All
There are moments in one’s life that, years later, when you look
back in retrospect you’ll say, “That was the best” or “That was the worst” or
“That changed my life forever.” This story is about one of those incredible
times.
It was the 12th of February. I remember it because it
was the day that every musician in the orchestra loathed, Open Audition Day.
The day when every wannabe musician who thought they could play at the symphonic
level got their try-out to play with The Symphony. We all hated it but it was
in our contract that we had to do this, so here we were.
We started promptly at 8 a.m., and for the next seven hours we
heard flute players, violinists, cellists, brass of every sort, pianists, and
every other sort of instrument included in a symphonic orchestra. Some were
good, some were a bit better. But we thanked them all and sent them on their
way, happy in the fact that we had given them their shot.
At three o’clock, the stage manager stepped out, we hoped, for the
last time and called, “Is there anyone else who would like to audition?”
Slowly, from the side of the house a figure rose from the darkness and walked
toward the stage. He carried a beat-up violin case, and over his shoulder, a
knapsack. What can you say? He looked to be about forty, of medium build and
height, and dressed like a refugee from middle Europe. He had a two-day beard
and both his hat and clothing had seen better days.
He walked directly to the conductor’s podium, removed his hat, and
in a voice that could only be described as ‘guttural’ spoke to the conductor.
“Maestro, if it would be alright with you, I would like permission to play with
your orchestra. My name is Alexi.”
“What instrument do you play?” asked the Maestro.
A single word was what he replied, “All.”
For those of you who aren’t familiar with the life of a
professional musician, let’s just say that it takes half a lifetime to get to
the position that my fellow players and I occupy, and the other half of a
lifetime to refine what and how we play. Most musicians can master one instrument,
possibly two, but all? Impossible! Yet, here he stood, this master, master of
every instrument. To say a snicker rolled through the orchestra would just be
polite.
But the Maestro was in a kindly disposition and simply asked,
“Which instrument would you like to start with?”
“I dunno, perhaps, flute,” replied Alexi.
“OK,” said the Maestro. “Do you know the Mozart Flute Concerto in D Major?”
“Yes,” replied Alexi!
While we set up our music, Alexi opened his knapsack and took out
an old flute case. The flute inside looked very much like its owner...thoroughly
battered. Alexi carefully put the flute together, blew a short note, walked
onstage and took a spot close to the Maestro. The Maestro took up his baton
and, on the downbeat, our lives changed.
I didn’t know what we were expecting. Yes, of course, I did. We
all knew what to expect. We had seen it all day— fervent musicians trying their
best. We, halfheartedly playing two-to-three minutes of the music and coasting
through the rest until, mercifully, the Maestro called the audition to a halt,
thanked the player and dismissed them.
Alexi was different. From the very first notes through the cadenza
and on to the end, the notes soared from the flute of this, this person. Who
was he? He played with the skill of Jean-Pierre Rampal and the flamboyance of James Galway. His notes, pure and
true, flowed from his soul, or so it seemed, out through his flute and into the
concert hall. And when we were done, he just stood there, eyes closed, waiting
as if trying to persuade the last note not to leave. It was an amazing moment.
This, this unknown had just played one of
Mozart’s most complex flute pieces, and played it as well as any other flute
player I’d ever heard. We stared at him and each other in stunned silence.
Finally, it was the Maestro who broke the silence.
“That was quite remarkable, Alexi,” he
said visibly shaken. “What else would you like to play for us today?” he asked.
“I brought a trumpet. We could maybe do, with your permission, the
Second Brandenburg?” Alexi
questioned.
The stage manager scrambled to get the music, and we were anxious
to see if this miracle could happen again.
Alexi went to his knapsack, packed up his flute with a reverence
almost unheard of with professionals, removed his trumpet and, like before,
blew a short note, walked onstage and took a spot close to the Maestro. The
trumpet looked in worse shape than the flute. We didn’t know what to expect
this time. We shouldn’t have worried, though. Like the Mozart before, the Bach
was true and pure without so much as a missed inflection.
The notes poured from the very essence of his being and the music
filled our hall. And, as before, at the end he just stopped and stood, eyes
closed. It was as if he were listening for some silent confirmation from above.
The silence didn’t last long this time though. Almost en masse, the members of
the orchestra were upon him. Everyone asking questions –
“Where did you study?”
“Have you played here or there?”
“Have you played with so-and-so?”
But it was our principle trumpet player’s question that stopped
everyone else’s queries, “Where did you get that horn?”
“I’m sorry, maestro,” said Alex apologetically, “I have only money
to buy such things at pawn shops or other stores like that.”
We were stunned into silence. It was finally me that broke the
quiet. “Okay,” I said with long-practiced sarcasm, “now that all you one-note
wonders are done, let’s get to some real playing. Alexi, do you do piano?”
“Yes,” was his reply.
“Mr. Jamison,” I called out, “would you roll out the Steinway?”
As our head stagehand and his crew moved the huge black grand
piano into position, I pondered which piece to ‘test’ Alexi on. When the piano
was set, I turned to Alexi and asked, “Do you know Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto?”
“Yes, I do,” he said
nodding his head.
