The Concert

Every four years an International Piano Competition is held in Calgary. Hopeful pianist arrive from around the world, and, like Olympic athletes, their mind, body and spirits are intensely focused on winning the $50,000 cash prize as well as the chance to tour and play with the top Maestros in their concert hall.

We made our way through the “glitter” in the foyer and quietly found our seats. It was as if this concert hall was sacred space and we dare not disturb it by speaking. Each of us had a deep love of Classical Music. Our little trio found the front, right, third row seats and settled in. Tonight was the final evening of the competition and the two pianists were an Italian playing Chopin’s Piano Concerto #2 (one of my favorite concertos) and a Russian playing the emotionally and physically challenging “Rach Three”, his countryman Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #3.

One by one the orchestra arrived. I watched the lead oboe player arrive at his seat – he was a business contact of mine when I was in the financial services industry. The violin section began to fill up, the woodwinds, the brass, the percussion and the balance of the string section; base and cellos. Gleaming shoes, pressed tuxedos, white shirts, black skirts, instruments that had been polished – each was settling into place. He came in from the right, cello on hand, and found his seat right in my line of vision. Stocky with gray hair that looked as if his fingers had recently been run through it in nervousness, his tuxedo was getting threadbare and his spreading girth meant the jacket no longer met across his middle. His facial expression was one of great intensity. Scuffed shoes, with soft soles, had seen better days but looked far too comfortable to discard. His cello no longer had a highly polished surface but rather had nicks and scratches that made one think it had been on a long voyage and was wishing this would be the last mile. His hands were rough, yet strong and sinewy and made me wonder if he was Eastern European. Hard work, hard times, cold winters and a generally harsh life was what crossed my mind. A life of want, not of plenty, a life of rules and regulations, not freedom. As separate entities, the cello and the man seemed to suffer from life’s voyage, but looking at the instrument held in his left hand it was patently clear that this gentle grip was one of love. His left hand gently held the neck of the scarred and battered instrument, like the gentle but intimate touch of a love that has weathered the storms and runs deep.

The tuning of the instruments created a cacophony of sound until…the Concert Master strode across the stage and the room fell silent. It was time for the dueling pianists to begin. First the Italian and then the Russian.

Every piano note of the Maestoso, Larghetto and Allegro vivace filled the senses, but the cellist had my unwavering attention, my gaze steadfastly upon this duo. Chopin’s masterpiece surrounded me with its energy as the majestic melody, the blend of every instrument complimented the notes that were emitted. I was lost, lost in the scene played out before me. The majesty of the music and the scene of a musician and his instrument intimately entwined. The cellist caressed his instrument, held so close to his chest, and their passion together exuded their love of music. The body of wood and the body of human flesh were works of art. Their music blended with the entire orchestra yet it was this lone musician who played with such abandon that drew me into these Concertos. I felt the music deep within. The angst and madness of Rachmaninoff echoed from the gleaming black Bossendorfer concert grand piano cavity. The agony of Mother Russia in conflict, starvation, and madness, yearning for freedom thundered through the hall. Yet liberation was theirs – freedom found in the release of the music of the soul, written by another, created by yet another Maestro, about a freedom that no hardship can suffocate. Music that allows the soul to soar above its imprisonment.

When the last note echoed through the hall I finally closed my eyes savouring this incredible feast of the senses. The cheering for the Russian winner roared on and on. My cheering was for one disheveled cellist that drew me into his world for one short but glorious evening.

Scarred and battered, this cello was passionately loved and tenderly caressed to bring the rich soul strains from the body of one cello at the hands of one musician.

Scarred and battered humanity, you and I, are tenderly caressed and passionately loved by the Master Musician. The Divine Maestro takes us in His hands, touches the marks left by the journey in life. He sees only the potential for great and glorious music in a score already written. He knows that true music is soul deep and it calls for every string of the heart and mind to be played upon with firm and loving hands. Leaning into His hands the scars have no bearing on the sweetness and passion of the music we are capable of being, nor can they hinder the range of notes that are written for our own unique concerto. He refuses to abandon us as His instruments. He cannot, He will not, because we are necessary for the Maestro’s concert of a lifetime – the concert of the ages. The concert to last for more than a lifetime.