Yesterday I made my concert debut as an alleged violist with the community philharmonic orchestra that I starting rehearsing with last month. Although I still haven’t shaken off all of my dust and rust, I managed to keep up with the other violas while avoiding any major auditory dissonance. (And in moments of doubt, I mimed the bowing.)
The afternoon concert was held in the town hall, and I was surprised that the hall was absolutely packed with an audience of about 150. Unfortunately, it was packed mostly with young children, as the concert was advertised heavily by the local library as a “family concert.” Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great to expose young children to classical music, but the selection of music was a bit highbrow for 5 year olds, half of whom were either talking or crying for the entire hour, even during the Gershwin (our “catchy” number).
And the Moldau. Geez, if I knew I’d be playing for toddlers, I wouldn’t have driven myself to near mania trying to master the intricacies of this technically-difficult piece just to be distracted by a temper tantrum in the balcony. Forget the pre-concert cellphone reminder; we needed an announcement about ensuring that your children have been properly snacked and napped.
Of course, having any audience was a joy. Playing music was a joy. Chatting with my fellow musicians before and after the concert was a joy. Watching the children gather around the trombones and tubas after the concert in wonder was a definite joy. It made me remember just how magical, really, it is to make music.
At last week’s “dress” rehearsal, an elderly man who plays the cello asked me how I was enjoying the orchestra. “Oh, I love it,” I said. “It’s so nice to be playing music again. Even if I’m not very good.”
He smiled and leaned close to me, as if telling me a secret. “I play the cello very badly,” he said. “But some things are still worth doing very badly.”
Amen to that, brother.
