Jeremy 14
After my glowing review in the paper, there’s an uptick of sales for the Detroit Philharmonic. I peek out into the hall from backstage and see that the hall, usually two-thirds full, is near capacity tonight. I smile. This is for me. Mahler One is nothing, if not an homage to the French horn section. And I am the center of that universe.
So, we play and the audience sits. Through the Mendelssohn Overture. Through the Grieg Concerto. And then, there is the main event. They don’t call this symphony ‘The Titan’ for nothing. The normal complement of orchestral forces wasn’t powerful enough, as far as Mahler was concerned, so he added parts for extra performers in the wind, brass and percussion sections. We all cram onto the stage of the performance hall. It’s tight … but it’s so worth the discomfort when we get to the last movement, where the composer decided to pull out all the stops.
The crash of cymbals that opens the finale of Mahler’s First Symphony is like the crack of a starter pistol. From that instant, the orchestra takes off and never looks back. The strings take on a frenetic pace, just barely in control as their bows are a blur of sound and motion.
But it’s the brass that owns this movement. Alternating fanfares bounce between the horns and the trumpets, with lower brass providing a solid core of support. The trumpets blare so powerfully that they are a hair’s breadth away from distorting. It’s the most sound the instrument can produce at the highest possible volume, without the whole thing splintering apart.
The horns whoop. The timpani is beating, beating, beating its pounding pulse. It’s the heartbeat of the orchestra. Underneath, the strings continue their dizzying, spinning spiral, their bows moving impossibly fast. A brief soft section provides a reprieve. It’s an eerie cloud of discord. The horns slip in, unnoticed, at first, then growing more prominent until they are the solid, crystalline core of the orchestra. The trumpets punctuate periodically in a distant echo.
Wind chimes tinkle, adding to the ethereal mood, but not for long before the race is on again, and we are running toward an invisible finish line. The final lap comes in the last seventy-six measures of the movement. For two minutes, the brass blasts, the strings bow and percussion pounds.
This is when we stand. All six horn players, spread across an entire row of the stage with the bells of our instruments raised high, just as Mahler indicated in the score. He wanted to get the largest possible sound out of the horns, and tonight we do his memory proud. The strings sound as if they are swinging from note to note beneath us as we produce a powerhouse of brilliant, brassy sound. The kind of music that produces a physical reaction in the human body, raising goose bumps, sending chills and causing the heart to actually beat faster.
The timpani rolls and rolls.
Now, in these final seconds, the Maestro is only conducting the first beat of each measure, his head tilted back, his eyes closed. And then, he looks up at me, and he nods. That’s the signal. Suddenly, we are streaming fire right out of our bells and into the concert hall. Rip-roaring licks spill effortlessly out of me, and my section. This is a hymn. No, it’s an anthem. This is the sound of victory. When, at last, we have reached the last note, he throws down his baton, and his hand shoots up in a triumphant fist above his head.
The audience explodes.
****
Lisa is standing by my locker when I get there. She must have been waiting a while, because it’s taken me some time to pack up and get past the throng of well-wishers from the orchestra. Funny how one minute you’re a murderer, and the next you’re a hero. Not that I give a fuck either way.
“Come to congratulate me?” I ask her with a suggestive smirk.
She blushes as she wrings her hands nervously. “I wish. No, Jeremy, it’s Doug. He sent me to give you a message. I got the feeling he was a little too scared to talk to you himself.”
I set my horn case down on the floor and stand directly in front of her. I lean over her, bracing my arm on the lockers above her. We are so close that I can smell her shampoo.
“Okay, I’m listening. What does that chicken shit want now?”
“You need to be in the fourth-floor conference room on Monday morning at ten sharp. And you should bring an attorney with you.”
I take my arm down, stand up straight and take a step back so I can get a good look at her. Playtime is over.
“Why is that?”
As my tone sharpens, she suddenly looks very nervous. As she should.
“Why?” I demand again, more forcefully. That does the trick.
“He w-wouldn’t tell me, Jeremy but …but I think you’re being fired,” she quavers.
I smile and pick up my case, not bothering with the locker anymore.
“Yeah, we’ll fucking see about that.”