LeGuido Does Grieg

I never thought my training as a musician would ever involve learning about bulletproof vests, but I guess that just shows that we all get ahead of ourselves sometime in our thinking, now don’t we?
And you’d think, as a hornplayer, since I’m in the back of the orchestra, I probably need much less protection than most, but then again, we’re on risers, so we’re more exposed. We were all lucky that no one was killed, that’s what I have to say.
Sounds pretty crazy, doesn’t it? Well, Juilliard’s a crazy place. Of course, usually not quite this crazy. I mean, I’ve heard of competition, but this was ridiculous. I’m never trusting any pianists ever again, I can tell you that much.
So here’s what happened, basically.
We have a great piano department here at Juilliard, obviously. (Little crazy, apparently, but definitely talented, just like everybody else here). Anyway, this season, the top two pianists in their senior year were two guys who couldn’t be further apart in personality: Vincent LeGuido, and Terry Woodworth.
Vincent was this tall, dark, New York Italian guy, really skinny, tiny wire-rim glasses and this longish black hair that he would always have to toss out of his face while he was playing. He was extraordinarily shy, real quiet, and sort of stammered when he talked, fidgeted all the time until he was the piano. Then he would be more or less still (excepting the occasional toss of his head to move the hair), leaning forward a bit into the keyboard, but it didn’t matter what he looked like because you were mesmerized by what you were hearing. Vinnie could make those keys sing, man, in a way that you don’t hear too often. He could play with such fierce intensity that it would almost scare you, and then play so softly and delicately that the notes almost felt like spun glass.
Terry was a California boy, and not of the good type. He had the short blonde hair, the surfer build, and he always wanted to be seen. Terry was loud, real arrogant, cocky, and annoying as hell. When Terry played, you kind of felt like you were watching a physical portrayal of the music; Terry’d incorporate all these dramatic motions, arm flaps and wrist rolls; he’d throw his head back dramatically, and even rise up off the bench sometimes. (“And the Academy Award goes to...” my friend Eddie whispered during a recital once when Terry was really getting into it, and I snorted so loud I almost got kicked out of the hall). Terry was really kind of a jerk, except that despite the physical antics, he was an exceptional pianist. His technique was unstoppable, and there was a certain dramatic quality to his music. To me, though, he just screamed “fake”; I felt like he was destined to become the Kenny G. of classical piano.
The Juilliard faculty agreed with me, a little bit, I think, because this last month the orchestra wanted to get a pianist to perform the Grieg piano concerto in A minor. Now that’s a great concerto for the orchestra as well as the pianist, and it’s a really popular piece, so we knew it would get a lot of publicity and a lot of exposure. And we knew that it would come down to two guys: Vinnie and Terry. Both of them were working on the concerto, among other things, and for awhile it was a bit of backstage gossip among all of us: who would get the privilege? The vast majority of us were rooting for the Italian, I can tell you.
And we were satisfied, because Vinnie definitely got it. I actually clapped him on the back when I saw him. “Hey, man! Congratulations!”
“Oh, uh…yeah, th-thanks,” Vinnie stuttered, nodding his head and tossing his hair out of his eyes.
Now, Terry, as you can imagine, wasn’t pleased with this. I don’t know that his ego had ever taken bruising like this before, but whatever the case, it was clear that he thought the concerto belonged to him. You could still hear him practicing it, banging out the opening chords over and over, so loud that the piano practically shook. He walked around with a dark look on his face all the time, brooding, and among his friends he was known to complain loudly about “Vinnie the idiot.” We all just wrote Terry off as an idiot, because in the end, one fact was still prevalent: Vinnie was playing the Grieg, not Terry.
Anyway, the orchestra started rehearsals with him a few days later, and man, it was amazing, the sounds that guy could get out of the piano. The Grieg is such a fiery concerto, probably the greatest thing he ever wrote, and Vinnie could play it to the max. Sitting back in the horn section, we all had our jaws agape when he played those opening chords.
“Man, he’s got some rage issues,” Louis, the first horn, whispered. “That’s pent-up rage, that’s what that is.”
“That’s Vinnie, that’s what that is,” I corrected him. As Vinnie whizzed through the first movement of the concerto, still managing to get out every note of all those little black ones in the runs, I felt markedly inadequate as a musician; I couldn’t even play the Strauss concertos without cracking a few.
Heck, I can’t even figure out how to work my new toaster, and here’s LeGuido playing so fast I can’t even see his fingers.
