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Once
we were hired to play for a wedding. A second wedding, in which the bride’s
5-or-6-year-old daughter also participated. The little girl was thrilled
and adorable, the bride and groom were amorous and sincere and all their
closest friends had come for the wedding. It was a ceremony “in the
round,” all the guests encircling the couple and their minister,
the small meeting room filled with candles. Celeste and I were slotted
in amongst the guests. We’d been hired to play the processional and
recessional.
But
that left us sitting amongst the guests during the ceremony itself, and
somewhere along when the adorable five-year-old walked in carefully balancing
the rings on a satin cushion, Celeste started snuffling. Then I started
snuffling. And then, I made the fatal mistake of turning to look at my
friend. One wide-eyed look and we both giggled. Or rather, we both tried
not to giggle.
Have
you ever had this experience: you are moved to the point of crying, but
you're embarrassed about crying; you turn to a friend and you both start
to laugh, no matter how hard you try not to?
Do you
happen to remember what sound comes out of your throat at that point?
You may recall that it sounds very much like sobbing.
Imagine
this: it’s your wedding. You’ve hired a classical duo. You’re
in the middle of an intimate, moving ceremony - your friends are all about
you, it is the moment you've been planning for years -- and the band is
sobbing audibly, uncontrollably. Blubbering. Hiccupping. Sniffing. Dripping.
We had
no Kleenex. Why should the band bring Kleenex? We had to wipe our noses
on our gowns.
Once we played for a winery event up in the California wine country. We
set ourselves up by the lake, an idyllic scene: A golden harp and glistening
cello, two women in long flowing gowns, weeping willows, late afternoon
silky sun and swans. Many swans.
What
one does not immediately think about swans is that they might not like
harp and cello music. Or … they might like it A LOT. Whatever the
musical tastes of these particular birds, whenever we played Saint Saens
“The Swan,” a staple of our repertoire, they joined in. Loudly.
When
we stopped, they stopped. When we started they started in again.
Once, Celeste and I actually gave a public concert. We called it “An
Evening of Fluff.” We wanted to give the audience value for their
money. So we played and played and played ...and played. As we started
up to the stage for our final number, I heard a man groan, "Oh God,
not ANOTHER one!"
Next: Down the Aisle
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