waiting in the wings

The dress rehearsal flew as only the Boreades - which are, after all, winds - should, on charmed wings. Notes were where they should be, and the fragility of the orchestra met in a moment of thrilling grace. We were praised for our accuracy and encouraged to let rip even more on the first night.

Walking to the first night I pass the real live horse grabbing a bite by the stage door for his fifth act entrance, dancers smoking and stretching, feather hats and glitter shoes waiting to be donned and fake banquets waiting to be rolled on. I feel the block of excitement ready to spring. Hold on, hold on.....

I warm up for an hour, placing key notes 'deaf' from a relaxed hand by my side (One can't hear to place them aurally so we rely on muscle memory only) and connecting to the gutsy grit of my sound.....I'm feeling good.

However, it seems we let rip just a little too much, creating something more akin to the breaking rather than the celebration of wind from the pit. Every section is having its problems, slithering around slightly flat of the note's centre in the sudden sweat of a summer evening. Our section leader - Nigel Kennedy meets the Buddha - appears to have gone to his version of where I went during the pre-dress and is absent for much of the time, peeping out occasionally to tantalize us, leading us in an irresistible gavotte groove before retreating back to his hole. I spend my time between bopping my way through it anyway and wondering if it was something I'd done, some tasteless ornament or bulge.

My friend in the audience says it was marvellous anyway and better than the dress. Just goes to show that it doesn't make any difference whether we fly or flop. People are only interested in the cozzies.