"Bring a date"

A telephone conversation with Jascha Heifetz. No, really. "If you don't have a date, bring your boy, bring somebody, I don't care."

Come towards the light

We've successfully navigated through our first Inside the Classics concerts, which is a huge relief. We had the added pressure of creating a show that was radio-friendly (which meant, among other things, no sight gags and minimizing dead air, which changes the tempo of what we do), so it was a stressful week.

I've been saying for a while now that one of the more unusual features of my new position as Principal Conductor, Pops and Presentations (did I officially mention that on the blog? Can't remember...) is that I conduct a huge spectrum of repertoire (much more than in your average pops conducting position) - "everything from Beethoven to Ben Folds" has been my line. Well, last week was where the idea of that sound bite came from, and it certainly was a dramatic switch between Friday night's ItC MPR live broadcast to Saturday's concert featuringBen Folds.

The fact that the show happened to land on Halloween added to what was already a huge event - the Hall was beyond sold out, and tickets for standing room disappeared in an instant. There was definitely a different feel in the house - I don't think I've ever heard an audience make so much noise as a guest artist walked onstage - and much of the crowd was in the Halloween spirit, decked out in elaborate costumes.

Orchestra concerts generally tend to be fairly serious affairs, so it was interesting to see how our players would react to a concert that was outside the norm - and I think it's a credit to our musicians that they decided to join in on the fun. We had a variety of bewigged and costumed players onstage; we also handed out Folds-esque glasses for a subtle costuming touch (we had about 20 players with them on, and I donned them for the first half). A video sampling of backstage shenanigans (including an explanation from Ben about how to figure out if pants will fit you):





I met Ben over a year ago at when we did a show at the Mann Center in Philadelphia, and we've been working together on and off ever since. I love collaborating with him; aside from being a great songwriter and performer, he's really a consummate musician (and his classical training background comes in handy when working with an orchestra!). I mean, who else discusses the Lydian mode as part of their mid-concert schtick?

For the second half of the show we did a hasty outfit change, pulled on wigs and re-emerged as Sonny and Cher (I was apparently so unrecognizable that several members of the Orchestra were wondering "Who's that woman?" when I walked onstage):



(We're singing "I got you babe". Good times.)

I'm all for formality and seriousness where it's warranted (and part of me really loves the sense of decorum and ritual that is a large part of the usual classical concert process). But I do love a regular foray into the lighter side of things. Because life (and music, for that matter) is that much better with a sense of humor.

Sad songs say so much...

A busy, busy, busy week (and last week was, too!). We opened our US Bank Pops series with Broadway Rocks last Friday, a Sampler on Saturday, and numerous Inside the Classics meetings scattered throughout the week. On deck this week; more meetings! And of course, our first Inside the Classics concerts of the season.

I don't know how Sam is finding the time to post so much; I'll simply leave you with this, the funniest musician want ad I've ever seen:

Couldn't resist

I've been avoiding commentary on Michael Jackson's death (because, given the coverage on all the major media outlets, what could there possibly be to add??), but I had to share this with you:







(Organist Robert Ridgell plays a Jacksonian postlude last Sunday at Trinity Wall Street)


The (modal!) fugal treatment of "ABC" is particularly stunning. And make sure to watch through the collegial Book of Common Prayer-thumping at the end!

Showing Off

As we await the arrival of legendary violinist Joshua Bell, our soloist for this week's concerts as well as our upcoming European tour, I thought I'd share one of my favorite virtuoso violin videos from a master of a bygone era. Willie Hall is the gentleman's name, and as nearly as I can tell, he's actually playing everything you hear in this clip, some of which is pretty incredible despite the low fidelity of the recording.



Your move, Mr. Bell...

Naked Trombone Aggression

Fun moment in rehearsal today: one of the pieces we're tackling this week is Ravel's Alborado del gracioso, which is basically eight minutes of (hopefully) organized chaos, with a French accent. It's been a while since we've done it, and we've never played it under Osmo that I can remember, so as we read it through for the first time, we were all pretty well buried in our parts, concentrating solely on making our own wildly complicated lines fit into the larger sound. I'm still sitting at the very back of the viola section, so I was particularly intent on locking in with my principal, 20 or so feet in front of me.

