The Late Starters Orchestra by Ari L. Goldman

Author:Ari L. Goldman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2014-05-07T19:44:16+00:00

CONDUCTING

When we meet for rehearsals, Magda has no time for small talk. She spreads her score out on two music stands and keeps her violin on a small table nearby in case she needs to demonstrate something musically. Right after we tune, we play.

Being in tune is essential. An out-of-tune instrument offends the ear, especially a sensitive ear like Magda’s. It doesn’t take much for a string instrument to slip out of tune (a change in temperature, a bumpy bus ride, a chance encounter in the elevator); that’s why musicians are always tuning.

I usually managed to arrive at LSO on time, but one Sunday there was emergency subway track work on the Number 1 train and it took me forever to make it downtown. The orchestra was already playing. I found an empty chair, set up my music stand, took out my cello, and looked over the shoulder of another cellist to see what we were up to. I found the spot in the music and fell in line with the rhythm. At one point, we cellists had to shift to the open C string and that’s when I heard it: my C was woefully out of tune. That long commute had apparently taken its toll.

I wanted to sing out, as Mr. J had taught me, but I wondered if I could do it by ear alone, like the pros do. Get the sound in your head, Mr. J said. Sing, but silently this time. I reached for the fine tuner—that little knob below the bridge—but I realized that we were talking about major surgery here, not fine-tuning. I lifted my right hand to the top of the cello, known as the scroll, and gave one of the pegs a sharp twist as I plucked the string. Bingo! My C was back in tune. I felt like a pro! Beaming, I joined my fellow musicians.

The next piece was by Carl Nielsen, an early twentieth-century composer. We started together, but then Magda singled out the cellists for special attention. “It starts with an E,” she said. “I am hearing an A. Who is playing an A?”

My heart sank. I was busted, exposed for being the musical fraud that I was. But just then, a woman in the front of the cello section fessed up. “It was me. I’m sorry, my strings keep slipping. Must be the weather.” I breathed a silent sigh of relief. But just to be sure, I double-checked my note and sang along to be sure. It was an E, after all. I had tuned right and stayed in tune.

Magda, of course, worried about notes, but even more than the notes, she cared about rhythms. In one piece by Edvard Grieg we were having a particularly rough time. She told the violins to put down their instruments and clap out the rhythms while the cello section kept playing the base line. “Again,” she said. “And again.” She had us do this exercise six times. “That’s better,” she finally acknowledged.

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