From the collection Cafe Phryque.
Electric Soprano
First you should know that
our director is a lunatic. That’s why no one reacted. The oboe had just called
the A for tuning. I was adjusting my chair when I saw him, skinny kid, standard
tuxedo, long black hair with a stripe of blue. He took a seat next to the
double basses and found an outlet for his amplifier.
He sat there for the first
movement, turning pages, following the measures. After the cut, he lifted the
guitar to his knee – Stratocaster, black and white, a good match for the tux.
The second movement is a
jaunty allegro, the orchestration rather spare: long passages of unison
strings, set off by brief flurries of woodwind. Our unexpected soloist made his
appearance above the staff, an electric soprano, long triplets spelling out the
triads, the phrases tied off with grace notes. The timbre was clean, B.B. King
playing Lucille, with a hint of red port, a warm vibrato like early-seventies
Santana.
I lost track after that – had
my own parts to play – but I did get the general impression: he wasn’t really
soloing. He was granting the piece a luminous framework, ornaments on the
Christmas tree. Rare quality for a guitarist. I was sitting out a 16-bar rest
when my gaze landed on our conductor. His facial muscles were so tight you
could play them like a harpsichord. Abject horror.
Orchestras, God bless them,
will play through anything: fires, earthquakes, spontaneous audience orgies. In
fact, we were playing beautifully, as if our mystery rocker had given us a
chance to actually enjoy ourselves, to dispel the air of fascism that had begun
to plague our rehearsals.
The movement ends with a
series of runs, a rollercoaster of sixteenths in the violins. Our guitarist
shadowed it note for note, a third above, then took a quarter rest and launched
an elegant counterpoint, ending four measures later an exact octave above the
strings.
Audiences are not supposed to
applaud between movements, but that didn’t stop this one. It came in a burst,
and a few of them shouted like Italian operagoers. Our director was forced to
give his rogue soloist an awkward salute, while the rest of the orchestra did
its best to suppress our laughter.
As for our stowaway, his bow
was as well-planned as the rest of his operation: exuberant but brief, a double
blown kiss followed by a quick unplug and a brisk walk toward the exit.
Followed by two large men in blazers, breaking through the brass like
fullbacks. I pretended another chair problem and stepped into their path,
ensuring his escape.
This evening, I met a friend
for dinner – a composer who is nevertheless a splendid fellow. He was launching
into the usual complaint about the popularity of his one-act operas (as opposed
to the epic Aidas dwelling in his
head) when I held up a hand.
“Hold on, Henry. Do you hear
that?”
Henry cocked an ear toward
the window. “I think I do.”
“Can you describe what you
are hearing?”
“Siegfried’s leit-motif from
the Ring Cycle, played on an electric guitar.”
“I’ll be damned.”
The song disappeared into a
riot of distortion and drums.
“Ah,” said Henry. “Opera
loses again.”
“Hey, I’ll take whatever I
can get.”
Henry and I parted ways at
the intersection, and I followed the thump-thump to a club across the street, a
bricky billiard hall with plate glass windows. The bar area was packed with
youngsters, grinding away to a band featuring drums, bass and three guitars.
The lead flung his hat into the crowd, revealing a distinct stripe of blue hair.
I walked quickly to my car.
I have found that a man with
a cello can talk his way into all sorts of things, and the bouncers at South
First Billiards were no exception. I sorted my way toward the front, timing my
arrival for the end of the song, and placed my instrument on the stage like a
business card.
Mr. Bluefin had a good laugh,
then set me up with a chair and a microphone aimed at my strings.
“Okay, man. You got me. Now
what are we supposed to play?”
I pulled out my bow and
smiled. “Are you familiar with Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B minor?”
“Absolutely not.”
“How about ‘All Along the
Watchtower’?”
“Yes!”
Photo by MJV
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