Page 29 of Requiem

Brett 9

The Tolliver Theater is a fully restored old time movie house and every time we play here, I feel as if I’ve gone back in time. Now, I can see that same wonderment on Julia’s face as she takes her seat to perform with the Walton String Quartet for the first time. Ornate columns and gold-encrusted moldings accent row after row of plush red seats. Side balcony boxes seem to float above the house seating below. And above, well, that’s the cherry on the sundae. The blue-domed ceiling has been painted to look like the night sky, complete with a blanket of twinkling stars. An old Wurlitzer organ sits off to one side of the stage, a reminder of the days before “talkies.”

Now, the four of us tune quickly, Joe and Neville on violins, me on the viola and Julia playing the cello. We make eye contact, Joe gives us a nod and then we begin the musical relay race that is Antonin Dvořák’s String Quartet No.12. Each of the four of us has a chance to play the melody before handing it off quickly to someone else. The second movement is a haunting lament, a gypsy melody from the composer’s Bohemian homeland. The slow, free flowing beauty gives way to a frenzied Scherzo and Finale. One moment, we’re all playing a quick, staccato line, and the next it’s a soaring melody.

We’re connected to one another not just musically, but physically and emotionally. We watch each other’s movements and expressions and listen to every pull of the bow across a string. At times, it feels to me as if we’re all sitting in a tiny boat, the four of us shifting and redistributing our weight constantly, just to stay balanced and keep afloat as we move through waters that are alternately choppy and calm in quick succession. It’s exciting and dangerous and incredibly powerful and by the time we’re done, even I want to jump to my feet and applaud.

“You were amazing!” I whisper to Julia as we slip backstage for a quick break.

“Oh, stop it,” she mutters, swatting away the compliment dismissively. But I catch just the hint of a smile on her face.

“No, I’m serious! There’s something special about the four of us together, Julia. We’ve got great chemistry.”

Now I’m treated to the full smile.

“Yeah, it was kind of amazing, wasn’t it?” she relents, finally giving in to her excitement.

I nod and give her arm a squeeze.

“Hey, you two,” comes a familiar voice from behind us. "Fan-freaking-tastic job out there!” Suddenly Ingo Katz is there between us, draping one arm over each of our shoulders.

Strictly speaking, the Walton Quartet isn’t always a quartet. There are many times when we pare down to a trio but, more often, we expand our ranks to play quintets. That’s where Ingo comes in. As a bass player, he moves very easily between the classical and jazz worlds. He’s your stereotypical ‘cool cat,’ dressed in all black, with a matching pork pie hat and small, round, blue-tinted glasses.

“Ingo! What are you doing here?” Julia gasps in surprise.

“Ah! For me to know and you to find out, Miss Julia!” he replies with a cryptic smile.

She looks at me in confusion. “Brett, what’s going on? Why is Ingo here?”

“Beats me,” I shrug. I can see she wants to interrogate me further, but we’re interrupted by our first violinist, Joe Dancy as he walks by.

“Let’s go!” Joe calls over his shoulder.

“Go on!” I say, pushing her toward the stage.

“Wait! What about you?”

I shake my head and smile. “Nope. Neville and I are sitting this one out. Go break a leg, Julia.” I give her a quick peck on the cheek and a gentle shove out of the wings. She looks back at me for an explanation, but I just shoo her forward silently.

The audience begins to applaud again as Julia, Joe and Ingo come out under the spotlights. Julia sits down, situating her cello between her knees. The string bass isn’t really an instrument you can sit with, so Ingo stands, holding the neck of his instrument in one hand and his bow in the other. Joe puts his violin on his chair and then takes a little detour to the front of the stage where a microphone has been setup for him.

“The Walton String Quartet didn’t start out performing in grand venues such as this one,” he begins, using a sweeping hand to gesture across the hall. “Twenty years ago, we were just four guys from Juilliard sharing a tiny apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. We played in subway stations, at Christmas parties for drunk Wall Street execs and once, on the observation deck of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day. Since then, we’ve crossed oceans and continents to share our love of music and to learn what the rest of the world can teach us about it.