And so he began. And when, sometime later, he finished, I must
admit I wasn’t the only one with wet eyes. I had been working on that Brahms
piece for several months in hopes of bringing it to performance, and now I
don’t think I’ll ever be able to play it again. He played like a man possessed.
Every note, perfect. Every phrase, perfect. This was how Brahms, himself, would
have wanted the concerto played. And now, for me, every time I hear that
Concerto, it will have to be compared to Alexi’s.
Finally, it was Uri Plentkin, our concertmaster, who said, “Master
Alexi, I noticed that you have a violin. Would you care to join me?”
“Yes, of course, maestro. I would be honored,” replied Alexi.
Alexi went to the violin case, opened it, tuned, and then returned
to his spot near the conductor. His violin was a dark, rich brown and appeared
in just a bit better condition than the rest of this instruments.
“Would you play the Prokofiev
Sonata #1 with me?” asked Plentkin.
And so it began again. And just as suddenly, Plentkin stopped the
music.
“Alexi,” he said slowly, “your violin…it has a very unusual sound,
the tone is quite distinctive. May I look at it for a moment?”
Alexi handed over his instrument. Plentkin carefully scrutinized
the violin from top to bottom and side-to-side and then, inside. Plentkin, not
a young man, sat down with such a thud that we thought that he had collapsed
from the long day and all the excitement. We all rushed to his side and with a
look of absolute wonderment, he told us what he already knew.
Holding the violin with the care of a newborn baby, he handed it
back to Alexi and whispered a single word to us, “Stradivarius”. Where had this
man acquired a Stradivarius? The last one I knew of was auctioned off in 1996
for almost $4 million dollars. Mystery upon mystery. If you’ve never heard
about the fantastic instruments made by Antonio Stradivari, let’s just say they
are the Holy Grail for violin players. It was finally Plentkin who shushed us
down and quietly asked, “Alexi, would you play The Dance of the Witches by Paganini?”
“Of course, maestro,” replied Alexi.
It was the most incredible performance I have ever witnessed in my
life. Alexi played as if he were playing for the Heavenly Host himself. We all
did. And when it was done, we all sat there stunned. Changed. We were
physically, emotionally, and musically exhausted.
Finally, it was the Conductor, mopping his brow, that spoke what
we all felt. “Alexi, we must have you in our orchestra. Whatever price you
want, you name it, I’m sure that something can be worked out. Can you return
tomorrow to speak with our business manager?”
“I will do what I can do,” said Alexi as he packed up his violin.
To the echoes of ‘so long’ and ‘see you tomorrows’, Alexi left the
concert hall and walked into the night and...out of our lives.
We never saw Alexi again. The stage manager called the number on
Alexi’s audition card the next morning. It was the downtown YMCA and they had
never heard of anyone named Alexi, nor did they know of anyone matching his
description.
I have often wondered who this incredible musician really was. I
even went so far as to mention this episode to a few of my colleagues. To my
surprise, our orchestra was not the only one that ‘Alexi’ had visited. My
friend in Munich related a similar story, except his musician was named Günter.
Same physical description but he carried a clarinet and a trombone and the
Strad. In Paris, he actually ‘sat in’ with the bassoons in the Symphonique du
Paris. There he was known as Henri LeMonde. In Cleveland he played percussion
and was simply known as Bob Smith.
To date, he’s auditioned or sat in with most of the best
orchestras and symphonies in the world. And that’s all. No real identity. No
contract. Just the most extraordinary musician I have ever witnessed in my
life. A musician who played for the sheer joy of playing. Not money. Not
accolades. Not recognition.
And perhaps that’s all we need to know.
Dru Richman
The
winner of the first National Public Radio’s Selected Shorts Writing
Contest, Mr. Richman’s work has also won contests at Writers of the
Future, National Novel Writing Month, and has been featured
in Writers and Readers’ Magazine, Blank Cover Press, The
Lawrence House Centre for the Arts – Uproar Literary Magazine, Synkroniciti
Magazine, Across the Margin Magazine, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and
other journals and anthologies.
Dru
has been part of an international writing group called Brainz for
the past twenty years. Each month the group is charged with writing something —
prose, poetry, short story, a song, screenplay — anything really, based on a
one-word topic. Previous topics have included: mourning, fear, scars, numbers,
and flying. Many of the stories in his books are generated from stories written
for that group.
In
a previous lifetime, Dru was a keyboard musician and like many musicians, he
started playing in high school in various ‘cover bands.’ Later on he played ‘on
the road’ for almost five years in a band that performed county, country/rock,
and originals. And for the last twenty years of his musical career, he played
in an enhanced duo band called “LoveSong” - which concentrated on love songs
from ‘the Great American Songbook.’
When
Dru is not writing or doing musical things he is a mild-mannered Macintosh
maven. His company, Mac Help Desk, Inc. [www.machelpdesk.com], continues to provide on-site Support,
Sales, Training, and Service in the Macintosh and iDevice environments.
Dru
lives in Richardson, Texas (a suburb of Dallas), with wifey Ava, and their
four-legged love child, a standard poodle named Jacob.