sonata [sə-ˈnä-tə] noun

1. a musical form that consists basically of an exposition, a development, and a recapitulation and that is used especially for the first movement of a sonata

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The lights go down. The conductor raises his hands and the orchestra follows. Soft jolts of sound echo as poised bows bump strings and bated breaths escape tensed lips.

The baton drops. An explosion of sound and color turns the hall into an inferno. Brass blares, winds whistle, strings snap. Sound swirls up and down the empty aisles, bouncing off walls and chairs, boomeranging back to the stage only to be met with more, stronger, braver, brighter –

Silence. The sound stutters to a stop as players realize the conductor has dropped his hands. Some notes, he says, though he only conducted a few bars. This is going to take a while.

The solo part has its own book. It adds to the feeling of importance, having your very own book meant just for you. It also singles you out. It reminds you there’s no one you can ask for help. No one else has your bowings, your fingerings, your notes. Just you. 

Solo. Even the word itself is lonely. Two ‘o’s separated by a wall, one with a friend and the other all alone. Solo.

You tap through your part. You listen for the soft echoes of notes that come from tapping the strings, but the orchestra has started again and they drown out any sound you make. You lean close to the fingerboard and dare to pluck, just enough to hear the notes. The orchestra stops and the conductor gives you a quizzical look. You wave in apology and he continues, but you go back to just tapping the fingerboard.

There’s one section, here in the middle, that you can never seem to get right. You’ve practiced it slow and you’ve practiced it fast, but every time you play it, it feels like a coin toss. Sometimes the first note screeches, ringing in the hall and making your cheeks flush and your mind spin. It’s always hard to keep going after that. Sometimes your fingers slip in the middle of the fast part and you lose control. The conductor always cuts you off when that happens, and somehow that feels even worse than missing the first note. But the worst is when you make it all the way to the end without a mistake. On the first note, you’re feeling confident. You’ve practiced this. You know what you’re doing. You’re the soloist, after all. In the middle, it feels as though you’re walking a tightrope. Floating on air, soaring above everyone else, but one slip, one cocky move, and you could crash to the ground. Then you get all the way to the end, and you’re so close. You’ve made it. The end is in sight, you can almost touch it. You start to relax just a second too early, and then your bow slips. Your finger drops. The most incorrect note in the history of incorrect notes rings through the hall. The conductor continues with the orchestra, but you can feel everyone’s eyes on you, judging you, wondering how you, the soloist, could have gotten that so so wrong.

Your fingers are still tapping through the solo, but the moment you focus on again, they forget what they’re doing and stammer to a halt. The orchestra has cut out again. The conductor is staring at you and you realize you were supposed to start playing. You hadn’t expected them to make it all the way to the solo.

All the eyes are on you. The soloist. All alone, no one else to tell you when to come in. And you hadn’t come in, and now they’re all judging you. The soloist.

The conductor raises his hands again and another wave of sound bursts from the orchestra. An explosion of sound and color turns the hall into an inferno. Brass blares, winds whistle, strings snap. Sound swirls up and down the empty aisles, bouncing off walls and chairs, boomeranging back to the stage only to be met with more, stronger, braver, brighter, bigger. Your bow hits the string and the notes ring out, tap-dancing over the rest of the orchestra, singing to the back of the hall and into the space beyond. Howling, warbling, serenading, calling to anyone who can hear. Come, listen, stay. Sink into a bumpy wooden chair, close your eyes, give yourself body and soul to the music caressing, calling, carrying you to a whole nother plane.

The notes spin, faster and faster and faster. The solo slides in with the rest of the orchestra. The notes spin around each other, a frenetic dance. Waltz, ballet, samba, quickstep, flamenco, polka,

Hands drop. Silence rushes in, stealing the breath from the hall. Your hands, your body vibrates with the fading reverb of your strings.

The conductor has some notes.

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adagio [ə-ˈdä-j(ē-ˌ)ō  ä-, -zh(ē-ˌ)ō] adverb or adjective

1. at a slow tempo —used chiefly as a direction in music and that is used especially for the second movement of a sonata

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People always talk about the second-show slump, but no one ever mentions the second-rehearsal slump, maybe because it just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Everyone is tired from the first rehearsal, from spending the day practicing the music over and over and over, and no one wants to play it all again. Rehearsal starts late as everyone stands around, unpacking slowly, talking and catching up with friends. The second-show slump is the favorite of stragglers as people slowly stumble in 5, 10, 15 minutes late.

