Yesterday (Saturday Sept 24) Dan and I played at a festival. My full time job is in high tech. When I play violin or ride my bicycle, I jump out of the universe of logic and email, and soar into a world of art and movement. Yesterday the contrast was particularly pronounced. I had calls scheduled at 10am and 2pm, work on the computer to do between 11 and 1, a 2-hour drive, and we would be on stage at 4:30pm.
Honestly, I loved the work calls. I felt mentally challenged and intrigued. But there are always tradeoffs...
Last week I made so many changes to my violin and sound set-up that LITERALLY nothing was the same (except my bow). Different violin, new steel strings, new chin-rest, and my first pick-up: an under-bridge pick-up mic (The Realist) which gets great sound, but changes the string and bow action.
So...the LOGICAL thing would've been to mosey up to Dan's place in Half Moon Bay and try out the whole setup before we used it on stage for the first time. But I am using violin as an escape from the world of logic, so did I do that? No. I continued working up until the moment I left the house. Even on the road I was still on my work call.
When we arrived at the festival, 3 big-hat guys in an old-time fiddle band were playing, singing, smiling, and joking. Delightful. The fiddler was disappointed that I arrived during his last song "because he couldn't show off." I felt requisitely sorry. In band etiquette, the correct and most joyful thing to do is to listen to the bands before and after you.
They get off the stage - but stand around talking. The wind is distractingly loud. I notice I HAVE LEFT MY TRUSTY OLD SOUND SYSTEM AT HOME. So I must use the new setup NO MATTER WHAT. They have given us about 20 minutes to setup. A lovely, red-haired sound specialist is ready to connect us. "I am so excited to hear you guys," she says. "You will be great." I am comforted. About 200 people surround the stage, drinking wine, and some of them are watching us. As starters, I cannot get my new violin case open. I pause for a few heartbeats. (The wind does not.) I casually go to the car and try to reach my sister (who is a professional violinist) but she is nowhere to be found. Miraculously I think of re-setting the combination to 0-0-0 and it works (for those of you who do not yet know me, I say "miraculously" with tongue-in-cheek). The violin is out. I saunter back on stage.
We play our first song, "Dogwood," a reliable old favorite, one we have played effortlessly at least a hundred times. Nothing is the same. First, the wind repeatedly knocks my bow off the strings. Second, as warned, the string action is different. Third, I last played this violin as a shy teen. I feel like a kid again, learning violin for the first time. My bow hits other strings; my fingers feel clumsy; and my new chinrest just doesn't seem to fit. The new strings gradually go out of tune. The wind cements my hair to my face.
I go off stage, and Dan plays a few tunes solo. Dan's wife Kara's parents' Nick and Marge surround me to block the wind. I feel grateful to them. I get the violin back in tune; Nick points out a better way to use the chinrest (why did I not think of that?!); I play a few notes, and Nick and Marge say, "NOW you sound like the Kristen we know." I put my windblown hair into Kara's hairband.
I get back on stage. I take refuge in the twangy, folksy vibe that this new set-up gives; it's a sound crowds are used to at outdoor casual festivals like this (as compared to the classical sound my other violin emits). The wind is swirling; it lifts the bow off the string occasionally; but everyone listens intently during the songs, and claps and hoots after each one. A couple dances on the grass in front of us. Partway through, Marge and the sound specialist whisk me off the stage, because my wind and cold-induced shivering has become visible. Marge lends me her sweater. I can slightly smell the scent of Marge's perfume, lingering on the sweater. I feel enveloped and protected. The wind is alternately wild and calm, wild and calm.
Dan's singing is comforting, clear; I could listen to it for hours. He has overcome the cold which lingered this summer until he went to Greece (and until Kara forced him to the doctor).
We play through the finish, and it seems magical how we arrived here. Right before we stop, I become aware that all the booth-owners have gone home; no one is serving wine anymore. Dan says the booths closed an hour ago, at 5pm. Everyone left on the white chairs is listening to us. New and old friends. Afterwards they gather to sign the mailing list, and ask us to sign CD's and concert listings.
You can say that music is like math. Indeed, finding just the right harmony to go with Dan's melody is math, just as much as it is art. The boundaries shape the song. But somehow yesterday even with the wind's unpredictable shouts and tugs, and my fingers stumbling over the new-old instrument, the art and illogic of the music pulled me through to reach a few of you in the audience who thankfully never saw the technical side of things, and just wanted to dance with your sweetheart.
After the cars were packed, I found out that my wise friend Eric, Mary's husband, is in the hospital. Eric, our thoughts and prayers go for you through this time. May your heartbeat be carried forward, strong through the storm.
