Two weeks ago, I went to a concert at Carnegie Hall, featuring new music. Similar to a film fest, we got to see several works performed for the first time. Nightlife was one of them. A bass concerto, written and performed by Kebra-Seyoun Charles. Tall, head tilted down, locs hanging over the bass, in a suit jacket and skirt, Kebra played.
The double bass is not usually a virtuoso instrument. Typically, basses sit at the back, slowly plucking, at times stroking, keeping the beat, and anchoring the piece as the lowest members of the string section.
There are a few double bass concertos. But, that night, Kebra had conceptualized, written, and performed the hardest bass piece I have heard in my life — jamming, like Jimi Hendrix, Paganini, fingers flying up and down, faster than me on a violin —on an instrument the size of a door.
The piece ranged from Bachian Etude to full jazz and house music, the usually staid members of the orchestra stomping and whooping in Carnegie Hall. And then, back again, ballerina pristine, every note in its incredibly-fast place.
I just kept staring, message kicked to my brain — letss gooo. Write the piece you want to see in the world. And then(?), ~show~ it can be done.
In a clip shown in another performance, Kebra is talking about being in the classical world. The dislocation. The people attending their concerts are not people who would show up in their personal world.
Later, in another clip, same performance, Kebra talks about composing. There are some people who become composers because they want to become composers, they say. But that is not how they feel. Kebra tries to describe — composing, for Kebra, is a type of calling. It is the thing they must do.
I love problem-solving, and I love creating with other people. Music has always been a way I could do that.
This summer, I cold-messaged a friend of a friend on Facebook. “Hey, I just moved to Madison. I’m a friend of S and a violinist. Are you interested in doing a quartet with me?” He wrote back that, funny coincidence, he had been looking for a violinist just then.
I moved again recently, and updated my location on ACMP (a chamber music website). And, today — someone reached out! “I just saw your profile on ACMP and I am also interested in forming a regular group to play chamber music with” :)
There’s a communication in chamber music that is deeper than the communication we have as individuals. I can snicker with my bow, and the cello can get it and answer with droll acknowledgement. I can soar and the viola can catch me and fly along. I’ve been friendly with everyone I’ve played with, and best friends with some. But the connection when playing together is different, deeper. We become parts of one whole, and in that moment, I feel understood.
My former church choir director died this year. We shared the same birthday. So every year, up until this one, on that day I would receive a message. “Happy birthday, birthday twin!” And another, “Happy, happy birthday! Miss you!”
This week, in the same church we had practiced in so many times as children, his former choristers came together to give him one last evensong. On the first song, I began to tear up. Oh, the breath control(!), the correct consonant placement(!), the clear and ringing tones(!). Everything he taught us was still there.
Our choir director believed that creating the highest art was a form of honoring God. Not everyone on this newsletter believes in God. But I do believe music performed at the highest levels is for something greater than ourselves. Creation, too — for a greater beauty. Callings, too. To become, to give, to celebrate, to live, and to enjoy the sublime.