment

Quinones dedicates significant space in his book to inspirational stories, such as the visionary high school band directors in Roma, Texas, who used band programs to instill discipline, pride, and opportunity in a challenging environment. This echoes the experience of countless band kids who find a sense of belonging and structure outside the main social currents of high school. The band room became a haven – a place where the hard work was respected and the only currency was effort.

The pursuit of the titular “perfect tuba” – two mythical 1930s York instruments now held by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra – is a compelling quest in the book, yet Quinones finally concludes that the perfection is unattainable and therefore, irrelevant. What matters is the striving -the dedication of the craftsmen, the long hours of practice, and the selfless collaboration.

This commitment transcended my school years. Following graduation, for several decades I continued an on-again, off-again relationship with the horn, playing in an assortment of church ensembles, TUBA Christmas events, and much later, joining a community orchestra and even serving as a substitute band teacher for a couple of years. These groups, often comprised of retired professionals, local teachers, and lifelong hobbyists, are the living embodiment of Quinones’s counter-narrative to modern distraction and commercialism. No one is paid. No one is seeking fame. Everyone shows up simply for the love of the work and the communal joy of making music.

I still remember the satisfaction of performing a particularly challenging (for a 50 year-old hobbyist!) piece at a concert in Birkdale Village. My supporting euphonium part was a fast-moving succession of sixteenth notes – a constant churning of sound that felt impossible to execute perfectly. But after weeks of diligent practice, I nailed it. No one in the audience cheered my performance specifically; they cheered the magnificent sound of the entire band. That feeling – the intoxicating sense of having contributed my utmost to a shared, beautiful creation – was the ultimate reward. It was, as Quinones notes, a feeling entirely earned from within, not bought or found instantly.

The Unexpected Heart of the Bass: Tennessee Tech

One of the ultimate testaments to the dedication Quinones celebrates is the unlikely international phenomenon created by R. Winston Morris at Tennessee Technological University – my school! Starting in 1967 at an institution renowned more for its engineering and sciences than its fine arts, Morris founded the Tennessee Tech Tuba Ensemble (TTTE). This ensemble not only carved out a niche for the low brass but virtually invented the modern tuba ensemble movement worldwide. I had the distinct pleasure of participating in TTTE Tuba Symposiums in 1974 and 1975, along with several hundred low brass players from all over the south.

Over more than 40 years, the depth and breadth of their work has been staggering: they are the most-recorded collegiate tuba ensemble in history (with over 30 commercial albums), have performed in major venues like the Kennedy Center and eight times at Carnegie Hall, and have commissioned or inspired over 1,200 arrangements and compositions. The TTTE’s repertoire spans from classical arrangements and original concert works to jazz (including arrangements of Duke Ellington and Chick Corea), proving that the versatile, foundation-laying tuba is capable of both humble service and astounding virtuosity.

As I read through the book, the inclusion of the TTTE was a pleasant surprise, and a fitting tribute to the work of Morris and the hundreds of tuba and euphonium players who have enriched the program at TTU, many I knew from my college years there.

The Antidote to Modern Life

Quinones suggests that the slow, deliberate work required by the tuba is the “mirror opposite of addiction.” My experience confirms that sentiment. The dopamine hit of mastering a difficult passage, the resilience built by accepting failure and starting over, and the profound connection felt when a hundred people breathe and play as one – this is a narcotic of genuine fulfillment.

In an era of instant access, fleeting trends, and mass distraction, the tuba, baritone horn, and euphonium teach us a radical and beautiful idea: The most valuable things in life are those that require patience and sacrifice. To truly succeed, you must commit to the grunt work, be willing to be the anchor in the back, and trust that your quiet contribution is what allows the entire performance to soar.

The physical horn might be heavy and unglamorous (a fact I confront now in my current on-again, off-again relationship with the instrument due to medical issues limiting my playing), but the lesson it carries is one of the lightest and most enduring: Find your “tuba” – that one hard, noble thing you can devote your creative energy to – and in the striving, you will find your self-worth and your community. The perfect sound might be a myth, but the perfect feeling of having earned it is absolutely real.

The Perfect Tuba is far more than a book about a musical instrument. It is an exuberant ode to tenacity, craftsmanship, and the quiet dignity of a life spent in service to a demanding but rewarding craft. It is highly recommended for anyone looking for an inspiring, profoundly human story about how humble effort can lead to self-fulfillment and a stronger sense of community.

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Part of a regular series on 27gen, entitled Wednesday Weekly Reader.

During my elementary school years one of the things I looked forward to the most was the delivery of “My Weekly Reader,” a weekly educational magazine designed for children and containing news-based current events.

It became a regular part of my love for reading, and helped develop my curiosity about the world around us.