The Young Pianist

By J.C. Rondon

Most people agreed that we should not take the risk, at least not with this concert. Unfortunately, it was already Tuesday before the weekend concert and too late to do anything about it. No doubt fingers would be pointed. Whose decision was this to begin with?

            I came in to rehearsal with just enough time to unpack my cello and make it to my stand just as the conductor was reaching the podium so I heard most of the complaints during break.

            “How could they’ve overlooked this?” asked a flautist. The “they” was referring to management, of course, that faceless-high command who cannot understand the musicians’ concerns.

            “It’s the name, you know,” said a violist, “it sounds sooooo adult.”

            “If you ask me,” said John in his heavy accented English, “a kid that age should have nothing to do with Rachmaninoff. What does he know, really?”

            It was a risky enterprise, to be sure. A sixteen-year-old boy, winner of some competition award or other, was to perform Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2 with us, a “barely on the map” symphony orchestra, struggling from season to season in a city with three other orchestras. To stack the odds and add risks, a potential donor (some large corporation) was to be in the audience for the first performance on Friday.

            The first part of Tuesday’s rehearsal went well enough. We read through once and then looked back at passages that might cause problems with the soloist later. Even without the piano, Rachmaninoff’s music has the power to sweep everyone away—those long, sensual Arabesque melodies, the quiet hum of pulsing modalities from the string session and major themes that are easily imprinted to memory.

            The conversations continued after rehearsal all with the same gossipy tone.

            “And if someone in the management had really gone out of their way to check the schedule, I am sure they would’ve noticed the donors coming in on that date,” said a percussionist.

            “This is just the way we shoot ourselves in the leg,” a trumpet player said in his appropriately enough deep Texas accent.

            That night I went home and gave these popular complaints little thought. My wonder was about the young pianist, really. What would it be like to play one of the most challenging works in the piano repertoire at that age? My hesitation about the concert was not about the potential donors being there and a disaster occurring in mid-performance, but more about the boy’s attitude and disposition. There is something about arrogant attitudes destroying the real meaning of music. Him not having the “real” life experiences to understand and relate to Rachmaninoff’s work was only a secondary concern. I suppose there’s no sin in playing the piece mechanically and figured that with such a performer that’s exactly what would happen. I was a bit disheartened. It’s still March, I tried to remind myself, you still have the rest of the season to think about.

            I made it a point to arrive early Wednesday for the first dress rehearsal. Of course, the main reason was to see this “child-genius,” but also I wanted to see if people had taken the care to tone down their complaints. How embarrassing it would be to have adult musicians—known for our inherent lack of tact—say something that would fall in the young pianist’s ears before rehearsal.

            People were on stage, warming up or looking over difficult passages. The piano was now on stage, but the young pianist was nowhere in sight. I played through most of the third movement, stopping on and off to write bowings and other markings. Suddenly, I spotted a tall and incredibly skinny young man being accompanied by the conductor. This looked to old to be the soloist, I thought. The conductor was talking as they walked and the young man tilted his head carefully as to listen more attentively. They sat center first row in the audience seats and continued conversing. Perhaps it is another conducting intern, or such thing. Besides, would not the soloist be on stage in order to be introduced before rehearsal?

            To the surprise of the orchestra, we began the rehearsal with one of the other pieces. I was sure the consensus now was that management was playing a trick on us or something of that sort. I observed the young man in the first row and noticed he had a score of the Piano Concerto with him but was not looking at it but rather listening attentively at us. What suspense, I thought! Is this or is this NOT the young pianist?

            Finally, the conductor instructed us to turn to the Rachmaninoff. He then faced the audience and asked the young man in the first row to join us on stage. Frankly, he did not look like a sixteen-year-old and a cynical interpretation of all this would rival that of people who accused Leopold Mozart of lying about young Wolfgang’s age. Who was this child-kid-genius-young man? After being introduced, he bowed almost apologetically to the orchestra. Then he took his place.

            The piece, of course, needs no introduction. Considered one of the most challenging scores of the piano repertoire, the Rachmaninoff Piano Concert No.2 is challenging both technically and interpretatively. As I said before, it is one thing to play mechanically and another to actually convey the emotional meaning “behind the notes.”

            The first few bars opened with the short steps of quiet notes played not tentatively but with an under-toned assurance. It was obvious that the young pianist was not there to try to be arrogant and sweep people off their feet. He was going to let the music do that of its own accord. He did likewise with the phrase of the main theme in the first movement. The second movement was approached gently; the young pianist sharing the spotlight with the wind section without deliberation or selfishness. The dramatic finale, the main Arabesque motif, was so powerfully played and maturely interpreted by the soloist that I felt sure time had stopped still. Nothing was rushed or over-played deliberately, and by the end of the rehearsal, the darkness in the orchestra had lifted.