So you can imagine my reaction when I heard what sounded like a toppling tower of soup cans coming from just over my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and jumped again a moment later when I felt something heavy and metallic roll smack into my right foot. Almost immediately, there came a voice from the low brass, who sit on high risers right behind the violas: "Uh, little help?"

Apparently, what had happened was that one of our trombonists, Kari Sundstrom, had been trying either to insert or remove his huge metal mute while still keeping up with the furious pace of the piece, and in his haste, had sent the thing spiraling into the air, where it clattered down at my feet. Mutes get dropped and kicked all the time back there (and Sarah's written about what happens when they do,) but this was a mute drop with a whole new level of forcefulness, and the whole band stopped playing to laugh and point.

Trying to pretend that I hadn't just cowered like a child from a falling mute, I stood up, grabbed the mute, and marched it back to Kari, planting it firmly at the base of his stand and instructing him to hold the hell onto it, or I'd keep it next time...

Not Necessarily The Moonlight Sonata

Most Americans my age or younger probably think of Dudley Moore (if we think of him at all) as the kindly, bumbling alcoholic from the Arthur movies. We may have a vague memory of him playing some piano in that role, but that's likely as far as the association goes.

And that's a great shame, because, in his heyday, Moore was one of the great musical comedians of the 20th century, and remains a legend in British comedy circles for his work with Peter Cook on the BBC in the late 1960s. He was also a gifted musician, interested in both classical and jazz, and even hosted a few serious documentaries on music in his later years.

One of my favorite of Moore's routines is from one of his earliest gigs, the transatlantic satirical smash hit, Beyond the Fringe, which sadly seems to be well out of circulation these days. This was an age when the basics of classical music were still common enough knowledge to be reasonable fodder for satire, and all manner of humorists, from Anna Russell to Victor Borge, were thriving on stage and screen. Moore's crowning achievement in this area is a 4-1/2 minute bit in which he doesn't say a word, just sits down at the keyboard, and creates an entire "Beethoven" sonata, complete with overwrought big finish. It still makes me laugh every time I hear it...



(Hat tip to former MN Orch CEO Tony Woodcock for first making me aware of this bit several years ago...)

Wish you were there...

...for the rehearsal for the Piano-e-competition on Thursday afternoon. The kid were great - all poised and prepared, a few quite exceptional - but the kicker was when the orchestra finished with the concertos and went to work on Tchaikovsky's Symphony #5. If you recall, towards the end of the last movement, there's a huge cadence in B major; repeated chords, ending in a full stop, before the triumphant return of the theme in E major. I've certainly sat through (and, once, conducted) performances where the audience, perhaps a bit antsy after 40-some-odd minutes and believing that the end has been reached, starts applauding wildly in the grand pause.

Sam and I have remarked many times on the Minnesota Orchestra's sense of humor, which was abundantly evident that afternoon. When we reached that cadence point in the symphony during rehearsal, the entire orchestra started hooting and hollering and applauding in the grand pause. Instruments were raised, wolf whistles made; one violinist even half-stood up. What I found most amazing in this display of mirth was that not a single musician missed a beat after the outburst, and the movement was completed as if nothing had ever happened.

Just as with the "I didn't do it!" instrument raise, it was an instinctive and spontaneous moment, and funny as hell. I'm telling you, this orchestra has quite the sense of humor...

Best Parental Bail-Out Ever

Here's a fun story from out East, where the Boston Symphony's young assistant conductor Julian Kuerti was making his subscription debut last week. It seems that piano soloist Leon Fleisher was taken ill at the last minute before Tuesday's concert, leaving no time for a replacement to be flown in from out of town. Fortunately, conductor Kuerti is the son of famed Canadian pianist Anton Kuerti, and dad was in town to see the kid's big night. It didn't take much convincing to get him to hop up onstage and fill in, allowing Julian to join the tiny (and probably slightly uncomfortable) fraternity of conductors who have led a concert with a parent on stage alongside.

