The Concert
Cheers, applause, ovation… somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand people, right in front of me. I looked up and felt so tiny. The audience was impatient; meanwhile, I imagined what would be like to play a violin concerto for all of them.
The truth is, I had the violin in my hands but I was not allowed to play a concerto—they wouldn’t want to hear a concerto anyways. It was a gig, and as a member of a small string orchestra, I was accompanying a pop star while he unbuttoned his shirt and confirmed he’s a grown man.
We were not going to play classical music—bummer—no classical music will ever have twenty thousand people screaming; eager to experience THE MAN or THE WOMEN.
Even if you attend a performance by the big guys (Dudamel, Berlin Phil, NY phil), you can’t show your enthusiasm. I remember when I was waiting to see the Vienna Phil, I wanted to squeal like the people at the pop event. Nope, I couldn’t.
Classical music is a different environment—more serious and packed with old people—you can’t be excited. They would look at you funny. And that’s why the genre is not popular.
Music is to be enjoyed; we should be able to be ourselves.
The concert started and we played the introduction piece. I could barely hear my own playing (even though we had a monitor). The boom-boom of the band covered the entire stadium. The lights were focused on THE MAN as he made his grandiose entrance moving his hips and dancing with his unbuttoned shirt; the ladies went nuts.
The whole show was prepared for the fans; those who were brave enough to pay at least seventy five dollars for an “up in the sky view” ticket. For that money you expect a good show.
You are paying for the experience.
The way I see it, the light show covered your first twenty dollars (colorful lights dancing at the rhythm of music), the MAN’s entrance covered the next twenty bucks, your favorite song the next twenty and the rest of the money was according to your seating location.
They know how to run the circus—and that my friend—is how the business of music works.
So there I was, playing long notes (that I can’t even hear myself), my ears hurt from the loud band and I feel important and trashed at the same time.
Why was I feeling like a Granma? Is it about the money? About happiness? Did they sell me a dream when I started conservatory and now I was living something else?
I trained as a classical musician and I fell in love with making art—not the money BUT ART (if you want money you have to consider a different career).
I studied the music of the masters—Beethoven, Brahms, Mahler. As school progressed I understood the craft; what it takes to play like the pros. I knew it was a lot of work but after attending concerts by the best orchestras in the world, I set my goal to play like them.
It may sound like the kid who wants to be an astronaut; the only difference is that a kid may change his mind once he grows up. I didn’t and won’t. That’s how much I like ART.
My ambitious grew; I wanted to play at the highest level my hands could reach. I also knew that my search for success would send me on the teaching road and playing gigs with guys that wear unbuttoned shirts. But I accepted because I couldn’t see myself doing something else.
Was I making art when I played with the pop star? YES, of course. It’s a different kind of art but I still had my hands on the instrument, even though I didn’t hear myself; I was present and touching the lives of twenty thousand people; plus that month I could afford the rent.
It’s just my opinion (that playing with a pop star is ART)—you may think that without me the band sounded the same but I like to differ. Form an artistic point of view I was essential, and so would you if you were in the same position.
Music taught me all about art and how to become ambitious; perhaps too ambitious. I don’t care about the money other than to pay rent, buy food and pay my blog’s hosting and newsletter—MONEY buys me time to practice my craft; to be one day like the musicians who play at Carnegie Hall.
Love for the craft my friend, it’s essential. If you get to accompany a guy that wears an unbuttoned shirt don’t be depressed. You have your instrument in your hands, not mowing the grass or helping in an office. You are doing music—good or bad—it’s music. There is always something new to learn.
On the other hand, when you teach, you educate how to handle the instrument—you promote ART. It reminds you the basics, the things you always have to be conscious of in order to sound at your best.
I would say teaching is essential. When we do so, we sponsor and expand what we love the most— and that is not hammering a piece of wood against a house frame—it may include playing with unbuttoned guys, though.
Now I know what I got myself into, I battle the pros and cons so that I’m fulfilled today. I choose now, I chose art, I chose happiness.
Long Live Art,
CESAR AVILES