Musicians intrigue me beyond description. They are our access to an
alternate universe where countless emotions flow freely on the backs
clefs and dancing notes. From thin air, musicians pluck magic that
sticks in my brain for days, weeks or a lifetime.
I’ve always
wanted to have music, but that simply is not my lot. Words live in me. Music just visits.
Monday I had more than a simple visit; I was treated to a visage. Itzhak Perlman’s face, to be exact.
Last
spring my wife asked if I would like a special musical treat for my
March birthday. Cecile knows I can’t tell a sonata from a sing-along,
but she also knows I love “historical” opportunities. That’s how we
ended up with front-row seats for violinist Itzhak Perlman’s scheduled
Columbia concert.
A health problem kept the Perlman from playing for my birthday, but the cherubic master finally came to Jesse Hall this week.
I’ve
been to concerts of many kinds in many halls. I am often sadly
disappointed by classical music performances that seldom seem as good
as listening to my own stereo. But this time Itzhak Perlman’s face was
no farther from me than if it had been on the television in my living
room. That face became the concert for my eyes that his Stradivarius
gave to my ears.
Perlman doesn’t play music. He releases it. To
watch him tuck his violin beneath his chin and look down the strings is
much like watching a pigeon fancier touch the bird to his lips before
giving it to the sky.
And when he plays, it is a constant
conversation with the score. Some notes he had to coax – furrowing his
brow in concentration. Others he welcomed with a big smile. And during
a Beethoven sonata, I swear that Perlman seduced the music into the air.
My
lasting impression, however, will be of Itzhak Perlman playing
Stravinsky’s Suite Italiene. He greeted the piece as an old friend,
laughed with it, reminisced with the sernata and danced the jig of
friends for the tarantella.
I watched in awe as he cracked open
the door to that other place where beautiful sounds eliminated crowds,
the exhaustion of touring and even the polio that hobbles Perlman’s
legs. He did not read the notes on the stand before him so much as he
glanced back to make sure his friends were still following him into the
concert hall. His was not the stare of concentration, but the approving
gaze of love.
Today I peck at a tuneless keyboard and try to
capture some small part of the wonder I experienced Monday night. I still
don’t have music. But at least I’ve come face to face with it.
And that in turn gave me words.