(I should mention that Julian's an old friend of mine. We've known each other since we were teenagers in the early 1990s, long before he traded his violin for a baton, and it's been a lot of fun to watch his career start to take off in the last few years. A couple of summers back, he actually filled in as conductor of the orchestra at the New England music camp where fellow MN Orch violist Ken Freed and I work, and that gig garnered him my favorite review that he's ever received. Writing on the camp's private wiki page after the summer was over, one 12-year old stated emphatically, "He's the only sane conductor I've ever met." High praise indeed.)

Anyway, the Kuerti double bill reminded me of a great story that was first reported in the New York Times a couple of years back, when the New York Philharmonic's now-music director designate Alan Gilbert was making his much-anticipated debut. Gilbert is the son of two NY Phil musicians, one of whom still plays in the orchestra, and during a rehearsal, she apparently blew an entrance. Now, this kind of thing happens all the time in rehearsals, and unless there's a larger problem or the mistake happens more than once, conductors tend to ignore it out of respect to the offending musician, who presumably can be counted on to correct the problem without having it pointed out to the whole band. But Gilbert, realizing who had dived in this particular hole, stopped the orchestra, whirled around to the first violin section, and hollered, "MOM!"

According to the Times, the whole Philharmonic broke up laughing, as Gilbert remarked, "I've been waiting my whole life to do that."

Ensign Hicks To The Bridge!

In case anyone was in doubt about the lengths to which Sarah will go in fulfilling the duties of her assistant conductorship with our orchestra, the following cell phone photo, which I took backstage tonight during our pops concert, should serve as verification...


Yes, that is Sarah, wearing a Starfleet uniform, holding a tribble in her baton hand, and making the international sign for "I am a dweeby nerd." And yes: she was wearing this on stage, during the show, in full view of 2,450 people.

The best part, though, was when I stopped by her dressing room at intermission, as she had just finished changing into the Enterprise garb. At the sight of my raised eyebrow, she asked, "What? Does it look dorky?"

I just don't know how to even begin to answer that one...

Unreasonable Demands

In last week's podcast, Peter McGuire and I talked a bit about the challenge he'll be facing when he takes the stage as a soloist in this week's Inside the Classics concerts. For an orchestral player to step into a solo role is more difficult than you might imagine, and on top of simply playing the Tchaikovsky concerto, Peter will also be a full participant in the first half of the program, playing excerpts from the piece and talking about the strange and ultimately triumphant backstory behind it. To be perfectly honest, I'm feeling more than a little bit guilty about it all, since Peter honestly had no real idea of what would be expected of him in this show when he agreed to play the concerto more than a year ago. But Peter is one of those guys who would probably smile and nod agreeably if you asked him to play the Bach Chaconne while walking barefoot across a bed of hot coals, so if he's at all worried about the unusual nature of these performances, he hasn't let on.

These unusual demands on a soloist's skills, however, did put me in mind of another challenging performance of a Tchaikovsky concerto that I once saw, courtesy of the boys from Monty Python...

Ask An Expert: Conductor Skill Sets

Our latest question comes from Don Picard, who asks...

Q: From your two perspectives, what skills mark the difference between an average orchestra conductor, a good conductor and a truly great conductor?

Don, you may or may not know it, but that is the kind of question that just begs a musician to give back a smartass answer. Honestly, I thought of six punchlines before I even began to consider that you might be serious! However, as part of my continuing effort to behave as if I am older than 14, I have searched high and low to find the definitive answer to your query.

To start with, we should let Sarah have her say, which is likely to be far more erudite and (let's face it) informed than anything I might come up with...

Sarah's Answer: Here are the essential proficiencies that any conductor must master to be able to conduct at any level at all: a strong background in theory and harmony; a highly developed ear (the ability to hear discrete pitches, harmonies and individual voices within larger textures); the ability to read and analyze a score (including score reading at the keyboard); mastery in one or more instruments and an excellent grasp of the mechanics and proclivities of all orchestral instruments; knowledge of the core orchestral repertoire and the stylistic elements contained therein; a gestural vocabulary that is reasonably clear and instructive; and an essential understanding of musical phrasing and the ability to communicate it. The average conductor would have all of the above skills and qualities.

