A blast from the past
I attended a concert at Snape Maltings concert hall last night. My brother, who plays the clarinet in the Thomas Mills Second Orchestra, was performing. After the first few features went by (performed by other schools), the Thomas Mills conductor led the orchestra up onto the stage. They seated themselves, with the usual shifting around and turning over of music pages. I saw my brother sit down between two clarinettists, a girl and a boy. The conductor raised his hands.
And, suddenly, I was assaulted by the most vivid flashback I have ever experienced. It's been so long since I've played in an orchestra that I'd forgotten what it was like. But that moment of silence before the piece begins, when every musician has his or her instrument poised and ready, when the blend of tension and anticipation spreads over both performers and audience ... it's one of those perfect, unforgettable moments of time. I hadn't forgotten.
The flashback took me back nearly five years to a performance in West Road Concert Hall, Cambridge--the first of many at that venue. I, too, played the clarinet. During the course of the past year I'd struck up a relationship with the girl who sat next to me in the orchestra, and although I was nearly fifteen at the time, it was a strange kind of relationship: it never extended beyond the orchestra sessions. It was a sort of unspoken but unshakeable love. It seems very strange now, looking back, but at the time it just felt right. I stayed in the orchestra largely because of that girl.
Anyway, the time up until our performance was spent in the large rehearsal room backstage. It's a room I remember very well, both from my time in the Holiday Orchestra (which I began about six years ago) and from the concerts the school orchestra took part in. Nuala (the girl) and I were sitting on a pile of ... memory fails, but it was a pile of something or other with a cloth thrown over. We were tuning our instruments, checking the reeds, and both feeling very nervous at the upcoming performance. But we needn't have been. Our trust in each other helped us through quite a few concerts.
The performance itself was, like all the others, special. West Road is a tremendous concert hall: vast, with a huge sloping auditorium, and acoustics that would make a sound technician gibber. And that moment before the piece began was as magic as always ... except that in those days, I was on the stage, and the audience was up there, on the sloping auditorium, or in the balconies. I could see my parents in the balcony up to my left.
The piece was performed and ended. After tremendous applause, we left the stage. As we went back into the rehearsal room to wait out the rest of the concert, Nuala suggested we find ourselves a balcony and watch the other orchestras play. There was a twinkle in her eye that suggested something new was up ... maybe the time had come for our relationship to extend beyond the rather strange orbit it had occupied until now. So I followed her.
What happened next was ironic. She chose, innocently of course, the balcony right below the one my parents were occupying. They could see us clearly. And although I didn't know what Nuala had in mind, I wussed out. I didn't want my parents seeing me with the girl from the orchestra.
Isn't that pathetic? It ended after that concert. She left the orchestra, and although we went to the same school, she was in the year below me and I never saw her again. All because of one of those silly, ironic moments where the choice you make is easier than the choice you really want to make.
The flashback ended as the piece began on stage, but it left me breathless. I had forgotten what it was like to be part of an orchestra. Not just the music, but the people: the web of friendships, relationships and rivalries that inevitably form. As I looked down on my brother's orchestra starting to play, I realised that the same processes were continuing there right now. I gave up the clarinet a couple of years ago because I no longer had the time I needed to devote to it. And although I will miss the emotion of performance, I have accepted my decision as the best one.
But I hope my brother doesn't give up. I want him to experience the same things that I have, even if they bring pain with them--because that pain, the pain of missed opportunities and old regrets, is what makes us who we are.
I attended a concert at Snape Maltings concert hall last night. My brother, who plays the clarinet in the Thomas Mills Second Orchestra, was performing. After the first few features went by (performed by other schools), the Thomas Mills conductor led the orchestra up onto the stage. They seated themselves, with the usual shifting around and turning over of music pages. I saw my brother sit down between two clarinettists, a girl and a boy. The conductor raised his hands.
And, suddenly, I was assaulted by the most vivid flashback I have ever experienced. It's been so long since I've played in an orchestra that I'd forgotten what it was like. But that moment of silence before the piece begins, when every musician has his or her instrument poised and ready, when the blend of tension and anticipation spreads over both performers and audience ... it's one of those perfect, unforgettable moments of time. I hadn't forgotten.
The flashback took me back nearly five years to a performance in West Road Concert Hall, Cambridge--the first of many at that venue. I, too, played the clarinet. During the course of the past year I'd struck up a relationship with the girl who sat next to me in the orchestra, and although I was nearly fifteen at the time, it was a strange kind of relationship: it never extended beyond the orchestra sessions. It was a sort of unspoken but unshakeable love. It seems very strange now, looking back, but at the time it just felt right. I stayed in the orchestra largely because of that girl.
Anyway, the time up until our performance was spent in the large rehearsal room backstage. It's a room I remember very well, both from my time in the Holiday Orchestra (which I began about six years ago) and from the concerts the school orchestra took part in. Nuala (the girl) and I were sitting on a pile of ... memory fails, but it was a pile of something or other with a cloth thrown over. We were tuning our instruments, checking the reeds, and both feeling very nervous at the upcoming performance. But we needn't have been. Our trust in each other helped us through quite a few concerts.
The performance itself was, like all the others, special. West Road is a tremendous concert hall: vast, with a huge sloping auditorium, and acoustics that would make a sound technician gibber. And that moment before the piece began was as magic as always ... except that in those days, I was on the stage, and the audience was up there, on the sloping auditorium, or in the balconies. I could see my parents in the balcony up to my left.
The piece was performed and ended. After tremendous applause, we left the stage. As we went back into the rehearsal room to wait out the rest of the concert, Nuala suggested we find ourselves a balcony and watch the other orchestras play. There was a twinkle in her eye that suggested something new was up ... maybe the time had come for our relationship to extend beyond the rather strange orbit it had occupied until now. So I followed her.
What happened next was ironic. She chose, innocently of course, the balcony right below the one my parents were occupying. They could see us clearly. And although I didn't know what Nuala had in mind, I wussed out. I didn't want my parents seeing me with the girl from the orchestra.
Isn't that pathetic? It ended after that concert. She left the orchestra, and although we went to the same school, she was in the year below me and I never saw her again. All because of one of those silly, ironic moments where the choice you make is easier than the choice you really want to make.
The flashback ended as the piece began on stage, but it left me breathless. I had forgotten what it was like to be part of an orchestra. Not just the music, but the people: the web of friendships, relationships and rivalries that inevitably form. As I looked down on my brother's orchestra starting to play, I realised that the same processes were continuing there right now. I gave up the clarinet a couple of years ago because I no longer had the time I needed to devote to it. And although I will miss the emotion of performance, I have accepted my decision as the best one.
But I hope my brother doesn't give up. I want him to experience the same things that I have, even if they bring pain with them--because that pain, the pain of missed opportunities and old regrets, is what makes us who we are.
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