An Act of Compassion

An unexpected thing happened during the premiere of John Mackey’s Divine Mischief. In my essay last week, I described this premiere, and noted the delicacy that characterized much of this piece—something noteworthy in today’s cranked-up, electronically amplified world. But a brief incident occurred at the premiere, and I’d like to share it with you.

Right before the concerto, which would open the second half, the conductor, Maestro Jerry Junkin, turned and asked us to take out our cell phones, turn them off please (rather than simply silence them) and show them to a neighbor to prove this had been done. Not many conductors could get away with this, but Junkin loves his audience, and his audience loves him. He regularly turns around and speaks spontaneously about a piece before it commences. Consequently, a spirit of naturalness, friendliness even, characterizes concerts of the Dallas Winds.

Still, why did Junkin make this request, since a standard pre-recorded announcement about checking phones plays before every concert? Well, for two reasons. This premiere was garnering major attention (well-known composers had flown in to witness it, plus a large number people around the world had purchased streaming passes). It needed to go well. Beyond that, who would want to mar Divine Mischief’s hushed passages with unwelcome beeps or ring-a-dings? No one, to be sure.

So off went the phones! The first movement was dazzling and ended with a smash. People were wired up, excited, but gratefully withheld their applause (yes, Virginia, in multi-movement compositions, tonal and atmospheric relationships between movements are destroyed by applause, no matter how well-intended).

The soft sounds of the second movement began. Imagine a melody poking its first petal out of a tiny bud—that was the sound. Suddenly, a child in the back began to shriek. This was not normal crying, but the sound of something gone wrong! Maybe the poor child pinched himself in the seat, or poked himself in the eye with the program. Whatever it was, it was loud.

Please know that children are extremely welcome at concerts of the Dallas Winds. You know what they say: a church without crying children is a dying church. Equally, an ensemble where no children come is, well, the same thing. So, at Dallas Winds concerts, extraneous crying is well worth the joy of having kids there.

But not this time. A parent whisked the child out. Still, you can imagine the situation, the first 45 seconds of the movement had been undeniably overwhelmed by the sound of crying. For a nano-second, momentum seemed suspended. The musicians still were playing, but tension filled Junkin’s body. Concern flashed in the players’ eyes.

Then Junkin did what a good conductor would do. He signaled a cutoff. This does happen in concert music, and it is absolutely the right thing to do. Whatever the disruption is, it passes, and the conductor simply starts the movement again. Still, this kind of thing makes the hall feel tense.

That’s when Junkin, lifting his arms to give the downbeat, whirled around like a figure skater and faced us. In the kindest, clearest voice you can imagine, he said: “Oh, that wasn’t so bad. You should have heard me at the first rehearsal!”

The room erupted into laughter. A burst of warm applause could not be held back. A sense of love descended across the hall.

I have known Jerry Junkin a long time. Dozens of times I have witnessed his ability to sense and feel what people need (just as he feels and understands the music). But this was a supreme demonstration of his humanity. Rather than there being a “spoiled” second movement, the resumption of the movement felt magical. All sense of negativity (“Oh dear, the premiere is ruined”) and judgment (“Why would parents bring such a child?”) vanished like mist.

The reality of live music-making means that there will be noise. Things happen. Arms break off of seats, music stands collapse, instruments on stands fall over. People drop programs and purses; they sneeze and cough, despite their desire not to do so. And those inevitable mints and gum in wrappers do their damage, although I notice a lot less of that these days.

Still, music is meant to be heard by live human beings and performed by the same. Thus, when and if something goes awry in a performance, it is glorious to watch a masterful person turn a “wrong” into something positive.

The fact is, no one in attendance will forget Junkin making that swirl to the audience. Frankly, perhaps Junkin did shriek when he first saw the score of Divine Mischief with its perilous twists and turns, fast breaks, and delicate beauty that require superhuman breath control and virtuosity. The fact is, wind music written in the last thirty years (especially by American composers) abounds in these qualities, making this repertoire the absolute most dynamic force in concert music today.

But this wasn’t really about the music. It was an instructive moment in how a soft-touch and dash of compassion can uplift a circumstance. The difference in easy condemnation and gentle reconciliation is really quite slight, isn’t it? Today’s world is afire with the first. The latter seems elusive or impossible. Yet when we see it demonstrated, we recognize the superiority of that path.