So you can imagine the shock we all felt in the second rehearsal. We were running through the first movement again, and we get maybe a quarter of the way through it, barely into the second theme of the movement, when we hear this startled yelp from the front of the stage and the piano sound stops abruptly. We all looked up (even the trumpet players), and Vinnie, usually with an olive complexion, has gone pale; he’s holding up his hands, trembling in shock, and we can all see the blood dripping down from his fingers onto the keys of the Steinway.
“Oh my God!” the conductor yells, and the next thing you know Vinnie kind of slumps over onto the piano bench, his hands still dripping blood, and the concertmistress and the conductor are rushing over to him and people are yelling. Being in the back of the orchestra I couldn’t really see, but before too long the whole story came out:
Somebody had placed razor blades between the keys of the Steinway. Two of them, exactly in positions where Vinnie’s fingers would run over them, one by one, during a glissando done with both hands. Every single finger was sliced deep; Vinnie had to get stitches, and probably wouldn’t be able to play for at least a month. Terry would have to play the Grieg.
Everyone was uniformly horrified, aghast that someone would stoop so low. We’d heard of people doing this thing before, the piano competition being so fierce at Juilliard, but such treachery was looked down upon, and it was unbelievable and despicable that someone could do this.
And we all knew who it was, too: It had to be Terry. There wasn’t a single doubt in anyone’s mind. But there wasn’t any proof! They even tried fingerprinting the razorblades, but they yielded nothing. Terry denied anyone who confronted him, and without any proof, the administration couldn’t convict. They couldn’t even keep him from playing the Grieg. But everyone knew who had done it. Terry tried to act mournful, of course, but his elation was hard to conceal.
In the next few days, it was so horrible to see Vinnie walking through the halls, hunched over, hands bandaged, a forlorn look decorating his weary face. Anytime we tried to comfort him – and believe me, we did – he would say, “Th-thank you,” nod his head, and go about his way.
In stark contrast was Terry and the smug look that was now a permanent part of his expression. Most of us wanted to get some kind of revenge on him, but we didn’t know how to do it. I suggested we put valve oil in his omnipresent coffee mug; Eddie liked the idea of “tying him down and rosining his face”; and Steve, the bass trombonist, had some plan for his bass trombone slide that he wouldn’t let us in on. But basically none of us had any idea what to do.
At the dress rehearsal for the concert, it was absolutely painful to see Terry doing his drama queen act, playing through the Grieg complete with bench-lifting and head-tossing and arm-flapping action. It seemed almost a mockery of the beautiful thing Vinnie had been creating with us. Terry’s Grieg was technically impeccable, but it was lacking that fiery quality that made it Grieg.
As Terry played through the lyrical second movement, I glanced out into the concert hall and noticed a thin figure slide into the middle section; I could see a glimpse of white under his sleeves. Vinnie, unmistakably. I could see he was hugging his shoulders to himself, and in that moment I think everyone in the orchestra wanted to strangle Terry Woodworth.
Then I saw two other people slide into the row behind Vinnie. These were big guys, in black suits. They sat with him, flanking him from behind, and watched for a little while. Then they got up, started walking around the concert hall. Between playing I’d glance into the audience, and they’d always be in different places. When we hit the last chord of the piece, they were gone. Vinnie remained. I saw Steve go out and talk to him, gesturing animatedly; but it was at this point that one of my slides decided to get stuck, and so I had to go backstage and was soon lost in the complicated world of horn repair.
Imagine my surprise the next morning when I get a phone call from Steve. “Eddie, Louis, and I are coming over to your apartment a couple hours before the concert,” he informed me. “We have to talk.”
Steve was the last one to arrive; Eddie and Louis had no idea what this was about, although I suspected it had something to do with Terry. Anyway, Steve comes in and slowly hands us each a package.
“Dude, what is this?” Louis asked, holding up what looked like an item of clothing.
“Kevlar vests,” Steve said.
We all sort of did a double take. Being a bass trombonist, Steve oftentimes has a strange sense of humor.
“I’m not kidding,” Steve said after a few seconds. “Those are Kevlar vests. Like the FBI wears.”
“Where the hell did you get Kevlar?” I asked in disbelief.
Steve shrugged. “I’m a bass trombonist,” he replied, as if that were the answer to it all.
“Wait, WHY did you get Kevlar?” Eddie asked.
Here he stood. “We should all wear them tonight. I’m wearing one, too.”
“What?” we all said at the same time.
“Look,” Steve said, “did you see those two guys come in and sit with Vinnie yesterday? The guys in black suits? Mobsters. I’m telling you.”
