The Grapevine Art & Soul Salon

ALL MUSIC WAS ONCE NEW

The twin screens above the Atlanta Symphony audience bloom with the composer discussing his brand-new work with our maestro. I am seized with a feeling of impending doom as well as a kind of insane hope, like stopping for a bracing cup of coffee on the road at 4 o'clock in the afternoon and hoping it'll be fresh despite all previous experience.

The music begins thick and bitter, like coffee in the middle of Times Square on New Year's Eve. Jackhammers pound and taxi horns blare; sounds of banshees escaping from underground taverns while Lucky Luciano wields his tommy gun and sirens wail. I want desperately to clap my hands over my ears, but that would be rude to the musicians doing an honest night's work in uncomfortable clothes. I glance over at my gentleman friend, but dare not catch his eye in case he actually likes it. Since he is mathematical, he might be contemplating sine waves and frequencies and so forth. I long for the Gershwin Concerto in F, last on the program. Perhaps the piece assaulting me now is the rutabaga dish I have to eat before my Gershwin dessert. This thought does not make the rutabagas taste any better.

Watching the musicians distracts me from the sound missiles hurled my way. I become fascinated with a cello player who from a distance resembles Adrian Brody, and I suddenly am seized with desire. I completely forget about my gentleman friend. I fancy that "Adrian" would handle me with the same passion and finesse he puts into wielding his bow, and indeed you can tell he is more into his music than the other players. He is at one with the instrument between his legs.

After a guilty sideways glance, I watch the other musicians, trying to get a glimpse of the violinist on whom I have had a crush for at least twenty years. Alas, he is not the best violinist. I know this because he plays on the back row. I imagine that he philosophizes in Irish pubs and sleeps with the women violinists. I contemplate this throughout the next movement, wondering if I am too old for violin lessons.

On the third movement I return to the cello player until my gentleman friend coughs, reminding me that he is my actual date for the evening. I am a bit embarrassed, and wonder if I could convince him to take up the cello. For the fourth movement, it sounds as if the composer tossed assorted movie soundtracks into a Cuisinart to see what would happen. First, cowboys and Native Americans thunder across the prairie, then, with no warning, the Chinese emperor strides out of his pagoda, looking out over a cast of thousands of computer - generated terracotta warriors. I become aware that the woman in front of me is blocking my vision of the cello player with her hair, colored a sort of reddish brown. It looks like shaggy dog fur, and while I am trying to decide what kind of dog, I am treated to a full-blown disaster movie with space aliens landing and people running in the streets of Gotham City.

When the piece ends at last, the concertgoers, after a moment of stunned silence, clap politely. Some stand, as Atlanta audiences are wont to do. Some remain firmly seated in protest. I join the latter group. The standers whoop and holler, defending their decision. This includes my gentleman friend. Perhaps I should stand for the cello player, but I do not.

My cellist fantasy dissolves into Gershwin's blue and soulful notes, and my errant heart returns to my gentleman friend, who plans to take me to Intermezzo for dessert. "All music was once new," he says as we are leaving. "I enjoyed the evening," I say, squeezing his hand.