Now here's where it gets a little more nebulous, for me, at least. A good conductor would fulfill (and really excel at some of) the above. In addition, they possess the ability to inspire (a real intangible!), a strong musical viewpoint (and not of the "because I feel it" variety - it comes from an intimate knowledge of the score), and leadership skills (another intangible - a good conductor can, in many different ways, coax and cajole an ensemble to their musical viewpoint - inability to do so means the inability to express that viewpoint at all.)

Even more ambiguous are those qualities that make a conductor great. For me, the essential element is the existence of an overarching individual musical aesthetic that comes from deep understanding of scores and the innate grasp of larger musical structure. The best conductors, in other words, have an incredible understanding of music and of the flow of music within the flow of time - they can take the audience (and orchestra) on a real voyage over the course of a piece of music. Many very good conductors will give you an exciting performance full of peaks and valleys, but for me, this is an episodic approach to making music that ignores the larger viewpoint, the one that makes it feel "right" when you reach the last chord, that takes you somewhere and brings you back.

It's all kind of ambiguous, isn't it? Great conductors have "It", and "It" is hard to describe. The greatest conductors aren't bound by some of the conditions of basic conducting, either - conducting technique itself seems less relevant when there is a truly powerful musical viewpoint behind it, because the force of that viewpoint can overcome any technical shortcomings. And then there is the tricky issue of charisma - some conductors are charismatic because of their musicality (usually in the "good" or "great" category) while others are personally charismatic (and musicianship can be anywhere on the spectrum), so this is not necessarily a good measure.

Okay, it's Sam again. Contrary to my earlier flippancy, it turns out that musicians have some pretty good answers to this question as well. So last week, while the orchestra was recording a couple of Beethoven symphonies, I began accosting people backstage more or less at random, and asked for their thoughts. The result, in podcast form, is here...

Christmas On The Benches

I grew up in the Quaker church (not nearly as exotic in my home state of Pennsylvania as it is in the Midwest,) so the kind of extravagant Christmas celebrations that so many religious traditions observe were foreign to me. My religion emphasized simplicity over ceremony, to the extent that normal Sunday services were conducted in silence, the whole congregation gathered together on hard wooden benches in a building that resembled a renovated barn, with no officiant or minister leading us. The closest thing we had to a religious authority figure (other than God, who, our tradition held, was to be found not in the sky above, but on the Earth, within each of us,) was the elected clerk of the meeting, who would indicate that the service had concluded by shaking hands with the person next to him/her, at which point we would all do the same, and then go have coffee.

My first Christmas at Gwynedd Meeting came when I was eleven, shortly after we'd moved to the area and begun attending services. I'd attended Catholic Christmas masses before, with members of my extended family who observed that tradition, and being a child with little exposure to such things, found them to be hugely intimidating, if gloriously extravagant. But I had no idea what to expect of a Quaker Christmas service. In my world, Christmas was about two things - presents and music, in that order. My brothers and I all played string instruments, so we were in heavy demand around the holiday season for cheesy little mini-performances in front of relatives, friends, and even real audiences. Moreover, we had a stately old Baldwin upright in the living room, and my mother, an accomplished amateur musician herself, was only too happy to spend an hour or two teaching us carol after carol from the worn green Christmas songbook that resided in the piano bench.

But in a church known for silence, how could Christmas be Christmas? I remember being seriously worried about this. Our services were never exactly austere and forbidding, but they were certainly solemn, and to a kid, solemnity just doesn't go with Christmas. So I was surprised when one of the elders of the meeting approached my parents to ask whether my brother, Drew, and I would be available to participate in a musical portion of the Sunday service on the weekend before Christmas that year. It would be a simple matter of performing a few understated carols in between hymns and testimonies, and we were both agreeable. We had a stockpile of such arrangements at home, and knew it wouldn't take more than an hour or two to whip them into acceptable shape.

I don't know who selected the repertoire, but I do remember thinking that some of it seemed to have little to do with Christmas. The operative theme seemed to be quiet murmuring music, rather than anything particularly festive. Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring was an obvious choice, as was a movement of the Corelli Christmas Concerto that we'd been playing together for years. But somehow, Simple Gifts (a hugely important hymn in the Quaker church, albeit one without a single connection to Christ or the holidays) got into the mix, and then came the selection that made my brother's face fall the minute he heard it - Pachelbel's Canon in D.

