Thankfully, every now and then something nudges us out of our routines…

I opened an email this week from a choral conductor asking if I was available to play the Fauré Requiem in March. As I read the message, I was overwhelmed by déjà vu. I’d been there before. Two years ago, in March of 2020, I played the Fauré Requiem with this same conductor. Little did I know it would be the last live concert I would play for more than a year. Of course, this go-round with the Fauré will look a little different than last time. There will be masks and social distancing and all the health and safety protocols that have become part of our COVID experience. 

As I pondered all that has changed since my last foray with Fauré, I wondered if I would have played this concert differently back in 2020 had I known it would be my last live performance for a so long. Would I have paid better attention? Would I have listened more intently? Would I have appreciated the opportunity to make music with others? Would I have soaked in the sound? Would I have tried harder? 

Truth be told, I don’t remember much about that Fauré concert in 2020. It was sandwiched between more stressful concerts I had on my schedule that month. Having played the Requiem countless times, my focus was on other concerts, with music that was new to me. That’s not to say that I wasn’t trying, but my level of engagement with the music was surely not where it would have been had I known this was my last chance to make music with others for so long.

When music is your job, there is a danger of it becoming routine. Even when its not your job, playing the harp can feel like you’re just going through the motions. As musicians, we refine our skills for years, and we need so much of what we do to be ingrained so we don’t have to think about every motion or note or marking in a performance. Often, though, we put more functions on auto-pilot than we might intend or even realize. Thankfully, every now and then something nudges us out of our routines, as author John Carrington writes in the Sounding Board article on pg. 12.

As principal harpist of the Pacific Northwest Ballet, Carrington estimates he has played the Nutcracker more than 850 times in his career. That’s a lot of pas de deux. With nearly 40 performances each season, a musical groove can easily become a rut. Throw in some standard life distractions, and showing up to play Nutcracker #857 might not be as special as Nutcracker #1. But Carrington notes that for someone in your audience, it is their first time experiencing the piece, and even more poignantly, it might also be their last. 

“For many in attendance, a concert is an escape from the mundane for a couple of hours,” Carrington writes, “but for some it is much more. It can provide a reprieve, some solace, or brief respite from a heavy burden. It may enhance a celebration of joy or romance. It may even connect with someone on a spiritual level.”

It is easy to lose sight of this truth. I wish I didn’t need reminders. I wish I was always dialed in to the meaning my music can have for a listener. I wish it didn’t take a pandemic or a health scare to snap my priorities back into focus. But such is modern life for many of us. As I play Fauré’s Requiem for the umpteenth time this month, I will remember that someone in the audience is hearing this beautiful music for the first time—and I’ll try to experience it the same way. •