Posted by Leland on September 10, 2000 at 03:19:43:
In the previous thread, Alan Herold mentioned that "the moments that you can connect with the audience are the ultimate." I'm hoping that more of us performers can experience that feeling.
My latest, and so far greatest, performance came last Sunday, and I'm still trying to piece together where my heart traveled. I finally saw a videotape of the performance today, and everything started coming back to me.
Where to begin.... Well, this was my last performance as a civilian, and my last chance to perform with the Empire Statesmen for a large, appreciative crowd. Our corps director's wife had died in the off-season, and parts of our hearts went out to her. Part also went to him, for working so hard all these years to provide us the opportunity to perform. I also played for my dad, who has been so supportive of me and so trusting in my choices I've made towards my future (he was there, and the rest of my family too, as part of the video production crew). Our program was an adaptation of Phantom Of The Opera, which provided an outlet to almost sing to the first woman I fell in love with.
The Friday before, we had a standstill performance at the NY State Fair. I couldn't begin to explain what happened, but something popped; every one of us somehow took part in owning the performance and taking the audience along with us. For me, I had had moments during the rest of the season where it would become difficult to play because of emotions welling up inside, or I would have to turn away after playing. This instance, though, saw everybody being moved.
Sunday, for me, was how I described in the previous thread -- I did know that I was going to perform my best show ever, and I did know exactly how to do it, even at ten o'clock in the morning. I, and for that matter the rest of the corps, just didn't have a need to mess around, and that day's rehearsal was the smoothest all year (which is no small thing; the whole year had been good). All day, I thought of how much I would miss performing (and rehearsing) with a group like this, where everybody wanted to work so hard and would do anything to improve, and would get to show it to several thousand vocally appreciative people. I was going to miss getting to spend time with so many friends. I was going to miss being a part of something that took everything I could give just to do it right.
The performance that night is still indescribable. Everybody I loved, everything I loved to do, was in my head at one time or another. "Angel Of Music", our opening statement, was as grand as it could be, and the Phantom theme which followed was genuinely frightening. "All I Ask Of You" went out not to the audience, but 600 miles away to my first love, and fifty yards away to my family in the stands. "Masquerade" let us reach another part of the crowd, but the final push of "Music Of The Night" reached even our drum major so much that he stopped conducting for a couple bars, being so overtaken by emotions. By that point, I was literally crying through my instrument; when we reached the perimeter of the field and crouched low to close the show, I was sobbing, incredibly happy that I pulled off my best performance yet, sad that it was to be my last, happy again that the entire corps had a good one, and happy that my family and friends had been there to witness it.
If any of you has the chance to experience anything close to this, grab it. Don't let it get by, because it's far too rare, and it will be something you'll treasure for as long as you live. I don't think that what I wrote here comes close to describing what happened to me. But, if it happens to you, it won't matter what I've said -- you'll know.