A Night at the Concert Hall

Darkness. Your eyes can see only the outlines of the many people who surround you in the crowded and shadowy space, and the oddly shaped objects you all hug close to your bodies. You are waiting, listening to the melodious harmonies that fill the air and are slowly dying, fading away until all that is left is but a ghostly echo ringing throughout the nearby hall. You pay no attention to the clapping of hands you cannot yet see, but watch instead as figures from the nearby light come into the darkness you inhabit. They tell you “good luck” and “break a leg” as they go by, smiling out of relief and feelings of accomplishment. Their time in the spotlight is over, but yours is drawing closer with each second that passes you by. You inch nearer and nearer to the edge of the shadows, where the darkness first overcomes the light, in readiness for the moment in which you are called to perform.

As the last musician steps out of the light’s domain and into that of its opposite, the speaker who remains announces the forthcoming arrival of your group. You promptly depart from the darkness and step underneath the bright beams of the artificial lights hanging overhead. You try not to squint your slowly adjusting eyes as you quickly travel to your designated seat on the right side of the spacious stage. As you sit down you allow yourself a moment to glance at your new surroundings. There are many chairs on the stage, arranged in sets of two for the players’ convenience. Black stands are situated in front of each pair, ready to hold the music that is soon to be played. You notice the conductor’s platform, which is raised inches above the ground and centered for everyone to clearly see, much like a preacher’s pulpit. The people around you, your friends, are finding their places and making themselves comfortable, as you have already done. There is nothing that surprises you, for you have been here many times before.

You look into the assembled crowd for only a moment as you move your instrument into the ready position above your left shoulder. Your left hand feels the smooth, light yellow wood that constitutes your violin’s body, as well as the glossy black fingerboard on which your fingers dance. Your right hand is wrapped around a long wand of black graphite connected to pale white horse hairs, ready to make contact with the four metal strings that create frequencies both low and high. The audience is engulfed in a shadow that makes it difficult to distinguish specific attendants, but that does not stop you from cursorily searching for your family members. You fail to identify anyone of your supporters in the dark mass that is before you, so you return your attention back to the activity on the broad stage.

Most of your group members are already practicing, so you begin to do the same. You quietly go over a few select segments of the concert that you have the most trouble with, allowing yourself to be more comfortable with the repertoire before the event begins. The current sounds being emitted by your group are not pleasant; clashing notes and differing tempos are the only sounds the audience can hear. The fact that the audience members do not leave is a sign of the trust they have placed in your group to make beautiful and entertaining music for them to enjoy. It is your job as performers not to betray that trust, and so you continue to practice. The cacophony upon the stage quickly fades into silence with the arising of the first cello from her chair, the accepted signal for the orchestra to stand up as well. You are pillars of silence as the concert mistress steps into the light and gracefully makes her way to the most prominent seat by the platform’s edge. She acknowledges the applause being given to her and then angles her body toward your group; you may now take your seat to tune.

Tuning is a sacred ritual among musicians; it is what binds each instrument together, no matter its composition, shape, or sound. The concert mistress gives you her personal sound frequency, leading each section to find one that perfectly matches. This process is akin to the tale of the Pied Piper; the concert mistress is your piper and you are the children dutifully following her all the way to her specific pitch. Each instrument and every musician are becoming one, united through the orchestra’s most important note: A. When the last of the violins has tuned, the hall becomes a place of absolute stillness. You, your group, and the audience are all waiting, anticipating the inception of the night’s main event.

The conductor chooses this moment to emerge from his previous location backstage to the forefront of the stage, the audience applauding his every step. He acknowledges its presence, then turns his back to it and steps upon his centered platform, focusing solely on you and your peers.  He is the man you rely upon to direct you, a steady beacon throughout each piece and every crises that could possibly occur during the maelstrom of notes to come. He in turn trusts you to follow his tacit commands and to play to the best of your musical ability. The concert hall is utterly silent as he raises his arms in command for you to do the same with your instrument. Everyone is waiting, ready, and as he brings his baton down you promptly begin the first piece of the night.
The harmonies you play are not those of a simple tune, simple and unassuming. Your notes are layered, full in sound, and portray a unique image to each listener. The sounds go by in a flurry, themes appearing once and then disappearing until they are resurrected as adaptations later on. Your instruments, though different in size and range, fit together like puzzle pieces to create a consonance between the chords you play and the sounds that now flow throughout the hall’s airy space. There is trust among you, between your sections and inside them as well. You know you can count on those with whom you perform because you all want this concert to be your very best. You continue to play, pausing only short moments to catch your breath between pieces, and before you realize it you find yourself approaching the grand finale. The notes are going by even quicker now; your fingers are flying across your fingerboards and your bows are shaking back and forth upon the strings as though they are having convulsions. You are accelerating all the way to the very last note, the loudest and grandest of them all. You hit it with gusto, and then, once again, everything is still. The last chord rings out, refusing to fade away into the air, but it is soon covered by the rapid applause of the families and friends seated before you. The conductor, lowering his arms, smiles at you in congratulations and you smile back with relief, glad that the night is now over.

Back in the dressing room where you and your friends first assembled all those hours ago, before you all entered into the darkness of the shadows, you carefully lay your violin back into its resting place in the lining of its oblong case. Your stand partner is beside you, doing the same with her beloved instrument. As she shuts her case and prepares to leave the room she says something that creates a contrasting blend of anticipation and dread inside of you: “See you at practice on Monday!”

You must now commence preparation for next season’s concert.