You walk into the hall as the orchestra begins final tunings and the conductor looks at you in confusion. He asks if you’d seen his email from earlier about not working on the solo that day. You want to tell him obviously not, but you just say you hadn’t and go back home. Maybe you can watch that new episode of Doctor Who that came out the other night and you hadn’t been able to get to yet. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re probably just going to practice instead, maybe try and tackle that middle section again.

* * * * * *

scherzo [scher·​zo ˈskert-(ˌ)sō] noun

1. a sprightly humorous instrumental musical composition or movement commonly in quick triple time and that is used especially for the third movement of a sonata

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The final rehearsal before the concert. You spend the entire time working on the solo, the main piece of the night. You look down and realize a thick coat of rosin has built up around the  fingerboard and bridge. You make a mental note to wipe down the instrument before the performance tomorrow evening. Then, knowing you’ll forget the mental note, you take out your phone and write yourself an actual note. You tune quickly, skimming the bow over the strings, tapping your fingers up and down the dusty fingerboard. 

The orchestra swirls into sound in front of you. This is the first time you’ve played through the entire symphony, from beginning to end. You close your eyes as the music spins and dances around you, a serenade of sounds setting up your shining spotlight. This movement’s solo starts soft, singing a single long note that seems to bloom in the air before beginning to bounce above the rest of the orchestra, turning and tilting and tapping around the hall as it turns into a toe tapping, finger snapping, take-your-partner-in-your-arms-and-spin-them-fast dancing tune that builds to the breaking point then hovers just beneath.

The orchestra is repetitive, ba-dum-dum!, ba-dum-dum!, ba-dum-dum!, and your bow dances across the strings, tripping through the notes, hugging some and bouncing off others, staccato, spiccato, marcatto, one final leap to the end.

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finale [fə-ˈna-lē  fi-ˈnä-] noun

1. the last section of an instrumental musical composition, often containing a recapitulation of the original theme
2. the closing part, scene, or number in a public performance

* * * * * *

The lights go down. The conductor raises his hands and the orchestra follows. Soft jolts of sound echo as poised bows bump strings and bated breaths escape tensed lips.

The baton drops. An explosion of sound and color turns the hall into an inferno. Brass blares, winds whistle, strings snap. Sound swirls up and down the empty aisles, bouncing off walls and chairs, boomeranging back to the stage only to be met with more, stronger, braver, brighter, bigger.

This is the first time you’ve played this piece facing the audience, your back to the orchestra. Somehow it sounds differently this way, more strings, less brass and winds. As you wait for the orchestra to make their way through the first movement, you study the audience. A boy in the front row stares at you with wide eyes, his hand wrist-deep in a bucket of popcorn. You don’t remember seeing them selling popcorn in the lobby. You want to tap through the middle part again, but it’s too late for that. A few more moments, a few more measures, and all eyes will be on you.

You hear the familiar run of the oboe. 4 measures left. You flip the page. 3 measures left, you lay your bow on the strings. 2 measures left, the orchestra quiets, preparing for you. 1 measure, you hear someone in the audience begin to clap, thinking the piece is over. But it is just beginning.

You pull the bow across the strings, the thrum of the note vibrating through your body and echoing in your chest. Your fingers tap against the fingerboard, so familiar now you don’t have to think about it. Your heartbeat matches the pulse of the piece as the orchestra joins in behind you, lifting you into the air and spinning you round and round and round. Your sound mingles with theirs as together, you hypnotize the audience, the music letting go of your chest and latching onto theirs.

You make your way through the movements – the bursting song of the first sonata, the slow, crooning lullaby of the second adagio, the waltzing, tapping, spinning dance of the third scherzo, the soaring, calling, crying melody of the fourth finale. Your fingers feel like they’re typing an essay as they beat against the fingerboard. You’re coming up on the dreaded middle section and you feel your wrist tense in preparation, a million horrible possibilities flooding your mind as you get closer, closer

Then you’re through, so perfectly done you imagine people will write songs about it. You pull your bow across the strings, a final, thrilling chord that rolls through the hall as the orchestra echoes it behind you. The sound hovers in the air and for a split second you wonder if it will just stay there, ringing until the end of time. Then it fades, replaced by the loudest silence you’ve ever heard. The spell breaks and the audience erupts into applause, feet stomping and the creak of chairs they stand, programs and snacks dropping to the floor in a rush to get both hands free. You close your eyes and lean back in your chair, the tips of your fingers still tingling with the fading memory of the strings.

The lights rise back up.