JOHNNY ONE NOTE

        I loved music, but for some reason music didn’t have the same affection for me. Dad played the clarinet, harmonica, and could sing with the best of them. Music was my mother’s first love. She played the trombone well enough to win awards and scholarships, and even played in a dance band. But her angelic voice was her real gift. If she hadn’t devoted her life first and foremost to her family, she may well have been on the road to stardom. So, with this talented gene pool, why was I born a tone deaf Johnny One Note?

Max and Florence both played in the Morgan High School Band.

        It was a family tradition to wander the neighborhood at Christmas time going from house to house singing carols. My sister, Kay, had inherited my parents’ musical talents and was appalled and embarrassed by the sounds coming out of my mouth. “Mom, would you please ask Francis to just move his lips and pretend to sing? He’s making us all sound bad,” she implored.

Max Rogers family carolers. 1962.

        Fred Webb, our High School choir director, must have been of the same opinion. After two weeks in his class he discovered from whom that terrible sound was coming, and begged me to drop chorus and take a different elective.

        It was in James Mason’s band class that I finally found my musical home. The trumpet could play beautiful sounds as long as I could blow and press the right valves. Mr. Mason was a bit concerned about my embouchure, but my mother felt that the trumpet was the right instrument for me. I rose early, usually at 5:30 in the morning, and bugled my way through various trumpet exercises. I was excited, but our next door neighbor, Wilford Smith, was horrified and complained loudly to my parents. Why should he care? He was an old military man and should have been used to early morning bugle calls. But the result of his protests was that I used a mute while practicing.

        Some of my best buddies were also squawking and tooting away on their instruments. George Taylor played the oboe, Dave Clark the clarinet, and Dave Beck rocked on the French horn.

        James Mason was a master at his profession. He 

James Mason

soon had our gang of musical misfits producing harmonic sounds that stirred our emotions and brought tears to our eyes. Meanwhile it was our lack of harmony that brought tears to Mr. Mason’s eyes.

        It was in the basement of BY High that Maestro Mason taught us to appreciate the power of good music. It would become a joy and a comfort to us throughout our lives. If I had to pick one instrument that tugged at my heart strings, it would be the oboe and George Taylor made it come alive and sing with celestial wonder. “Gabriel’s Oboe” from the movie, Mission, has always been a favorite oboe solo of mine.

        We won high honors in many regional and state music competitions, but there was one I will never forget. Our first number was to open with an incredible French horn fanfare. Dave Beck was at his best. I had heard him nail his solo to perfection many times. The lights dimmed, the audience hushed, and James Mason picked up his baton. Standing tall and proud with his arms outstretched like a giant bird, he swooped into the down beat. I glanced at the French horn section. This was Beck’s big moment. What? He was still fumbling with his mouthpiece as the baton fell. He quickly jammed it into his instrument and blew. It wasn’t the heart stopping fanfare that rang out that evening, but a loud, obnoxious BLAT! After a quick moment of shocked silence the audience and band members alike had a good laugh. Composing ourselves we were ready to give it another shot. This time Beck nailed it! At the end of the number the audience rose to their feet clapping and cheering us on. Beck had been redeemed.

 James Mason conducting BY High Concert Band.

        The verdict came down from our parent school, BYU. Our High School would have a marching band and be represented in Provo’s Fourth of July parade. And the band members would wear BYU’s old marching band uniforms. It was a scramble for the mothers to get these college size uniforms to fit their high school kids. James Mason made it clear that this was not his idea. He didn’t sign on to be a marching band drill instructor. But, being a true, loyal soldier he would comply. And if we were going to do this, we would be the "best damn marching band" in the parade. And we were!

BY High Marching Band on parade. Francis with his trumpet, Dave Beck with his French Horn.

        After my mission, I took piano lessons from Richard Hatch, one of my favorite missionary companions. I learned just enough to memorize a few popular songs, the kind that would impress and lure beautiful BYU coeds. My wife said it worked. I said, Whatever it takes! 

        Today my musical talents are rather limited. But I do play a mean conch shell!

Francis playing tunes on the Conch Shell.