Concert

I’m more excited about this concert than any others I’ve performed in. It’s nothing new for me, standing backstage in my white blouse and long black skirt, the other children playing through fragments of music in a final attempt to get it right. As usual, I am hoping my half-size violin will stay in tune; turning the keys is a tortuous operation that can result in the loud slap of a broken string and a return backstage to replace it. As we file onto the stage, violinists first, I scan across the audience and think I can see my parents.

Once we are all in our seats, the young leader of the orchestra comes onto the stage, bowing to the audience and indicating to the oboes to play one last reedy A for a final tuning check. I go through the motions, carefully running my bow over the third string. It sounds about right and I’m not going to risk changing anything now.

Then the conductor arrives and we all stand up to further applause from the audience of families and friends. A brief moment of concentrated silence; the conductor looks around the orchestra to make sure we are ready. Then she raises her baton and sweeps it into the air, bringing us all in on the first, clear downbeat. The second violin part is difficult and I struggle along, missing some of the faster bits and wincing at the high notes that require me to slide my left hand up the neck of the violin. I haven’t yet mastered the muscle memory that enables the better players to know exactly where to land their fingers on the string so every note is truly in tune.

My moment of excitement comes when we get to Finlandia by Sibelius. I lay my precious violin on my chair, walk to the back of the stage to join the percussion section and take up my position behind two huge cymbals on a stand. When everybody is ready, the conductor brings in the brass section with a series of proud fanfares. I wait, counting carefully, listening to the music, ready for the brisk march that forms my cue.

The moment is joyful. I lift the heavy cymbals, making sure I am holding the leather straps correctly and that they are lined up so, when I anticipate the beat and swing them together, the cymbals strike each other squarely exactly on time.

I learn later that my parents are on the edges of their seats, watching my fringe blow up and down with each blast of air, terrified of all that could go wrong. But I know I am in control and, at the end of the concert, I am beaming with pride.

Now, as an adult, I am standing backstage again. The nerves have become worse and I’ve been tetchy for a day or two. In my mind I’m running through every detail of the percussion section layout. Have I got the timpani perfectly in tune, are my drumsticks all in their starting positions, have I arranged the instruments so I can move easily between them? It’s a relief when I can mingle with the first musicians to walk onto the stage and check that everything is ready. After what seems like an eternity of waiting, the conductor looks across to me and we give each other a small nod. He raises his baton and whisks away my nerves. This is my domain and I am in my element.

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