11:34 p.m. - 2003-12-03
Symphony in Memories
I’m writing this from the sixth row of one of the most prestigious concert halls in the world, with musicians from the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra straggling onto the stage in front of me. The only sound at the moment is a single oboe, ringing clear and bright through the empty hall. A French Horn joins in, and their scales mingle with each other, creating an impromptu duet. An unexpected guitar appears, not who I expected to hear, and the three musicians begin their nightly ritual.
Soon a clarinet will join them – I can see him sucking on his reed in the way that any non reed-players always find disgusting. Being a long time saxophone player, it doesn’t bother me in the least. He disappears off stage with the reed in his mouth, probably off to find a better reed before rehearsal begins.
A familiar face appears and smiles at me, and even though I know he only knows who I am due to a well-placed boyfriend, it nonetheless makes me feel kind of impressive to be on a first name basis with the musicians I was awestruck by as a child. The nice thing about this symphony is that people stay here for a long time. Many of these people have been here since the very first time I saw the symphony, back in 1990, and the continuity is nice.
The conductor appears, stopping every few seats to chat, and he smiles when he catches my eye. I still have a hard time remembering that he’s the Conductor – my first memories of him are from the age of seven, when he coached my baseball team. His daughter’s name is also Sarah, and our families have known each other for a long time. I think it was my relationship with him that first made me realise that musicians, even though they are, in local terms, relatively famous, are really no different than regular people. The illusion was completely shattered when I dated the son of a symphony musician, and nowadays I know so many of them that I find it hard to remember the days when watching them sitting up on stage felt like witnessing superstars.
True sign of a geek, I guess, when you grow up idolizing professional classical musicians.
The organ starts up, and even though I don’t particularly like organ music I can’t help but be impressed by this one, the largest in Canada. It’s absolutely beautiful, and the sky high pipes gleam, the copper curlicues polished to a perfect sheen.
There are probably a dozen people playing now, the oboe still noodling away, joined now by a piccolo, two French horn players, and a drum set that has sort of taken over. Percussionists wander in and out, various sticks in their hands, and string players begin to straggle in and tune. The clarinet player has obviously found a reed that suits him, and his quick fingers run through the familiar scales.
On concert night, they will all be flawlessly dressed in their tuxedos and dresses, a sea of penguins mingling with the black the women are required to wear. But tonight, dress rehearsal, their clothes are as different as their instruments.
I glance at the clock, and see that before too long I will have to join them myself. My bells wait patiently backstage for me, ready for me to join the rowdy clamor on stage. But for now, I will wait in the audience and remember that once upon a time, this seat was the most magical place in the world. It was a different hall, one far less beautiful than this one, that first brought me to the symphony, and many of the faces have changed. But when the conductor lifts his baton, nothing will have changed.
