Working for a symphony has screwed up my musical ignorance. I still can't spell most of the Russian composers and only recently figured out it's "a minor / A Major" but, thanks to our JoAnn, can instantly recognize the difference a great conductor makes with the same body of musicians.
The worst part is that amateur and community symphonies used to sound "pretty" and now sound, well, amateur. Certain concerts, especially certain guests artists, are transcedent. I didn't realize until the end of the concert that I'd been crying all the way through Gil Shaham (not in sadness but simple exhiliration). When JoAnn conducted Mahler 7, I had to push myself into gear to speak or work afterwards.
There is a rush that I, whose musicial preferences still run along blues and acoustic lines, could not have previously imagined would be accessible in my ignorance.
Sunday was one of those unexpected moments. Marcin Dylla won JoAnn's International Guitar Concerto Competition last year before I got here. There was much buzz among those that know regarding the Rodrigo concerto he was scheduled to play. But frankly, to me, he was the second last weekend of our summer season and a logistical challenge because I was going to have more than one photographer there to keep "to the rules."
Marcin lives in Poland, an angle that plays big in Buffalo. I expected him to be more mysterious, abrupt and foreign when I picked him up at his hotel for a radio interview the Friday before the performance. He'd been practicing he said, but was glad for the break, he is most bright in the morning hours.
As we drove through the city streets we talked about Buffalo and why ethic pride was big here , but not in southern and western states. We talked about the weakness of the dollar and where to buy a laptop computer. Having never heard his music, it was like talking to a fellow Buffalonian with an accent. The kind of guy you knew had jumper cables and would offer then even if the wind chill was in the negative digits.
The mental jumper cables were gone on Sunday when he started to play. My mind did a split screen on the sounds and movement coming from the stage and the easy going man sitting in my passenger seat with my brother's pile of crushed Pringles at his feet and the dust from dirt roads at the cottage on the dash. The music was too wonderful and my mind quickly pushed out the mundane image, only to bring it back after the concert.
I thought about soprano Dawn Upshaw's hearty laugh when I suggested some artists preferred to sit in the back. And Andrew Litton nervously eyeing the January ice storm out the window or how Peter Cincotti's road manager had to pull the front seat completely forward to make room for Peter's long legs or how a British percussion prodigy was delighted just to get away from hotel food for a little while. How many other people can say they've had the settings of their car stereo permanently adjusted by Marvin Hamlisch?
My little Honda CRV has has already hosted more major talent than most midwestern stages.
You don't get paid much in this line of work. Too often there is a question of whether you will get paid at all.
But the Honda and I can't argue with the fringe benefits.



Copyright 2005 Judi Griggs