Mea Culpa, Plus Some Messiah

Two things.  One: I'm afraid I'm doing this all wrong.  Two: I saw, and learned, something amazing last night.

First my misgivings.  I am, as you probably know, a novice bloggeur.  (If I were my sister, I would be a bloggeuse) (which, to me, sounds less like a mucous-based nasal obstruction, and more like a rarely-imported, expensive and highly smelly French cheese)  In the all-of-seven days that I've been unloading a variety of thoughts, opinions and other such written stuff here, I'm afraid I've been having too much fun, and talking too long.  Writing tooooooo much.  (I can't guarantee, of course, that this will change anytime soon, but I'm just putting it out there)

I love writing, I love words, I spend monstrous amounts of time alone, so this forum is, for me, something like one of those breathing tubes they used to build into coffins, in the Victorian era.  Just in case the deceased wasn't really dead yet.  Life saving. (Although, I'm grateful to say, without the satin lining and the claustrophobia)

Mea culpa.  I have grievous faults.  I'll try to be better.  But I make no guarantees.  (Think: divine intervention?)

Now -- What I Saw Last Night.

As some or all of you may know, my husband/domestic partner/civilly unionized/significant other/boyfriend of long standing, Dr. John Sheridan, is a musician, and has recently taken the position of Director of Music at Christ Episcopal Church, in New Brunswick NJ.  The program at Christ Church, built over some seventeen years by the redoubtable Mark Trautmann, John's predecessor, sometimes leads John to opportunities outside the sanctuary.  Last night, for example, he was guest conductor for a concert of Advent-focused sections of Handel's 'Messiah', at the State Theater in New Brunswick, with orchestra, chorus, and four soloists.  Few knew, I think, that this was exactly his second orchestral conducting endeavor.  Anywhere.  Ever. 

As it happened, I didn't get to see John before the performance, so I had no idea whether he was nervous, calm, frantic, elated, or any combination of these, and more.  For myself, I was semi-frantic.

Physically, of course, I was fine.  I was seated in about the tenth row, pretty much dead center.  A German friend sat on my left, and friends from Christ Church were on my right.  I had exactly nothing to do but sit quietly and politely, as John and the musicians did their jobs.  But for me, this kind of helpless attendance is nerve-wracking, mostly because, as the oldest child with six younger, accident-prone siblings, I have an over-developed sense of responsibility, and a deeply-ingrained rescue mechanism.  In musical situations, though, I'm painfully aware that I am utterly helpless.  If something were to go wrong, there would be nothing, -- aside from yelling 'Fire', which I think is illegal -- absolutely nothing I could do.  Not to diminish John's musicianship at all, but when he performs, I often feel that I'm watching my dearly beloved, standing far away, at the very tippy-top of the tallest ski jump on earth, adjusting his ski goggles.  Through my binoculars, I think I see a loose snap on his parka.  And where's his ski cap?  But before I can warn him, and as the clock strikes 8, he begins his descent. 

Well.  This is what I learned, watching this man, who was standing on a podium that was a little too tall, struggling subtly with a music stand that was set a little too low, contending with a baton that was a little too evasive, and facing an orchestra, a harpsichordist, four soloists, and a bank of choral singers.  The thick, thick score of Handel's 'Messiah'.   And a house of listeners behind him.

From the moment he took that podium, and faced the forces, he was a man with a focus.  There was, to my eye, no question of what he wanted, when he wanted it, and from whom he expected to get it.  He was energetic without being frantic, relaxed without seeming indifferent, communicative with both the orchestra immediately before him, with the soloists (who, because they were essentially standing behind him, called for a combination of extra-strength peripheral vision, and mental telepathy), and the choir, which was arrayed way against the back wall, and must have seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be standing on a train platform in Connecticut.

Really, the music came up through him.  He danced it -- not ostentatiously, but almost spontaneously, like a string vibrating in sympathy with the sounds around it.  He embraced the musicians; he elicited volume and cautioned quietness -- the way conductors, after all, are supposed to do.

But there was, still something unique, for me, in John's conducting.  Because of the clarity of his musical ideas, and his fluency in communicating this clarity to his musical forces, he was, simultaneously, communicating that clear intent to us, his audience.

Now, of course, I'm not exactly an unbiased observer, but I really did feel that there was something prismatic about John's work -- that, as the conductor, he wasn't just some pompous guy in a tux, waving his arms and making it hard to see the singers -- he was also helping me, as an audience member, understand the music I was hearing.  He was the focal point, helping to illuminate the experience, both as it was, and as it could have been.  Even if, as sometimes will happen, a dynamic wasn't what he'd wanted, or an entrance was a bit late, or part of the chorus blurred an entrance, I was allowed to understand, through the vigor and sureness of John's gestures, what his intention was, and how it should have gone.   His vigor and insights effectively repaired the little surface flaws, healed the few minor musical scrapes or bruises, and helped me hear how it really should have gone.

In a way I've rarely experienced, this confluence of intent and practice was riveting.  Rather than simply sitting in my seat, and letting the music wash over me (while secretly worrying that an overhead light might fall onto the stage at any moment), I felt alert and engaged, as though in some sense, I was being conducted too.  I was being led, through John's conducting, into a deeper experience and appreciation of music that, for many, has become merely a seasonal cliche.

It was thrilling.  It was harrowing (the earlier 'evasive baton' reference?  At one point, early on, the silly thing simply flew out of his right hand, and landed halfway between the concert master and the alto soloist.  I, of course, went into super rescue mode -- should I leap to the stage to hand the baton back to him?  Find my way backstage and make a weird, but humble entrance, to pick up the wayward little instrument?  Not to worry.  John gracefully retrieved it at the next full rest), and the work was sung with conviction I don't usually experience with music we hear so often.  The soprano soloist, in particular, delivered her music as though she had just thought of it, and urgently needed to let us know what she'd discovered.  When the Hallelujah Chorus began, the audience rose up in a body, not out of relief, or leg cramp (thanks, King George) or in preparation for the race to the parking garage.  The energy onstage was infectious, and we in the audience were gratefully caught up in it too.

My thanks to the musicians.  Thanks to the State Theater, and, of course, to Mr. Handel.

And special thanks to John.  Great run.  I didn't need to bring that extra ski cap after all.                 



© 2011  Walter Zimmerman