“Oh, come ON,” I said, but Steve raised a hand to cut me off. “Did you see them checking out the hall? Looking for vantage points, I bet. And look at Vinnie’s last name. LeGuido? Mobsters, man. They take care of their own, and Vinnie was wronged. Bad wronged. Plus, the authorities can’t do anything, because they don’t have any proof on Terry. So my guess is tonight at the concert these guys are gonna go all Godfather on Woodworth, and I for one don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”
“Steve, this is insane even for you,” Eddie argued.
“I have more evidence. After rehearsal I went up and talked to Vinnie, ‘Hey, who were those guys?’ and I finally got out of him: his uncles, he said. He wouldn’t look at me when he said it, either.” Steve sat back, arms folded, blow delivered.
“You want me to wear a Kevlar vest under my concert dress because you think mobsters are going to shoot up the hall?” I said incredulously.
“Yes. What can it hurt? And if I’m right, I might save your life.”
“Wait, Steve if you’re serious, shouldn’t we be reporting this suspicion to some kind of authority figure?” Louis asked.
Steve looked at him in utter disbelief. “What, and cross the Mafia? Are you out of your mind? I don’t want them to find my body at the bottom of the Hudson. Besides, I kind of think Terry deserves it.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
“Might be,” Steve shrugged. “But I’m not taking any chances. I mean, stray bullets…we’re on risers and everything…well, not you, Eddie, but you’re right up by the piano, so you probably need it more than any of us.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this discussion,” I said, holding my head in my hands.
“And this is Juilliard we’re talking about! We have security!” Louis said.
“Mobsters have their ways. Look, I could very well be wrong, but this is New York City. It’s a tough town. And if Terry Woodworth can stick razor blades in the keys of a Steinway, then Vinnie LeGuido’s uncles can blow him to kibbles & bits, and wouldn’t you like to be prepared? That’s all I’m saying.” He looked at us expectantly.

“I can’t believe we let him talk us into this,” I muttered to Louis as we were warming up.
“Yeah, this Kevlar stuff’s pretty uncomfortable,” Louis said, shifting in his seat.
“Oh, shut up, you’re not wearing it under a dress.” I glared down the row at Steve, hoping to show him my discomfort, but he wasn’t paying attention.
“He’s buying us all dinner if he’s wrong,” Louis said.
The concert began; we played the Brahms’ “Tragic” Overture, and then came the main event. Terry walked arrogantly across the stage, took a dramatic bow. I winced. Nothing happened. No gunfire. No nothing.
And that’s pretty much the way it went, through the first, second, and well into the third movement. Terry played well enough, I guess, but I know we were all thinking about how much better Vinnie could have done it.
By the finale, I’d relaxed, assuming that I’d soon be enjoying filet of sole payed for by Steve. And so as we were rushing into the coda, preparing for the final rush of the movement (and the raucous applause that would immediately follow), it came: crashing so loud for a moment I was certain that someone had blown up a timpani; but then I heard screaming and I realized it was in fact a volley of gunfire.
“Get down!” People were screaming, instruments were flying. I threw my horn up over my head and ducked, jumping off the risers.
And then it was over. No more gunfire, only the ringing in my ears. I jumped up and my jaw dropped agape at the scene before me.
No one in the orchestra, or the hall, was actually hurt. All that gunfire had been directed at the piano, which was now more or less a smoldering pile, still making a desperate clinking ring, a death rattle of sorts. And still seated at the bench, trembling in shock and holding up his hands (oh, so much like Vinnie such a short time ago), was Terry, regarding in horror the only bullets that had actually met with flesh.

There was only one stray bullet in the whole affair, one that just barely missed the piano and instead went charging towards the first desk of violins, missing the concertmistress and hitting her stand partner, who, of course, was wearing a Kevlar vest.
Eddie has lately been buying Steve dinner every Wednesday night.

No one’s really sure exactly how this is going to wind up. It’s all a big scandal; somehow, four or five guys with guns were able to slip into the concert hall and slip out without ever being found. The authorities aren’t quite sure what to do. Everyone suspects Vinnie’s family, everyone kind of knows who has responsibility, but, of course, there isn’t any proof (as of yet).
They suspect that in a few years, with reconstructive surgeries, Terry Woodworth might be able to play piano again.
Vinnie’s still here, getting ready to graduate in a few months. His hands are out of bandages now, and he’s playing again. He’s still shy, stammering, and usually unwilling to meet your eye.
We can still hear him practicing a stunning rendition of Grieg’s piano concerto, those A minor chords ringing down the practice hall with a fire and a violence that, it seems, must be unequaled.