Tonight, the Walton welcomes its newest member, not to mention its first woman. She is a Kreisler International Music Competition Silver Medalist, and her highly anticipated debut recording is scheduled to be released in just a few weeks. It is my great privilege to share this stage with such a brilliant young talent. Please join us in welcoming the new cellist of the Walton Quartet, Mrs. Julia James Ayers.”

Julia’s face is beet red as she stands up reluctantly, gives a brief nod and sits again. Joe waits for the noise to die down before resuming his curtain speech.

“What Julia doesn’t know, is that I wanted to choose a special piece for her debut concert. A piece that she knows and loves, not to mention one that would showcase the special quality that she adds to the Walton.”

I can see Julia shaking her head.

“I can’t believe Joe pulled it off!” Neville whispers from next to me. “She had absolutely no idea!”

“Not a clue!” I grin.

“I thought about pieces with flashy, virtuosic cello parts,” Joe is saying to the audience, “but none of them seemed right. Oh, Julia can play anything you throw in front of her, but it is her warm and soulful sound that makes the biggest contribution to our ensemble. You may have noticed that our colleagues, the wonderful violinist Neville Jenson and violist Brett Corrigan have stepped offstage, and that there is now a super-hip bass player joining us.”

Joe gestures back to Ingo, who pulls the hat from his head and does an elaborate little bow thing that makes the audience chuckle.

“The change in personnel was necessary,” Joe continues, “because the piece I finally settled on is a trio. Not by Dvořák or Mozart or Haydn. But by a contemporary American fiddler and composer by the name of Mark O’Connor.”

Julia’s face lights up, and all the bashfulness seems to just melt away when she realizes they are going to play one of her favorites.

“I hope you’ll enjoy hearing The Appalachia Waltz as much as we enjoy playing it.”

Joe returns the microphone to its stand and walks back to his seat, where Julia is shaking her head in amazement.

The Appalachia Waltz isn’t a complicated melody. It isn’t intricate or showy. When Joe starts to play it, you realize at once that the strictly metered classical violin is gone, replaced by the unhurried, unmeasured ease of a fiddle. When Joe plays it, the theme has a bright sweetness that brings to my mind images of crisp, foggy mornings in the mountains of Virginia, warm glowing fireplaces, and rocking chairs on the front porch.

A few minutes in, the violin hands the melody off to the cello – to Julia. These same notes are so different in her hands. Suddenly, it’s bittersweet. She adds a tone of melancholy that turns my mental images from beautiful geography to poignant history. At once, I am reminded of young lives lost in service to something greater. As I listen to this tune, I can almost see men and boys walking out of the mountains, rifles in hand, not knowing if they would ever again return home. It doesn’t matter how history will ultimately paint them, whether or not they are right or wrong. They are all brave souls in this moment and in this music – in my mind.

I want to close my eyes and explore the story that is unfolding in my imagination, but I can’t take my eyes off of Julia as she plays. Her hand barely holds the bow, drawing it slowly and delicately across the strings, as if pulling a delicate silk line. Her eyes are closed and the fingers of her left hand walk slowly up and down the fingerboard, periodically rocking back and forth to create the slightest vibrato. When she opens her eyes again, she looks to Joe, sending the melody back to the fiddle with just the slightest arch of an eyebrow and nod of her chin. It’s a flawless transition as she joins Ingo for the inner harmonies that provide the canvas upon which the fiddle tune is painted.

I know exactly what’s going to happen as these three brilliant musicians play out the final notes. Not because I know this piece already, but because I know I’m feeling exactly what the people seated out in the house are feeling at this moment as they listen and look on.

There’s the briefest silence as the last note fades away, but that is quickly shattered by the applause of an audience so enraptured, that they cannot help but jump to their feet. They know, as I do, that they’ve just experienced something very special. They know, as I do, that you shouldn’t be able to capture the spirit of an entire country into three soft, string voices. And yet, here it is. We have just had the privilege of hearing the unmistakable sound of freedom.