Expectation, the thief of joy

I shall preface this post by declaring that I’m not a professional musician. I’m just a critical listener. My formal vocal training has been very brief and while it has helped immensely, I do not hold myself as accomplished in any way.

As a critical listener however, I consider myself someone of higher than average competence. I thrive on it. I like the dulled rumble of the orchestral basses, the hopping of pizzicato strings and the bright clear ringing of the trumpeter. I love the textures and tones of the sound and how they layer. So far this liking isn’t any different from every other person in the average choir. Or so I thought.

I found myself different when I was furious at a concert rehearsal. We had gone to Bangalore to perform for this concert and the music would be conducted partly by our own conductor and the other by the conductor that had invited us. The orchestra was rehearsing a piano concerto that was part of the repertoire for the day and for some reason, every single chorister in the auditorium was talking aloud except me. I couldn’t understand it. Here I was, far from home and sitting in awe and in the presence of a live effort of the kind that is extremely rare. Still, I couldn’t appreciate it properly because people couldn’t sit still and listen. The music was there but it was like trying to appreciate a beautiful painting someone had scribbled over with pencil.

When the conductor finally had enough and threw all the choristers out of the concert hall, I quietly snuck in and listened intently backstage. It’s not everyday one gets to listen to a piano concerto live. They were being conducted by the guest conductor and when the orchestra finished, I turned around to find our own conductor also listened intently standing behind me. We spoke no words. We just smiled, nodded and listened together. It was not so far from the madding crowd, (backstage is just a few steps from the side entrance) but we might as well have been on different planets from the choristers.

When I narrated this experience to a soprano friend (I omitted the part of listening silently with a conductor, it was a really private moment) she immediately asked me how dare I make such a judgement? How dare I say that the choristers are unruly? How dare I say that they don’t follow dynamic markings amicably or that they blindly bellow? Every comment or criticism I put forth was shot down with a surprisingly rehearsed ease. Then I realised what had happened. She had become so used to not listening that it didn’t matter to her. Desultory to the core.

What a terrible fate. May that never happen to me. I wish to be annoyed by the little sounds of life, that I am dissatisfied with mediocrity and disappointed with wasted potential. (including my own) Then, when I do listen and hear glory, I know I’m appreciating it more than the others.