The pandemic has made most of us realize how much of “normal” life we took for granted. In retrospect I’m grateful for the things that I mourn the loss of: casual dinners with friends, birthday parties, Thanksgiving with 12 guests for dinner, all of whom decide to congregate in the overheated kitchen, and the list goes on. We all miss the ease of normal life. The pandemic has also given me a chance to become aware of things that I never thought I’d miss about my job as an orchestral musician.
In September the orchestra was given permission by the health authorities to go back to Maison Symphonique, for the first time since March, to rehearse, and, briefly, play for a live audience. Despite that the live audiences were tiny (250 people in a hall that holds 2000) it was delightful to hear their applause. Since October 1st, we’ve continued to play “concerts”, which are mostly for later broadcast, though some have been broadcast live. It turns out that the presence of cameras and microphones is no substitute for a live audience. That may sound self-evident, but when you live the difference, you really feel it. Playing a concert only for recording feels a lot like playing a dress rehearsal, but the conductor never goes back and rehearses anything.
Rehearsals have their own atmosphere on stage. Depending on the repertoire, and the conductor, people can still get nervous and feel a lot of pressure, but in general, it’s pretty relaxed. We’re there to get through the music, figure out what the conductor wants, get used to the endurance necessary for each work, (speaking as a brass player), recognize rhythmic trouble spots or intonation issues, etc. etc. There are many parts to the rehearsal process and they can be challenging, but we’re professionals and it’s all familiar.
Concerts have their own, very different, atmosphere. No matter how much we’ve rehearsed (and it’s often not quite enough if you canvas the musicians), when we get on stage it can feel like we’ve never seen the music before. We are in our black concert clothes, in heels or snug fitting suits, often less comfortable than our normal street wear, so things don’t feel like they usually do. The lighting is also different for concerts, because the hall lights go down and the spotlights are on us. Every concert can produce the feeling of one of those nightmares where you show up to a concert but you’re expected to play an instrument that’s not your own, or you forgot your mouthpiece, or to put clothes on. When I was younger I’d often get this lurching moment of panic when I would arrive at work on concert night, thinking I’d got the time wrong because nobody happened to be around as I walked in.
Most importantly, there is the presence of people. You watch them trickle in to the hall as you sit in your seat warming up, some of them dressed to the nines, others in jeans and tees, but all of them there to hear you play. They got dressed, got in their cars or hopped on the metro, and made the effort to hear you and your colleagues play some great pieces, live. They could have turned on any number of recordings or watched any number of recorded concerts on Youtube, but instead they came to hear your orchestra perform a one-time only concert that they won’t be able to listen to again later. This one-time only feeling is what makes a live concert have this air of expectancy and excitement that a rehearsal, or a recorded concert (sans audience) will never have. I might be alone in this, but I have not gotten nervous for these recorded concerts at all. The listeners, when they aren’t sitting there, are easily forgotten. I find myself pretty much ignoring the mics as though they don’t matter. Some musicians might find it scarier that every note is being recorded for posterity, but it doesn’t affect me that way at all. I predict that when that first audience arrives after the pandemic is over I will find myself getting choked up. I never thought I could miss those nerves I get, that jittery feeling before a concert, but I actually do. I also miss acknowledging the applause of a real audience. When we bow to an empty hall it feels absurd.
It used to be that the presence of recording equipment added a certain frisson to a regular concert. Now, it’s business as usual. This is my last season with the OSM and I hope that by the end of it we’ll have some of those live audience concerts under our belt. I wouldn’t want to end my career in this anti-climactic way. On the other hand, I’m grateful that we still get to play together on stage, with or without an audience. I’m glad I get to see my colleagues, albeit with half their faces covered so that I sometimes have to look twice before I recognize them. It has been surreal, but it’s better than not doing any playing at all.
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