Scene from a Concert

The sun sank behind the tree line of Rock Creek Park some time ago, yet the residual heat of a summer’s day still fills the amphitheater with warmth and life. Of course, not just the air is alive. A swelling crowd surrounds us as I take my seat, only three rows back from the stage, and begin admiring the familiar sights and sounds of a concert. Strings being plucked, valves cleared, tough licks rehearsed – all at once in a discordant symphony that is nothing short of music to my ears. I miss this, the anticipation and thrill of performance while cradling my flute, running my fingers over the familiar keys. Something about so many individual artists coming together to make something so immediate, so wonderful and unique – not that the piece has never been played before, but it’s never been played by this group at this moment to this audience ever before in history and never will again. Live music is a moment in time made all the more sweet because the temporarily of it is obvious to all.

The humid twilight hangs over the trees, the stage, and the crowd as the conductor, a young maestro from Brazil, takes up the baton. Gershwin, Williams, Copland. The essence of Americana. Chadwick, Gould, Grofe. These are new to me, and beautiful. The closing is a venerable selection: the final movement of Dvorák’s Ninth Symphony.

In the row before mine, to the left, a young girl – she can’t be more than four – has had a bit of a time staying still. But now, sitting on her Daddy’s lap, she has finally realized why she was brought here. She’s taking in the music. What’s more, she’s dancing – with the large, graceful movements of interpretive dance that may look silly for someone my age, but quite appropriate for her. Unlike some of the placid faces in the crowd, she gets it. She’s being moved, as so many generations have before her and countless more will follow, by the beautiful unification of violins and violas, flutes and flugelhorns, tympanis and trumpets – none of which she can name at present, but they are nevertheless her world at the moment. Her big brown eyes are smiling as she moves.

She transitions into a new movement, as she has now fixed her attention on the physically emotive conductor. She mirrors him – a beat behind, but not a poor imitation. I can’t help but smile at how alive she is to music.

Dvorák ends too soon, but a standing ovation brings the conductor up for one last tune. I glance over and note with a bit of sadness that the miniature maestro has been swept off by her family. The music is still intoxicating, but a shade less magical without the wholehearted embrace and interpretation of a child.