Off-Key Themes

I set out with this piece to describe to very distinct concerts – a ballet and Lollapalooza – through the use of the sonata form. This is what became of it. -SM

Tiny reflections reflecting from chandeliers flutter against the gilded ceiling. Muted pink flats scuff against ornate patterns. Their owners struggle to escape the cloying gravity of their granite guardians, wrapped in grey peacoats and more austere attire. A flurry of activity in the atrium orchestrated to some unknown rhythm. Children and adult alike imbued with light-footed excitement.A delicate choreography laced between last-minute snack purchases and souvenir shopping.

Serene chimes emanating from the walls themselves vibrate within the bustling hall. Sparkling jewels of eyes lock onto vaulted doors. Their owners navigate toward the yawning portals of the cavernous theater, enthralled in saccharine fantasies and coiled anticipation. A chauffeur guides every guest to their prescribed position. A cacophony of animal calls grumbles ominously from beneath. Faceless musicians, thrown below deck, fearlessly continue their tune-ups despite their imprisonment.

Grey skies beget a drizzle. The crowd draws closer together. Uncertain if from warmth or anticipation, a magnetic draw toward the twin black cabinets. Bluish smoke hangs thick. The crowd hazy from smog and source. Tens of small orange flares scattered in the midst, wafting sickly sweet smells into the air.

Clouds give in to sun. The crowd quiets in anticipation. A man steps forward on the spartan stage, but alas no performance; just a Hawaiian shirt and a sound check. An empty stage again. The crowd presses closer to the edge. Two figures emerge now, applause growing with realization, as the musicians take their place.

A lone note escapes from the pit, first solo, then swelling with instrumentation. The lights of the theater diminish as do the whispers. Ephemeral silence as the cogs wind-up for their release. Their operator, hardly more than a baton and disembodied head, makes a leisurely approach. The sharply honed point rises for the strike. A delicate downward drift signals the overture. Dulcet notes encompass the entire hall in delicate warmth as the intricate scene is set.

No awknowledgement of applause. No orchestrated performance, no, an attack. The first rat-a-tat staccato, a false start, or a prelude to an eruption of sound. Thunder from the ground shakes rain loose. Passion interrupts silence, or the reverse. Two instruments rest on the stage, but with them their caretakers craft an entire orchestra of sound.

Soft feet leap back and forth from prescribed position. Rise and fall in scale mirrors movement. Emotion contained in the sweep of a leg, bend of a bow, placement of a note. No words fall from made-up lips. No segue, non-sequitur, into elaborate song. The body alone, with harmonic accompaniment, the sole device of communication.

Slender fingers brush delicately against synthetic keys. Raven locks swing wildly from frenzied moves in time to tune. Fever pitch of song, not verse itself, conveys unbridled passion of her craft. Her stoic partner more grounded, subdued. Focus enticingly apparent from strumming hands and pedaling feet. Two on-stage characters, juxtaposed in movement and grace, yet exceedingly similar in conveying their art.

The audience slowly drawn forward, entranced. Ballerinas-to-be imagine themselves on stage. Faeries dote playfully on every cherubim desire, a come-to-life Tinker Bell. The crowd wrapped in music’s movement. Each fan roused into independent rhythm. All dancing to the same tune, yet every snowflake twirl and sway, unique.

The performers switch, seamless, from piece to piece. No time for claps after each denoument. No acknowledgement, no respite; intent only on offering up ever greater music. No bows seen from the pit. Applause for the dancers, yes, but none for their accompaniment. Faceless performers, whose only intent is to produce a backdrop for lithe dancers to leap and bound.

Velvet curtain falls on the shimmering scene, peotic prancing finished. The last melodic notes hang in suspense a fraction longer, a final glimpse of Neverland. The audience, silent silhouettes, now erupt, erect and applauding. Curtain pulls back, revealing not characters, but the performers unmasked. One by one they bow, showered with adoration. And yet all the while the musicians go unnoticed, unrecognized, unacknowledged, faceless.

The thunderous bass ends its last trembling reverberations. Hairs, stood on end from an hour of blasting chords, slowly fall flat against stilled arm. Sullen realization dawns on all that the last note has been played. The crowd applauds ever more boisterously. Jumping and pressing forward, clamoring for just one more song. As if recognizing for the first time that the crowd exists, the woman looks out, says “thank you”, and departs.