See, my brother was a cellist, and I know from experience that the very mention of Pachelbel's name inspires that same grimacing reaction from all cellists, regardless of age or ability. The ubiquitous canon is actually a lovely (if severely overused) piece of music, and the instruments playing the melody line really have little to complain about. But for whichever instrument plays the bass line, Pachelbel is ten minutes of quiet hell. A canon is really nothing but endless variations on the same set of chords (that's why the various lines can enter one after the other and not sound dissonant,) which means that, while the melody might be changing and evolving, the chord structure stays absolutely static. Since chords are built from their lowest note, the upshot of all this is that the cellist plays a sequence of eight notes a total of 54 times in Pachelbel's Canon.

I don't know how many times my brother had to bang out the Pachelbel bass line over the years, but I do know that he was never happy about it. That Sunday at Gwynedd, I distinctly remember the change in his face when we transitioned from Corelli to Pachelbel. He went from a studious young performer hoping not to screw up, to an automaton in a trancelike state, calmly repeating his two bar bass line like a machine, his mind somewhere far, far away as he waited for me to finish noodling around on the melody line. In the years since, I've seen this look from countless other cellists at weddings, funerals, and religious ceremonies of all kinds, at which the celebrants never seem able to resist the siren song of Pachelbel.

Afterwards, I must have made some vaguely mocking comment about his demeanor during the canon, because I distinctly remember him turning to me, eyes flashing with anger, and hissing, "It doesn't even have anything to do with Christmas!"

He was absolutely right, of course, and yet, I'll bet the Canon in D is being played even as I type this on Christmas-themed radio stations across the country. So Drew, this one's for you: may you never again have to play those eight cursed notes...

Podcast Launch!

Well, after weeks of promises, delays, and procrastination by yours truly, I'm pleased to announce the availability of the very first Inside the Classics Podcast! This initial effort consists of four short segments, in which Sarah and I and a few other Minnesota Orchestra musicians share stories, rants, gossip and other behind the scenes tidbits in an effort to give you a look at the chaotic and occasionally hilarious professional world we inhabit.

Bear in mind, this isn't a downloadable concert - in fact, there's very little music on it at all - it's essentially an audio extension of this blog. (It may also, in parts, sound to you as if it has been edited and mixed by an 8-year-old with a Fisher Price mixing board and a 1982 Sony Walkman. I'm really very sorry about that, but I'm new at this part of the job. It'll get better, I promise.)

We're hoping to make this podcasting thing a regular feature of the ItC site, and at the moment, we're leaning towards the idea of putting up shorter bursts of audio on a more frequent basis, rather than waiting until we manage to cobble together a full-length 25-minute program. But it basically all depend on you, so let us know what (and who) you'd like to hear, and what you could happily go without hearing ever again. Hit the play button below to listen to our inaugural effort, or just click the Podcast button at the top of the page to get access to all our audio content anytime...

Of Firebirds & Foolishness...

Here are a bunch more photos from our Thursday night Inside the Classics concert last week, courtesy of crack photographer Greg Helgeson...

Our brilliant guest dancers were Penelope Freeh and Justin Leaf, both members of James Sewell Ballet. They also proved more than willing to participate in some of our first-half shenanigans, even at the possible expense of their pride...

Nothing like being held at daggerpoint by a 5'2" blond violinist, is there, Justin?

If memory serves, this was actually one of the less ridiculous facial expressions I sported over the course of the night. (Please note that Sarah, as usual, looks completely composed and fabulous. This should give you some idea of how our photo session for the series brochure went.)

The first violins are really never going to live down the tiara thing, and this pleases me.

My favorite thing about this shot is the way that cellist Beth Rapier and violinist Julie Ayer are so clearly unimpressed by Tom & Richard's terrifying arsenal. (And since more than one person asked: yes, that is, in fact, my hockey stick. And yes, I am a left-handed shot, albeit a very, very bad one.)


I honestly don't know what we would have done had David Wright not agreed to take on the role of the Kastchei. In a flurry of enthusiasm, he even supplied his own costume...

Many of you have commented that you really like watching Sarah conduct. I strongly suspect that moments like this are the reason why.

