Daily Wisdom 06-18-2001 Symphony

The cacophony of the orchestra's tuning filled the hall with anticipatory chatter. Tonight's performance was being billed as the composer's grand masterpiece, the penultimate work of his already long list of successes. The rows were filled to capacity, with many agreeing to stand in the back corners and the anteroom of the concert hall. The structure was brimming with hearers. Tonight, the city's attention was focused squarely on this place.

The audience grew quiet as the conductor entered stage left and took his place at the podium. As he turned to greet the gathered, an excited gasp rose from the crowd. The composer himself would be conducting tonight! The unexpected honor brought the audience to its feet with vigorous applause and glowing faces. As the standing ovation gradually came to an end, the conductor bowed the last of many bows and turned to face the musicians. He tapped the podium with his baton and raised his hands.

The first bars were stunning. Not a head was turned from the stage as the harmony now wafted, now charged through the cramped hall, giving even the most uncomfortably positioned listener the impression that he was elsewhere in a much more open space with much fresher air. The music soothed and inspired both seated and standing. The buildup did not do this masterpiece justice.

The first movement rolled on in rapturous continuance for quite a while. Then, almost imperceptibly, as the billowing waves of musical ecstasy ebbed and flowed about the enthralled audience, a stray, rebellious note sounded from the brass section. It was not a mistake, but rather a willful flouting of the composition. These musicians simply did not make mistakes, especially not in a performance. This note was a shaking fist in the face of the composer, an egotistical blare of defiance.

At first, the audience and orchestra tried to ignore the mutinous musician, who continued to insert his own "interpretations" into the composition every so often. Soon, though, others began to join the league of disharmony, and before long, harmony was what every listener was longing for. The once-beautiful symphony had become a battleground of dissonance

. Still, the composer continued to conduct, though it seemed as if every musician was watching a different conductor, all of whom led the proud, egotistical performers further and further away from the original score. This did not deter the conductor, whose bold and energetic gestures could be seen easily by those few faithful musicians who still focused on his plan for this rapidly degenerating mob of rebels. Here a flautist, there a tuba player focused on the real conductor, convinced that he, if anyone could, would carry them through to the end of this once rapturous opus.

Some musicians packed up their instruments and left. Others came to blows and after the fisticuffs were in no condition to continue on with the piece. Others gathered in smaller ensembles and set up on the streets without, playing for passers by. Many audience members left in disgust and despair. Those who remained where called to the stage by the conductor to fill in the gaps left by the departing revolutionaries. A few stayed with the conductor to the very end.

The masterpiece did carry on, and the trusting few who were convinced of the conductor's expertise even in such a desperate situation were there to hear the last movement. While the others left to play their own songs or fight with each other or simply rebel in whatever way they could think of, those remaining were privileged to hear the final movement. The sound of it cannot be described with words.

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