            After the rehearsal, the young pianist stood and simply said “thank you.” His tone was so warm and generous that for a moment I did not realize he had stopped playing the piano. All his gestures of gratitude, his ever-present apologetic bow, were evidence of his humble and caring particularity.

            No one said a word as we trickled out of the concert hall through the backstage door. Only John, the principal cellist, turned to me and said in his cryptic, highly metaphorical and heavy accented Armenian tone: “Some times the waters flow without end, and their beauty is indescribable.” As always, I thought, John, the Armenian prophet, and, with that, I drove home.

            I could not sleep that night. Thoughts of what had happened in the first rehearsal kept me awake. I dusted off an old copy of the concerto and listened to it with very little interest. There was no way to compare with what happened in rehearsal, it was a momentous experience, a turning point in my life as a musician. The miracle of it was, of course, that I was not expecting it. I was not being over-dramatic, but that young pianist delivered something to us with his playing. He placed in our hands the real meaning of music, the illusive truth and constructions of time immemorial. He did that in rehearsal? What would the performance be like? Was I setting myself up for disappointment?

I knew I was not going to get any sleep that night, and that I had some hours before the concert to take a nap, so I purposely stayed up and listened to music. Of course, I reminisced about my development as a musician, preparatory school, the conservatory, orchestra concerts, teachers and stand partners, mentors, tours, loves gained and lost… until I fell asleep thinking of what was to come next day.

Just in case, I took my tape recorder to the final dress rehearsal before the concert. Perhaps it was a fluke, or I had been predisposed yesterday to those emotions. Before the rehearsal began, people were praising the young pianist hoping for all the best again.

The young pianist appeared, walking languidly in an ill-fitting tux, his moves were awkward and out of synch. After talking to the conductor briefly, he turned and said something to the concertmaster. Then the rehearsal began. He played with the caress of a soft sun breaking through the fog and with the fury of a Greek Cerberus. It was simply spectacular, and I was so glad I recorded that final rehearsal. When it was time to move to the other two pieces I thought I heard a collective breath of disappointment.

After the rehearsal, John and I conversed backstage.

“The boy is good, no?” I said in fake understatement, fishing another prophesy from John. I had been his stand-partner for several years and always enjoyed his cryptic, non-committal statements.

“He is more than good… there’s some mastery that frankly scares me. I’ve never felt anything like it.” John replied uncharacteristically. John used “felt” the way soccer match broadcasters use “beautiful” to describe some amazing play on the field.

We took our places. From our stand right next to the piano John and I could see the conductor and the young pianist about to take the stage. John turned to me and smiled kindly. I felt overwhelmed, tight-chest and somewhat confused. Would I be able to play at all?

The waters did flow endlessly, so much more than endlessly. The young pianist gave the performance of all our lives. Not a single fraction of a second was loss. The passion the young pianist displayed only tripled or quadrupled from the rehearsals. It was as is if he commanded every atom of the orchestra. As the first movement grew and grew reaching for the main theme, the intensity was so high I doubt a single one of us knew what was pulling us along, but we all went willingly.

During the second movement, the delicacy of the young pianist’s phrasing of the main adagio theme was matured and even sensual, very disarming. When the clarinet and the flute yielded the melody to the soloist, it was truly a vision into the soul of the concerto. And to think how many of us had dismissed this young musician before we even laid eyes on him. Of course no one was thinking of that at the time. I believe that to be one of the few times in my life when my consciousness was given up to something entirely and without reservation.

When the third movement exploded into the air it was like an avalanche of fireworks, all going off at the same time, this night single-handedly turned day-light by the young pianist. The fast passages of cascading notes fell out of the sky like streaming lights. But it kept building and building and this young pianist, architect of sound would not let off. When the main Arabesque motif finally arrived—the climax of the concerto—the closing measures felt as if a great vacuum of air lifted away every thing that was not of the soul, all things material vanished and the gates opened to the grandest and most fantastic vision of perfection. When the last note sounded, the audience exploded into applause and the cheers filled the vacuum the music had created.

Next to me, John was in tears. I looked to my right and the entire viola section was in tears. I looked up to the conductor embracing the young man. I noticed then that I too was crying, the emotion was too much. The young pianist shook hands with the concertmaster, walked over and shook hands with John, myself and the principal violist. I think he would have hugged the entire orchestra had he been given the opportunity.

The curtain calls were never-ending. The crowd cheered louder and louder as if trying to imitate the intensity they had just experienced from the music. Eventually the young pianist came out and asked the concertmaster to take the orchestra off stage in order to end the applause; we were already more than half way through intermission time.

The following concert Saturday night was even more intense. The orchestra never sounded better. I cannot tell where the young pianist is today, or how his career turned out. What I can say is how that one young man, humble and kind beyond all measures, generous in performance, and gracious in his virtuosity took us by the hand and showed us what music can be. The young pianist led us through the gates and into a musical heaven. The elusive perfect performance that haunted most of us throughout our careers is not more.