Thanks again to everyone who came to the concerts! Our PR staffers tell us that they can't remember the last time they got such immediate positive feedback from members of the audience, and we're taking your ideas and suggestions into account as we plan future shows. We'll see you in January for our next ItC concert, but this site won't be taking a break for the holidays! Keep coming back regularly, and we promise to have fresh content, new Ask An Expert questions, and those long-awaited podcasts going up throughout the year!

Ask and you shall receive...

Well, we've gotten so many pleas for a photo of the Orchestra from this week's "Inside the Classics" shows, so here's one for you that I took from the podium on Thursday (many thanks to Fora, our acting principal bass, for lending me his camera!). Roger Frisch's expression is priceless...

The concerts were an amazing amount of fun, and totally made up for the endless planning and stress. Launching a new series is a tremendous undertaking, and certainly not possible without the support of our colleagues. Fortunatel for Sam and I, this Orchestra is game for practically anything, clearly indicated by this photo!!

Ask An Expert: Composer Craziness

From time to time here on the ItC blog, we'll be posting questions that we receive from readers about some aspect of the orchestra world or other, along with answers from either the two of us or from whomever we can find who is best equipped to provide an answer. If you'd like to submit a question, just click the Ask An Expert button on the top menu. Here's our first installment:

Q: In your experience, whats the strangest thing a modern composer has ever asked the musicians or conductor to do in a score?

Sarah's Answer: I've done my share of new music readings for young composers, which can be both enlightening and entertaining, and I've seen some interesting stuff. The one that sticks out in my mind was a lengthy composition for soprano and orchestra by a doctoral student from 5-6 years ago. The music was pretty complicated, but what got me was the vocal line - the soprano was singing in pre-Coptic Egyptian (which was strange enough), but the kicker was that it was written out in hieroglyphs in the score. To the composer's defense, a hieroglyphic translation and pronunciation key was provided, but that wasn't really practical for rehearsing - it ended up being something like, "Could we go back to that raven/sun/eye/jackal-headed god line??"

Sam's Answer: Back in college, I once played a piece by the eminent Argentine composer Mauricio Kagel. It was called "Finale," even though it was a one-movement piece, and the reason it had that title was because, midway through the performance, the score instructed the conductor to have a heart attack and die. Our conductor, who was only 30 and in remarkably athletic shape, had to put on quite a show to sell his death to the audience - I believe he actually pulled the conductor's stand over on top of himself as he fell. Following the collapse, the entire chamber orchestra was instructed to leap from our chairs, surround the conductor, and try to help him. Eventually, it was determined, silently, that he was dead, and the first violinist led us back to our chairs, where we played the Dies Irae (a Latin death hymn), and then carried our still-deceased conductor from the stage. The hardest part, of course, was accomplishing all this without laughing...

I've actually got an even more interesting answer to this question, but sadly, it's not the kind of thing you want to be writing about on a general audience blog. (Let's just say that it would garner us an easy NC-17 rating.) I'd be happy to spill it to anyone who wants to buy me a beer after a concert sometime...

More cowbell

A quick story from this last week; during rehearsal on Tuesday morning for the Young People’s Concerts we spent a good amount of time rehearsing Zhou Tian’s new piece, “First Sight”. The piece was inspired by dancing he saw in a very traditional village in China this past summer, and there is a rather raucous and energetic bit towards the end as the dancing reaches a climax. It’s texturally complicated and required some rehearsing to make sure certain voices were emerging, which involved me asking for more strings here, less winds here, more brass here, less percussion there.

Tom Turner, our principal viola, always ready with his trademark deadpan commentary, says, “I dunno, guys, I really think it could use some more cowbell.” Which of course elicited some giggles - apart from the snappy pop culture reference, there was no cowbell in Tian's piece, and furthermore cowbell is usually not a big feature of orchestral music.

