My husband and I attended the Nashville Symphony’s “American in Paris” performance at the Schermerhorn Symphony Center last night. If I see the words “Paris” and “symphony” together, not to mention Gershwin, sign me up. Without looking into any details beyond the title, I purchased the tickets on an aisle in the rear orchestra, as always. This allows us to stretch our legs throughout the performance, guarantees us a first-in-line restroom spot during intermission, and gives us an easy escape before the final encore—avoiding the herd-like crowds.
When I flipped open the program, I was astonished to find the playbill filled with things other than “American in Paris.” Three other compositions were on the roster, and, of course, Gerwshin was dead last. The most striking of the other three musical portions was apparently the main attraction: a world-renowned, award-winning organ player who would be performing a modern piece with the symphony, and another by Bach (thank God).
After suffering through a handful of modern arrangements (read: I DID NOT PAY $90 A TICKET FOR AN EXPERIMENTAL PIECE OF “ART” THAT MAKES ME WANT TO JUMP INTO THE ORCHESTRA PIT HEAD FIRST), the organist arrived on stage.
A surprisingly diminutive creature wearing a black tuxedo, his eyes were framed by giant, wire rimmed glasses. He took his place on the organ bench, back facing the audience; this position allowed us to see the complicated instrument and his fancy footwork during the performance. Like a stringed marionette, his body stayed mostly upright while his legs moved back and forth and his arms flung in one direction or the other, tapping on keys or fussing with knobs. The pipes bellowed from above, and the entire concert hall was vibrating with every dark and eerie note. It was truly something to behold, and I felt a newfound respect for the old church lady creeping into my consciousness. Surely, her feet weren’t moving that fast, hidden beneath her robes during Sunday service?
After his Bach solo, he stood and faced the roaring crowd, now on our feet—most of us still in shock by the marvelous showing from this bookish man. I’d completely forgotten about anything remotely related to America, Paris, or Gerswhin. But still, as we sat through the final composition of the evening, I kept wondering what type of person appoints the organ as their instrument of choice? Seems to me they would have to be a little on the cryptic side or zealously religious.
I mean, really? The organ.
As I clapped ferociously, I tried to imagine this man as an eight year-old child walking into a music store and shouting at the top of his lungs: “Mama, I want that one.”
Confused, she looks up, the giant pipes hovering above the violin section, and says under her breath:
“Not today, Satan.”
This little observational essay was written in January 2023, as part of my Diaries project. It has never seen the light of day, so consider this its orchestral, non-modern, debut.