Mozart and Strauss

During the long rides on the Contiki bus, we mostly listened to the kind of rap music my grandparents could call racket.  The beat pounds ceaselessly, and the rappers boast of their needlessly lavish possessions.  Due to an overexposure of contemporary trash, I fear my vocabulary may have diminished.

Fortunately, an opportunity arose to resuscitate some of my dead brain cells at a Mozart and Strauss concert in Vienna.  I donned my best outfit, which left me slightly underdressed.  The concert took place in an oval room wherein the designer saw fit to carve ornate squares near the ceiling.  I would not exude such effort to place time-consuming details so far from eye level, but the space was well suited to reverberate the sound.

The orchestra took their places on stage.  The violinist stood out, as he was the only one not seated.  The taut horsehair struck the strings, and the collision created sound waves that bounced off the wood of the violin and then ricocheted into the open air.  My friend Dan studied sound recording at college, so he alerted me to be mindful of the soundscape all around me.  I watched the violinist’s hands and noted the synchronicity of his movements and the notes produced.

I could see the sounds as well as feel it behind my ears.  As the music encircled the room, I tried to distinguish each instrument separately——the cello, the clarinet, the violin——and then as a whole.  For some songs, the drummer had to sit out and wait his turn.  Periodically, I watched him to see how he occupied himself during his breaks.  The songs didn’t require much percussion, so the drummer moved nearly as much as I did in the audience.  The major difference between us was that he was getting paid, and I had to pay for my ticket. 

A pale woman with a stern visage stepped onto the stage wearing a puffy green dress.  She opened her mouth and emitted notes so high my ears could barely detect their frequency.  Although I did not understand the lyrics sung in a foreign language, I was impressed by the clarity of her voice.  I struggle to avoid mumbling.  I aspire to enunciate my words, but this woman was gifted beyond the basics of human speech. 

The concert——both the music and the costumes——was so old-fashioned that it was difficult for me to imagine the musicians performing modern tasks like sending text messages or driving home in their Volkswagens.  I wondered what movies they watched late at night sitting in their pajamas on the couch.  I recalled a painting I saw in Dublin’s art museum that depicted a clown talking to an acrobat backstage.  The portrait was concerned with unmasking the performer’s true identity.  For those in the audience, the Mozart and Strauss concert was a classy night and a dreamlike memory.  For the musicians, this was just another late shift.