The crowd comes to a hush
The conductor stands and straightens their vest
Giving their ensemble once last tweak
Then turns to face their orchestra
The coattails fluttering before falling to each side
The baton is brandished
Raised to a height
And then dropped against the skin
The melody is hauntingly sweet
It almost drips with a life of its own
With each raise of the baton
You can almost here a gasp
A relief of the nerves
Maybe the members weren't properly rested
It could be the acoustics
The way the sounds echo off old scaffolding
The baton slashes through the silence
Leaving you open to yet another beauty
With each ebb and flow
You can hear a wine
The friction of a bow across violin strings
It's a miscue of the fingers
Nothing more
The members began to look haggard
And more frantic as the show endured
I'm sure it was the lights
But can lights make people
Tremble?
There seemed to be a real fright
A horror in their eyes
Curtains met in the middle
And the intermission commenced
We mingled and made small
Waiting to be let back into the concert hall
Finally we ushered back in
We took our seats
The conductor took their place
And began anew
The flow of their hands seemed calmer
More determined yet less anxious
Which was odd for they were on par with the great Pierre Boulez*
A conductor who rarely used a baton
In part because they were so skilled
Their players seemed to be in a trance
Nonetheless the playing was smoother
Thirty minutes post the intermission
And the rhythm was at a near homicidal pace
How could they hold this for thirty more?
As the inevitable end neared the sound became muffled
Akin to a child screaming under water
My partner joked it must be persipration
Dripping down into the bodies
The pace neared insanity
Only to be matched by muffled resonance
I was quickly distracted by the conductor
Throwing themselves into a frenzy
Their attire hanging on by mere stitching
With nearly each dip and flick of the baton
You could see drops of water fly off
Into oblivion
There arose a quiet murmur amongst us
Only silenced by the condescending stares
Belonging to members of old money
They were putting on a display of a lifetime
The humidity was rising with the tempo
Yet a soul did not dare leave
I was sure we were sweating nearly as much as them
Though we had yet to do any real work
The ceiling was now dripping as well
As we sat tentatively waiting
Begging for the crescendo
The final ascent of the evening
A culmination of hours of practice
And then it happened
Everything ending in a grand display of showmanship
And then there was silence
The conductor dropping to their knees
Shoulders heaving
There was no orchestra only
Instruments
The baton clanging to the stage
As a great sabre of old
Coming to rest in a great pool of life
Falling to the side
We all saw the culprit of the humidity
Two gashed forearms
And there lay a faint smile on pursed lips
Epilogue: Take what you will from this. Frankly I don't care. There is no moral only words and a story the end. *I'm in no way saying Pierre Boulez committed suicide or homicide. He was merely a reference point nothing more. RIP Monsieur Boulez January 5th 2016.