Concert
They begin with the four seasons, which is appropriate enough given the day's weather. The soloist has a blocked nose and breathes in noisily before every entrance and crescendo, which is distracting, but provides one way of telling the future. Another comes from watching the bass player, whose heavy features remind me of a stereotypical mafia thug. When his part drops his face elongates, and he twists it sideways and frowns in concentration in the fast passages, slapping bow against strings like he has a grudge. He is uncertain of his tuning and listens very carefully, occasionally adjusting it during rests.
The violin and viola players cannot move their respective heads, so their expression is through the eyebrows, the cheeks, and in the soloist's case, the whole body. He seems to know his part off by heart, facing the others and the audience in turn, sharing private jokes with the first violinist, but he still has the sheet music out.
The cellist can move his head, and he does, sometimes nodding or moving side to side, sometime resting his cheek on the strings. As though they give him some comfort. He frowns at the music and looks up for his cue. From his eyes you could imagine he is in love with the soloist, but later when he plays solo I decide that he is in love with the music.
Later on, during Pachelbel's canon, I notice that the violist, whose concentration normally appears mournful, has a silly little grin on his face. My friend, who knows the music, chuckles under her breath. "He's adding bits," she whispers to me.
Part way through the concert the rain that has been threatening all afternoon begins. I feel it before I hear it, as a cold breeze in the warm building.
The night ends with a fast walk through cold rain to the car. My teeth are chattering once I get there. The heater is broken so we turn on the air conditioning to dry us out and continue to shiver. I cannot stop laughing on the way home.
The violin and viola players cannot move their respective heads, so their expression is through the eyebrows, the cheeks, and in the soloist's case, the whole body. He seems to know his part off by heart, facing the others and the audience in turn, sharing private jokes with the first violinist, but he still has the sheet music out.
The cellist can move his head, and he does, sometimes nodding or moving side to side, sometime resting his cheek on the strings. As though they give him some comfort. He frowns at the music and looks up for his cue. From his eyes you could imagine he is in love with the soloist, but later when he plays solo I decide that he is in love with the music.
Later on, during Pachelbel's canon, I notice that the violist, whose concentration normally appears mournful, has a silly little grin on his face. My friend, who knows the music, chuckles under her breath. "He's adding bits," she whispers to me.
Part way through the concert the rain that has been threatening all afternoon begins. I feel it before I hear it, as a cold breeze in the warm building.
The night ends with a fast walk through cold rain to the car. My teeth are chattering once I get there. The heater is broken so we turn on the air conditioning to dry us out and continue to shiver. I cannot stop laughing on the way home.