Little Vienna Sausages

As he flipped the page over to page four, out of the corner of his eye Bernard could see the Minuet on page five and he tensed.  It would be exactly the same this time– the damned, simpering “lifting” of the second of the slurred eights.  Only it always came out “clipped”.  This conductor would be no different.  He was damned near as old as Bernard and he was Viennese and there was no reason to hope that it would be different.

All the way down page four he waited, careful to lift off the ties before the second sixteenth which made him sick.  “Why not just count for chrissake, instead of this punching holes in the music so that the asses could gather themselves for the next three sixteenth and then still be late, particularly the strings.  Yes, it was a natural tendency to be late but it was a natural tendency to piss in the street too and we don’t do that.  Why not just count the goddam sixteenths?

Closer, and closer.  Now the cadence in the second ending—way too much retard , for which the conductor hadn’t asked.  Everyone was playing their favorite recording and evidently the recordings all had an overwrought retard.  The European guy either had the same favorite recording or just let it go because he knew it was a losing battle.

“Minuet”, the conductor turned to the violins, “not too fast”.  Well, at least he had that right.  The strings had a different idea of what “not too fast” meant, particularly the back of the seconds.  While they did their tug of war, Bernard eased past the “lifted” second eighths, lifting by leaning on the first eighth and adding vibrato (which would have driven the professional virgins nuts) and then actually lifting the second without “clipping” them.

“Oboes”.  Somehow his accent made the “o”s very dark and the “b” very long,  here it comes, thirty-five years, the last time I’ll ever play this glorious piece and it’s going to be the same. “Oboes, after the first double bar”—Bernard didn’t even hear the rest.  The most brilliantly linear composer in history and we chop his lines up into little sausages—little Vienna sausages, for god’s sake. If they were descending, yes, but not ascending for chrissake.  It sounds like hiccups for chrissake.

Thirty-five years of discipline met the conductor’s eyes and said, “Of course”.

The conductor turned again to the strings. Bernard put his head down below the top of the stand and there was a gasping sound.

 “Bernie—you okay?’’  Mel looked at him with some alarm.

“Yeah—it’s just allergies.”