Or so I thought. Two days later, during a FutureClassics rehearsal, the orchestra began to read through a new composition – which, about a minute in, had an extended section featuring cowbell. I smiled, the viola section had a laugh. Live and learn…

More Stuff You Can't See From The Audience

Sarah's description of our habit of yanking our instruments into the air to demonstrate that we haven't dropped them (yet) reminded me of just how unusual this particular orchestra is when it comes to workplace habits. Don't get me wrong - most orchestras have a few good stories or weird traditions, but here in Minneapolis, I would venture to say that we goof around at a higher level than any other ensemble on earth. Just off the top of my head, here are a few of our regular (mis)behaviors:

-- Whenever the orchestra has occasion to fly together on a plane, landings are celebrated with a lusty singing of a Russian folk song (complete with vaguely Russian-sounding nonsense lyrics) by our fourth horn player, followed immediately by an eardrum-shattering "HEY!" and a fist pump from the rest of the band. (No one's ever mistaken us for hijackers in these situations, but you know it's only a matter of time.)

-- Whenever we find ourselves rehearsing Beethoven's 9th, at least ten people are guaranteed to break into song when we reach the first vocal solo in the last movement. Typically, this occurs at an early rehearsal when the actual soloists are not yet present, but honestly, we'd do it regardless.

-- If we find ourselves playing a concert that requires individual lights on our music stands, we will go to extraordinary lengths to find an unused outlet at the end of one of the dozens of extension cords snaking around the stage. And then, we will plug inappropriate objects into it. (In one glorious week of children's concerts a few years back, my stand partner and I plugged in an air freshener, a hair dryer, and a toaster containing two Pop Tarts. We were ready with a blender and a deep fryer when we were finally busted by the personnel manager.)

The viola section, as Sarah mentioned, does seem to be at the center of the madness more often than not, and most of our best material stays on our little corner of the stage, lest we offend some of the more delicate orchestral sensibilities (and here I am referring almost exclusively to the violin section.) I'm really not at liberty to disclose most of our shenanigans, but suffice to say that until I got to Minneapolis, I was always, always always the class clown of whatever viola section I played in. Around here, I come in third or fourth...

The best medicine

Every orchestra has its particular proclivities; it’s part of what makes each ensemble a distinct entity, what makes one orchestra unlike any other. Critics have long bemoaned the homogenization of orchestra sound in this country – I suppose it has become more difficult to tell our top 10 bands apart in a blind hearing (although one can usually tell the difference between an American and European orchestra) – which is a HUGE topic for some other time. But what I’m talking about are the quirks that make any group of people unique, and the Minnesota Orchestra is one of the quirkiest (in the best sense!) groups I’ve ever worked with.

While I’m pretty sure Sam will have a more “insider” take on this one – the viola section in particular seems always a heartbeat away from dissolving into rehearsal-stopping laughter at an inside joke – I’m always delighted by the sense of humor that is almost the defining characteristic of this orchestra. Make no mistake; these folks are serious about what they do. The level of preparation and focus that they put into their work is nothing short of extraordinary, and watching that much concentration from that many people at any given time is truly inspiring. But they are always game for a laugh, to find the levity in any given situation, and it makes for some entertaining moments.

One of the odder (and to me, quite funny) traditions of this orchestra is what, in my mind, I call the “I didn’t do it.” When anything is dropped onstage during a rehearsal – a sheet of music, a violin bow, a tuba (no no, I’m kidding, although sometimes it does sound like a tuba’s been dropped) – everyone lifts up their instrument in the air, as if to say “I didn’t do it!” The genesis of this peculiar behavior (and this is the story the bass section told me the other day) is that about 15 years ago, one of the trumpets dropped a mute, causing a small ruckus, and our principal trumpet Manny Laureano held up his own mute to prove that it wasn’t him. And a tradition was born.

What’s particularly funny for me is how immediate a reaction it is – it’s not like everyone looks around wondering if anyone else is going to lift their instruments; they just do it. People will be turning a page of music in one hand, talking to their section, and instrument-lifting with the other hand. It’s gotten to the point where I kind of unconsciously do it myself – I’ll be on the podium and hear a pencil being dropped, and I’ll lift my baton over my head in an instinctive mirroring of what everyone is doing around me. And instinct is a funny thing; a couple of nights ago, sitting in the first tier during a concert, I heard a program book being dropped in a quiet moment of the Mozart symphony, and it took a lot of conscious thought to keep myself from raising up my own program book – “I didn’t do it!”