Page 9 of Play Me

She parks the car and we get out. I pull on the dress, making sure it covers top and bottom where it needs to. It does, just barely. The pink cardigan covers my arms but just barely buttons up over my chests, so I leave it open.

“Come on!” Sarah calls out to me, waving at me to catch up with her. “Let’s go see Beethoven roll over in his grave!”

***

“Aren’t these seats amazing?” Sarah squeals to me, turning in her seat to take in the sold-out crowd.

Despite myself, I have to agree with her. Somehow she’s scored front row seats and the atmosphere is electric. I have to admit, I have no idea what to expect, but I’m a little excited. As a lifelong lover of classical music this concept of mashing it with rock music sounds almost sacrilegious. The crowd is an eclectic mix at best – and there is an unprecedented number of young women here, more than I’ve ever seen at a classical music performance.

The stage setup tells me nothing. There isn’t any decor, just an empty stage with four chairs. Not even a music stand disrupts the otherwise bare landscape of the stage floor.

Who are these musicians?

With the building noise from the rowdy crowd, my curiosity grows, and by the time the lights dim and the 10,000 voices around me start chanting “No Strings Attached! No Strings Attached!” I find my lips twitching to join them. Nothing stops Sarah though, and she’s up and out of her chair, pumping her fists and adding her yells with the crowd’s as the hall completely fades into black.

I hold my breath as my eyes adjust to the darkness.

And then a single note plays pure and clear, fading in from the dark to fill the hall with sound. I close my eyes and feel the vibration of the cello string penetrate my body. My cells calibrating to the particular vibration of that one cello. And I wait.

The single note breaks and it’s silent again.

Then, as if ordained by God, the ceiling of the concert hall lights up with 100,000 white lights. Twinkling artificial stars dancing over the eaves and chandeliers, reflecting back onto the darkened walls and raised hands of the audience, reaching out to touch the radiance. And as each light grows brighter, and its diameter spreads so you can’t differentiate one from the next, the single string note plays once more, starting soft and then building louder and louder and louder as the light grows brighter and brighter until the ceiling is just one giant expanse of light, almost painfully blinding, bathing the entire audience in an almost heavenly pure glow. And just when I think the light can’t get brighter, it explodes like a hundred fireworks and then folds into darkness once more.

And then the music begins. Out of the darkness, while my eyes are still playing tricks on me and projecting dancing fairy lights against the black backdrop, the single note breaks into the opening strains of a tune so familiar, but I can’t pick it.

But I don’t care. It is divine.

Short notes on the violins dancing over the driving beat of the cellos.

I’m lost in the sound, with the lights completely out, my senses are all forced to shut down to focus just on the music coming out of the dark.

The notes cascade over each other, driving forward, forward, building towards a chorus that I can feel is about to break.

God, what is that tune...what is it?

I reach out next to me and Sarah’s hand gropes for mine, and we grip each other for a sense of reality in this surreal, beautiful experience. Her body bumps against mine as we give in to the sound wrapping itself around us.

And then, as the chords change in a familiar progression, I realize, it’s U2’s “It’s a Beautiful Day”.

I’m stunned. I’ve only ever heard the lyrical version, I am amazed at the absolute melodic beauty of this song now that I don’t have the words to focus on. It’s almost as if this piece of music was written to be played by these four string musicians, they’ve made it theirs.

But I don’t have time to muse over my revelation for too long.

Just as the chorus breaks, and the crowd raises their voices into a communal declaration of “It’s a Beautiful Day”, the stage lights up with the universe of dancing stars fallen from the ceiling.

The scream that projects from the crowd somehow is only just overtaken by the music, and I scan the stage, trying to make out the band amongst the white haze.

As the song pulls back into the second chorus, the lights slowly dissipate, and focus on a single spotlight, the lead cellist.

As my eyes blink away the excessive light, I can just start to see the musician’s form. It’s tall and slim, his head is down, hair over his face as he stands, lost in the music he is creating from his instrument. Or is it that it’s creating from him? It’s hard to tell, they look to be working in complete synchrony. In all my years of attending both classical and pop concerts, I’ve never experienced anything like it.

I can’t tear my eyes off the cellist, envious of his talent, of his connection to the music, maybe even jealous... of his commitment to the notes, his complete surrender to his passion.

And then, just as the song builds to its climax, he throws his head back, the hair falling from his eyes and he looks out into the crowd.

And my blood runs cold even as my body bursts into flame.

It’s him.