On Symphonies and Operas.

I always have my breath taken away just before the conductor strides in from stage right.  Dozens of human beings, arranged in order, dressed in formal wear, clutching an instrument they have been with for thousands of hours of their lives before this moment, each of them an expert in not only that instrument but the entire orchestra, knowing all the roles, all trusting each other to do the right thing at the right time, all to produce music they themselves won't hear as well as I, because they have their mind on performance.

They adjust their posture, chat amiably in hushed tones, there's a flash of stifled giggles here and there, someone else is covertly adjusting a wardrobe problem.  It is this moment, when they are poised to take the risk of live performance, ready to receive the maestro, that causes joy to flash through my body in it's varied physical forms, a welling up of a tear sometimes, a lump in my throat in others. On my best days I think to myself the next time I'm complaining about how life sucks, I need to remember that I also get to do this.

Then the conductor strides out, patting a shoulder affectionately here, acknowledging someone with a smile and or a low wave there, weaving through the orchestra on the way to the podium, the master as servant.  Without these people the conductor is just someone standing with their back to the crowd waving a stick while humming.  This gesture of acknowledgment is moving.

The conductor will finally turn to the first violin and offer a handshake and poite bow, another acknowledgment that one requirement (of many) for sitting in this chair is the ability to take over for maestro.  Taking the podium the conductor will issue his first invitation to the orchestra by raising both hands, they all stand, the conductor turns, and they will bow together to the audience, an acknowledgment that if we weren't here no one would be.

This moment is one of the most sublime expressions of human social order.  No one coerced to participate, everyone has worked their entire life in an uncertain and often unrewarding profession to be in the seat they are in at this moment.  It's a musical moonshot, all of humanity travels with us.

Then the music begins...

With Opera, the task is even more daunting.  Not only does one have to burden all of the task of an orchestra to make music, but one must tell a story, act, move, jump from solo performance to chorus with the ease of a drunk mumbling to pigeons, all while in a heavy costume under hot lights.

The moments of amazement come to me when a soloist, or a duo, or a trio, transports me to a place where I literally forget that I am different from the music.  Then gently I am let down to touch earth, realizing that all these people, those on stage in the orchestra pit, just altered my very consciousness.  This takes my breath away.  Often I can only manage a weak and uncertain "bravo" because of the lump  in my throat.

I like a lot of different kinds of music.  I have been to thousands of live performances, from punk rock garage bands to jazz legends to open-mikes to folk festivals.  I plan to attend many more.  I like live music.  Symphony orchestras and opera consistently possess an intense concentration of human, voluntarily-imposed, order.

Chaos has it's place, and there's plenty of it in live music performance:  mistakes are made, cues are missed, off nights happen.  Just as consistently chaos works in another way to enhance the performance: performers are particularly on, the right harmony is struck dynamically, someone takes a risk that pays off.  There's an important place for chaos.

Something gets me about the order, though.  I find it so hopeful that humans can do this.