A Symphonic Sampler: The Sounds of the Symphony

The conductor raises his wand.

Not his baton, not his stick, not his pointer. His wand. With this wand he will weave magic, draw beauty from the air, song from wood and string. He will work unseen wonders, a craft of the intangible, success or failure nearly inexplicable. He is a weaver of invisible colors, a storyteller without words.

The conductor raises his wand, and the story begins.

Beethoven's Fidelio Overture, the opening of his famous opera. The music moves and shifts almost predictably, in Beethoven's style; light laughing flutes running and leaping, brooks and rivulets of sound, broken up by heavy thunder of horns and rhythm. Romance of The Horns, they called it; but as I close my eyes to drift away in the music, I am pulled back by the halting breathiness of the winds. The flautist strains at her instrument, the French horn soloists are weak; they sound like a high school band recital, blatantly feeble.

I turn my eyes to the strings, watching the bows of the violins as they dance in the air. The violin was always my favorite; it tore my heart with its wailing cry, gladdened it with quick fiddling beats. It is the most human of instruments, singing out with the voice of pain or beauty, telling its sad stories or love and betrayal and sorrow. And then there is the cello, deep and rich, fully woman in her round shape and mahogany belly. It is a small strings section, but the heart of the music is there, singing out from wooden curves and horsehair bows.

And then there are the other horns, trombones blaring out of their long necks, the French horn with its sweet mellow depth, the trumpet with its tight blasts. They balance the melody of the lighter strings, blowing jazz and life into the story. But try as I might, I cannot lose myself in the music. The breathy winds, the honk of the horns, distract my mind, pulling me back to the realm of the intellectual. Then it is intermission, and I forget the music in the face of social interaction and chocolate-mint cookies. The second part begins, and I settle into my seat a little disillusioned with the symphony. I wonder how long it will last, and whether we'll make it to tango in time.