Listening to canned music you don't simply lose the thrilling immediacy of live performances, you lose the togetherness of enjoying the same live music with hundreds of other people. Together, hundreds of people, reacting to the same evocation of musical emotion, hundreds of people clapping in appreciation, then rising to a standing ovation. Together, experiencing every moment of a concert. That's why being late is so appalling.
I had to be a half hour late. As much as I would hate missing that much of the concert and walking in late, the meeting could not be rescheduled. So I went to the meeting dressed ready to attend the Carnegie Hall Jazz Band: a nice sweater, short plaid skirt, dark brown tights, my calf-high leather boots, and an up-do. Slowly, slowly the second hand plodded off the minutes of the meeting until the moment I could gracefully excuse myself, grab my coat, and go. In between trying to participate in the meeting, I checked and rechecked my wallet. Yes, my ticket was still there; yes, I had my ticket.
Checking my watch again as the meeting ended, I apologized for not staying to chat and dashed out the door and down the steps. The walk to my car was brisk and lonely in the chill early spring air. All I wanted was to be warm and cozy seated in the audience enjoying some wonderful jazz. But, no, I was late and cold and the stoplights couldn't be more uncooperative.
Finally, I arrived, and in a most unladylike fashion, I stretched my stride hard and fast to the door and checked my wallet for the ticket and my watch for the time as I swung the doors open. Just after eight... oooh, I hated coming in late! Off came my coat as I skipped steps up the stairs to the first auditorium level of CY Stephens. Sweating and fluttering with impatience at my own lateness, I pulled out my wallet to check my seat location.
Oh, my.
I turned on my boot heel toward the long flight of steps down. Down to third row. Center.
My boot heels thudded down the crimson steps. Through the cold concrete walls and double doors I could hear the muffled resonance of trumpets and trombones. An older woman stopped me as I burst through the last door.
"You'll have to wait a moment, dear, for the song to end," she whispered in a grandmotherly voice. A moment, a moment! Breathe, breathe and be patient, I thought.
The last trumpet note rang out and she let me through the door. This last door was still so far away from third row, and my center seat was even farther away. I could see my friend Thomas's head; my seat was to be next to him. Only four people were to his left; four and no one else. The front sides of the auditorium were not sold. At least I would not have to crawl over an entire row of people. But still...
Oh, God. It had to be center. Don't look on stage. Head down, I tiptoed in my boots down the long, long third row. I felt the conductor glance at me.
"Sorry... sorry, excuse me, sorry," I whispered to each person I stepped over. I set my program and coat down quietly, scrunched into the chair and whispered a quick apology to Thomas, though he knew I had a meeting that would run late.
"Miss?... Miss, do you know what time it is?"
Oh, shit. The conductor is talking to me. I looked up at the conductor, John Faddis, expectantly holding his trumpet. His commanding, though not intimidating presence insisted I answer him directly. I stood up.
"Just after 8 o'clock, sir."
"The concert started at 7:30."
"Yes, sir, I know. I'm sorry." I hung my head, feeling terrible I was late to his concert. My knees shook a little; I started to sit back down.
"Not so fast."
Oh, shit. I've apologized! I just want to sit down! Just go on with the concert. I'm sorry! was all I could think. Whirling thoughts, too fast to identify, traffic jammed in my brain. I was stultified, hypnotized, and probably slack-jawed.
"We don't let people who come in late get away that easily," he smiled. "Come up here. You're going to sing."
My heart plummeted, then leapt around like a caged animal. What?! Sing?! I shook my head dumbly. I don't want to sing. Can't sing. CY Stephens is fairly full. I'm... I'm...
"I'm not that good!" I stammered.
"It's a 7:30 show, ma'am," Faddis told me and the audience. "When we were in Minneapolis, we made people go up on stage and sing with us. Come on up here." He gestured with his trumpet for me to come up on stage.
I could not refuse. I couldn't think to refuse. Dumbly I turned back the way I came. "Sorry, excuse me, sorry, sorry."
I mounted the crimson steps, paused at the top on the stage and took a few steps toward the band. I felt so vulnerable in my short skirt and high brown boots. Why did I wear this outfit? The whole band - trombones, trumpets, saxes, the guy on the drums - everyone was watching me come closer, closer.
"A little closer; come on up here."
I went to him.
"What's your name?"
Out squeaked, "Emily."
"Emily, I'd like you to meet Bob, here behind you on trombone. Bob gets a little lonely out on the road, so he wants to say hello." The man just behind me had apparently just finished a duet before I'd blundered in. We shook hands and smiled.
"Have you ever sung your song?" He played a few notes.
I shook my head, barely comprehending him. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the audience. Ohhhh, there are a lot of people.
"Well, since you don't know your song, how about... ?" he finished the sentence as he turned towards the audience. I couldn't understand what he'd said, plain ole couldn't understand it. Was it English? Do I speak English? What did he say? I could feel the audience looking at us. Ohhh, there are a lot of people out there...
"Have you heard of it?"
Have I heard of what song? I shook my head.
He showed me the words, without notes, of "When You're Smiling" by Louis Armstrong.
Ohhhhhhh. I blushed. Of course I knew this song; it was one of my favorites.
He stood me in front of the mic with the music stand and words to the music I was supposed to sing at the end of a-one, a-two...
Nothing came out of my mouth.
"You're supposed to start singing there," Faddis smiled teasingly at me. "Here, I'll help you." He looked like he was going to direct me or sing with me.
Another a-one, a-two and a tremulous "When you're smiling" came out of my mouth. I'd never sung alone, on a huge stage, under lights, in front of huge audience. I'd especially never sung alone to a jazz band accompaniment. Melody... there's melody here somewhere. I faltered as I became unsure of my rhythms, notes, and voice. "Now when you're cryin'... you bring on the rain. So stop that sighin'... be happy again." John Faddis sang and played next to me, trying to uplift my shaky voice. "Cause when you're smilin'... keep on smilin.' The whole world smiles with you." The beautiful trumpet sang crisp and clear over me and I finally hit a single jazz rhythm at the end of the song... I think.
At the end, I was smiling, and the audience was clapping and laughing. I shook hands with John Faddis and Bob Is that his name? and somehow made my way off the stage and back to my seat, safe again as an audience member. But the cozy anonymity of one of hundreds of audience members was lost to me. I could no longer be as nameless or as faceless as I had expected or had wanted to be, not ten minutes before, rushing, unladylike, up the chilly steps of CY Stephens to come a half hour late to a jazz concert.
About the Author
Emily Miller graduated from Iowa State University in 2002 with a B.S. in English. She has been published in Lyrical Iowa and Sketch. While attending Iowa State University, she wrote a collection of short stories and poetry. She lives with her husband and daughter in Phoenix, AZ.
My curse is my gift. My nightmares, deep sensitivity, and emotional instability gives the best (and most uncomfortable) inspirations I could ever have. For me, art is passion - and visions are the mirror, which show my feelings and connect me with the rest of the world. Read More...
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