From Mahler to Mayhem

Magic and expectation were in the air where Gustav Mahler's First Symphony was to be performed. It was the Bay City Symphony's opening night. A chorus of whispers could be heard from the audience: "I wonder what the new Maestro will be like?", "Direct from Moscow, you know," "Mahler is one of my favorite composers," "Love your dress," "Go out for drinks after?" formed a counterpoint to a melody of cloying perfume, jangling bracelets and crinkling programs.

To honor the occasion new, crimson velvet seats and curtains warmed the drafty concert hall. Distressed Grecian columns reached the rafters where new spotlights pierced the night like stars. There were also new state-of-the-art hydraulic lifts for the stage. The transformed concert hall appeared more ancient than ever which added to its atmosphere of being a place suitable for a mythic rebirth of inspiration.

Laura had received complimentary tickets from her friend, Linda Carmicheal, first harpist. They were near the front row, behind one of the new grecian columns. Her friend, to whom she gave the other ticket, asked, "How can we see?"

Laura smiled indulgently, for it was her friend's first time at the symphony. "We'll, it's not a rock concert. We can hear fine from here...that's the important thing."

The house lights dimmed and the hall faded to black. Hushed silence. All eyes focused on the stage. The curtain opened. Slowly, the seated orchestra rose from the nether world. A loud clanking and hum told everyone the hydrolics (in six parts) were operating. The audience came to life, cheering and clapping before the first note even sounded.

The two friends of the harpist, witnessed the display by peeking around the ivory column - an awkward feat. The poised orchestra members looking impressive in regulation black. The men, Byrons all, were debonair with flashing cufflinks, ruffled shirts, and real bow ties. The women, were regal in long black gowns. There were no individuals here, but a group-mind working together, like society. They calmly awaited the entrance of their concert-master, a temperamental man who'd been with the group since time immemorial. He strode confidently onto the stage with a red violin and an even redder face and stood in front of the ranks of first violins bowing and grinnning. The audience clapped, then faded. Minutes dragged past.

Suddenly, there he was! The new Maestro entered from the back of the house, long legs striding, tux-tails flying like wings. He jumped the stairs two at a time. The audience offered applause in exuberant good faith. All the struggle and years of practice would finally pay off, proclaimed each musician's enraptured expression. The Maestro bowed solumnly. A huge pair of scissors were placed in his hands with which he cut a ceremonial ribbon, as the old concert master purpled.

Silence descended like a dark cloud. The maestro turned and lifted his silver baton. Violin bows raised tremulously for the downbeat, and Linda Carmicheal's fingers clutched the strings. The world seemed to hold its breath. Mahler's first symphony began with the lyrical sweetness of April, deceptive in its quiet beauty.

The concert-master led the first violins with exaggerated movements designed to inspire. He huffed and puffed, and panted and growled like a beast. From their proximity Laura and her friend could almost feel the heat surrounding the man like a threatening fog.

The room glowed with sound. Linda Carmicheal played her exposed octaves with suspenseful aplomb. Another movement: It included the theme of the nursery song, "Are You Sleeping Brother John?", but in an ominous minor key. Laura and her friend exchanged perplexed glaces wondering at the composer's meaning. Finally, the fourth movement began and it rattled the rafters, an earthquake of trumpets, timpani, bells and whistles. Every orchestra member strove in dissonant harmony for the last, climactic note ahead. The Maestro beamed, as though creating the world.

Then suddenly came a noise not in the orchestration. It was a loud hum and a quiet clank. Something moved, controlled from unseen hands below.

The cello section rose a foot above their companions. The audience looked on as though it was part of the show. The cellists shot one another nervous, terrified glances, then meekly returned their eyes to their music. Then they descended, to further clanks and hums. Now all Laura could see was the top of their heads when the stage finally stopped moving. The conductor looked down to cue them from above and kept conducting as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The concert master leered with a rabid look.

Laura slowly closed her eyes. The woodwinds were next. Up and then down they went. Music stands and instruments on the crack between sections of stage, toppled with a crash. Two flutists saved themselves by indelicately jumping up to safety.

Slowly, the audience realized this was not part of the entertainment. Someone called backstage, "Close the curtain!" A stage hand tried but the new programmable curtains would not budge. Alarmed exclamations burst spontaneously from the audience, "Can't something be done!", "This isn't right," "What's happening?"

The brass section went faster, up, up, up, then down, down, down with a mighty crash.

The audience gasped in unison. Other's began to laugh as though the show were a comedy. Someone called 9-1-1.

"Oh, noooo!" Laura and her friend murmured.

The harpist grabbed her harp incase it was on a crack soon to separate. Loud whispers, like prayers, addressed her from the trumpet section below, "Help, Linda, get my music! It's...there."

The harpist tried to stay out of sight by crawling on hands and knees over to the pit and handing the music down.

Everyone kept playing as though for the sinking of the Titanic. The conducter looked physically assaulted, his face grim in resignation.

The concert master, however, did not look surprised. "Try to prove anything," his expression said, as he jumped out of his seat waving his red violin over his head with which he wildly began conducting. A few of the musicians in the pit followed his lead, most did not. The music resulted in pandemonium.

The concert-master looked about to burst. He bellowed, "I could have been the new Maestro: me! You fools, you ignorant, stupid fools. This is the last time I'll lead you! See if you can do better with this pompous idiot! This charlatan." A string of profanity bubbled from his lips, bringing applause from some, for his sheer daring.

Laura's friend whispered, "better than a rock concert!" The concert master threw his violin into the pit, where it struck an oboist, still calmly playing. The concert master threw himself into the pit after it. From below, he would pay off the stage hand for doing his bidding by working the hydraulic controls. The stage hand hadn't cared who conducted the symphony. It was all the same to him.

The Maestro turned and calmly apologized to the audience who wore expressions from amusement to shocked horror. Then he paused for a moment, considering his action. Still holding the baton, he gave in to relaxed surrender. He disappeared with the rest of his fallen musicians.

It was over, though the final beat had not yet been given by either Maestro or concert manager. Like a long breath exhaled, the audience surged to the stage to rescue their fallen hero.

Laura and her friend knew there was nothing they could do. The friends gave a wan smile and a nod to the harpist, gathered their things, and departed. On the way, Laura's friend murmured, "I'll never understand classical music."

Laura shrugged in bewilderment and shook her head, sadly, saying, "It takes a life time."

The next day the newspaper gave the incident full coverage, stating that Bay City had witnessed a concert of mythological proportions, describing the noble efforts of both orchestra and audience, and the bravery of the new Maestro, who was hurt but expected to recover.

The concert-master was never seen again and disappeared into the ranks of another symphony in a small, unsuspecting town somewhere on the border.