Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made On

College is a magical time in life.  We meet individuals in their larval state, and then watch in wonderment as the likely and unlikely among us spread their wings and take flight.  So it was with Yo-Yo Ma, an early bloomer whose star began to rise even before he vacated the hallowed halls.  So it was with Andy Borowitz, Jonathan Prince, and John Bowman as they headed to Hollywood, bringing us such great television shows as Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, American Dreams, and Murphy Brown.  So it was with David Heyman, a freshman on the fencing team I managed, who decided to turn a story about a young wizard into a string of films.   So it was with Mehmet Oz--only a young sophomore when I graduated and left Kirkland House--who became the most recognizable and respected doctor on television.  

By naming just a few, I do a disservice to the many accomplished men and women among my classmates who have become leaders and champions in their respective fields, albeit without popular recognition.  Fame is a side effect, not the end game.  There are countless others who have each made a lasting impact in science, politics, defense, law, business, literature, education, entertainment, public service—remaining generally obscure and absent from YouTube.    I love when my friend “Steve” appears as a pundit on CNN or NPR, making sense for us all out of the most recent defense strategy.   Or when my friend “Norb” releases another of his wonderful Wall Street thriller novels (The Trust is available July 17^th, or pre-order now from Amazon.)  It is a special thrill for me to say I knew them “when.”  We all transitioned through our Wonder Years together, striving for the best while often being caught at our worst.  Thankfully, what happens in college stays in college.

This is why last Saturday’s Boston Symphony concert—held in the acoustically sublime Koussevitsky Shed at Tanglewood—meant so much to me.  The evening’s conductor, Michael Stern, was a college friend with whom I dined regularly back in the day.   Michael was a really, really nice guy pursuing a concentration in American History.  He was a capable string player in one of the campus orchestras, but otherwise made no attempt to assert his musical dominance on the Harvard music scene.  His musical pedigree was well-known but never discussed, although his physical likeness to his famous father betrayed his bloodline.

After graduation, I heard through the grapevine that Michael was studying conducting at the Curtis Institute in Philadelphia.  I was truly surprised.  He never gave any indication that he was interested in a musical career.  Years later, I caught an interview with him on the radio where he referred to his college years as a time of rebellion.  I was mesmerized by the performance that followed—a live broadcast with Michael at the helm of the Chicago Symphony.  Although I forget which Symphony they played that night, I remember being struck by his “smart” reading of the score.

For years since, I have lived in several cities and travelled to many more, aggressively seeking opportunities to catch a live performance with Michael at the podium.  He is now the music director of the Kansas City Symphony.  I was excited when one of my daughter’s fencing competitions took us to Kansas City, but the weekend we were there the orchestra hosted a guest conductor.   Finally, after waiting more than 25 years, my vigilance was rewarded.  Michael was slated to give his debut with the Boston Symphony in a fabulous program that included Joshua Bell and Edgar Meyer as soloists, and a performance of Tschaikowsky’s 4^th Symphony.  I scooped up tickets as soon as they went on sale.

I have often thought being a conductor to be one of the most difficult and awkward jobs around.  You stand with your worst side to the audience, flailing your arms and gesturing to the music while the world watches on.  If the musicians play well they get a bow; but if not, the conductor takes the blame.   I was unable to watch this concert as a disinterested observer.  On this night, I found myself tuned in to Michael’s every move—the fact that he conducted without a score, the way he grasped the railing in front of him when he bowed, his deference to the soloists as he refused, out of respect, to take his bow on stage with them.  I was proud for him to have remained just as he always was: kind, serious, substance over ego.  

The music he produced, however, was another matter entirely.  From the first wave of the baton, he was in charge.  The Barber Overture to School for Scandal was beautifully done, setting very high expectations with this discerning crowd.   Ravel’s Tsigane, featuring Joshua Bell, offered a special display of partnership as violinist and conductor performed with eyes locked, sharing each gesture, breath, and tempo change perfectly.  So it was with the world premiere of Edgar Meyer’s Double Concerto for violin and double bass.  But the Tschaikowsky was the conductor’s showpiece. 

  

It is not unusual for conductors and musicians to be adversaries to some degree.  Musicians work their butts off technically while the conductor stands in front and takes the bows.  In this performance, however, I could sense that the orchestra was giving its all to this conductor.  The BSO brass section never sounded cleaner, more in-tune, or more in unison in the thirty-something years I have been attending their concerts.  Stern was particularly attentive to the strings—his own area of expertise—using his left hand as well as his right to shape and color their sound against the backdrop of brass.  And the woodwinds—they were simply exquisite.

I was having a first person experience with the music until the audience erupted at the final chord, piercing my bubble.  Apparently, I was not alone in my appreciation of this performance.  The audience was relentless, bringing the appreciative conductor to the stage again and again.   He used each opportunity to recognize orchestra members for their performances, pushing between music stands to shake hands with the principal bassist and the lone piccolo.  

I am a sucker for ‘human achievement.’  I am known to blubber equally whether friends or strangers stand atop a podium, whether collecting a medal or a well-earned applause.  There is something especially poignant about someone’s reaching their goals.   In the flash of the moment, a lifetime of hope, hours of sweat, and pride of accomplishment become palpable.   This moment was special for me because I had the humble past and my own mediocrity against which to measure Michael’s achievement.  It is a reminder that dreams can be attained when one dares to reach.

Tomorrow's blog:  Frame Works