You should all go and see this on May 12th at NECSS
Here is a revue
On the 24th day of the first month in the two thousand sixteenth year of the Gregorian calendar I Uber'ed through snow and cold weather to see a performance of live music. I had come to see 'Broad Street Score: A Song Cycle for String Quartet and Voice' as written by George Hrab with music composed by Slau Halatyn & Veikko Rihu. The show started at 7:00 pm and walking up to The Icehouse seemed like a tour through Scandinavia. The snow was three feet high on either side of the plowed path that led straight to the door. As I shook off the cold, I looked at the small entrance room populated with scarce art and fewer people. My eye spotted the ticket table and I pulled myself there. I was wormed by the greeting I received from Kiki as she checked off my digital ticket a la iPhone. My heart started thumping as a looked around seeing the company I was in. The room was peopled with members of the production with the exception of myself, the fan. When George, this bespectacled suited bald man, stepped out into the foyer it seemed to grow even smaller. I tried to keep myself in check but as soon as I opened my mouth nothing but a fools babble came out. He in return was quite gracious and very humbled that I would trek out in the inhospitable weather. I attempted to communicate adamantly that for a performance by him I would walk over hot coals. It felt so alluring to be so close to such talent.
I shuffled off to the main performance space before I did something I would be to embraced by. The set was an elegantly simple geometric pattern of repeating corners were made by cubic cardboard boxes stacked pyramidal on each other in a staged fashion. Despite the weather there was a space but hardy audience. I found my seat in the last row and waited in jittery anticipation. When the players marched out to the stage my excitement rose to levels previously unknown. Two violinists a violist, a cellist, and Mr Hrab, was the army.
This assault on our senses had to be the way it was. Loud and quiet and syncopated. Mr Hrab was general of an army though small was mighty. Standing behind the protective quartet tuning up for battle. When bow hit mettle and the sound came out attacking the audience a voice fallowed that made brows crease and minds work. The sweet regal sounds of violins made the lyrics sound elevated and well crafted. The words once digested mix between comedy and contemplation.
The opening salvo started with such an up beat song, "Everything alive will die someday". The beautiful harmonies were truncated by the modern sound of the composition. And then when I heard "The fairness of unfairness is in everything's demise" and it clicked how optimistic this song really was. The song struck with light procession attacking with subtle satire and double meaning half comedy, half philosophy.
The second strike came as a heavy handed satirical hammer. "The good old days" were wonderful for everyone, "unless you had skin that was brown". The nostalgia would have brought a tear to the eye. The eye that is of any cold hearted bastard with selective memory and outmoded opinions who hasn't changed with the times.
A third strike fell almost as hard. If you imagine what I would be like after you die you have to be realistic and say "Heaven must be really boring" which is argued by "who could stand perfection for eternity?" Though this might be a hard topic the staccato jabs by the strings in a major cord made it feel happy.
Now that I was deep in the mindset of this war it came to pass that one song already written for strings. It started with plucking on all strings, like death by a thousand cuts. The sound was light and airy until the singing came in and dropped the message. "How do you do what you do after dealing with what's done?" My secret weapon was knowledge of who the subject was. The composer Slau Halatyn who has a flourishing music producing career despite his blindness is the example of accomplishment despite handicap. I can't know what it would be to write cords for a song touting my unique adversities.
There came a moment when I didn't know when the performance began or when it would end; I didn't remember a time outside of that present. I was caught up in the swell of the music I was whisked away on a confusing role-coaster of sound. This disorienting song was appropriately titled "The more I despise it less". I came out of the song with no more understanding and I had no time to contemplate it.
The quartet which sounded more like an orchestra raged on and I felt the swipes of the bows like strikes from a sword. Each song started to bleed into the next and I was suffering the onslaught. The room filled with so much sound it was suffocating. Underneath the waves the cello bass thrummed like water splashing on rocks.
As the final song finished and the feeling in my hands returned I herd the echo of the applause reverberate around the hall. I realized there were tears in my eyes. The music was played the performance was done. The tools were laid to rest. But I was changed; the man who entered was slain and a new person worse to leave. I was a convert to the church that had its sermon here. Baptized in the sound I was overcome by what was going on in my own head. My feelings were gushing up from where ever these things come from. I had a tingling in my fingertips like the buzz of electricity. I wanted to hear it again. I needed to hear it again.
Being who I am my mind immediately started contemplating the takeaway form this performance. The concrete conclusion I made is there's something about live music that can't be captured.