“I HATE it!” I shouted as I slammed the door violently.
Baton raised. Freedom gone. The stick of ebony wood has more control than I do. I hated it. “Fast, forceful, driving, that’s how I want it. Now, let’s go. One, two, three, four!” the conductor instructed. I pressed my wiry fingers deep and hard against the ivory keys, feeling every hammer fiercely thumping against all three strings of every note; feeling my rage perfectly reflected on the hammers vigorously and promptly attacking the strings, as my left hand leaped and jumped on every staccato on the page, synchronised with the slurred runs scripted for the right hand and my right foot stomping on the pedal between every phrase. Just like clockwork, so accurate, so precise; but also …show more content…
Still solid and secure, my fingers sunk to the bed of the keys, imitating the hollow sounds of the clarinets. Trills. Ornaments. Played only briefly but gracefully. Every clarinettists played them with so much energy, so much passion. And me? Simply translating every dots on the pages as a bullet to my enemy, crushing and thumping them with hatred; playing with passion but different type of passion, I hate with passion. In the last 10 bars, the trumpet blasted a solo while the flutes did a wild runs up and down the F major scale with the piano’s fast, dissonant harmonies and melodies, all echoing and debating each other like quarrelling mother and …show more content…
Back to bar 30. Fast. Allegro. Driving.” the conductor’s voice permeated the hall. Adrenaline flowed through my vessels. All the same again, the slurred runs, the heavy staccato chords, the same pedalling. All the same… But different.
This time, melodies bounced lightly off the brick walls. My right hand’s agile runs were smoothly contoured, fingers working freely like ten naïve girls sprinting across the hilled pastures. I breathed in deep as they reached the top of the hills, the fresh air and freedom slowing down the thumping against my skull and chest, ready for the sprint onto the next hill. As I gathered the ten girls into one chord, the flutes like forest birds chirping to each other from tree to tree, the drums like patters of rain and snapping branches, the brass roaring beneath the birds and branches looking for preys. All busy conversing amongst their groups while remaining merciless to others, it was absolutely beautiful. The beauty of nature. Cruel but harmonising, like the extra F natural in my C major chord- dissonant but bold.
“Accelerando!” the conductor waved his baton
Baton raised. Freedom gone. The stick of ebony wood has more control than I do. I hated it. “Fast, forceful, driving, that’s how I want it. Now, let’s go. One, two, three, four!” the conductor instructed. I pressed my wiry fingers deep and hard against the ivory keys, feeling every hammer fiercely thumping against all three strings of every note; feeling my rage perfectly reflected on the hammers vigorously and promptly attacking the strings, as my left hand leaped and jumped on every staccato on the page, synchronised with the slurred runs scripted for the right hand and my right foot stomping on the pedal between every phrase. Just like clockwork, so accurate, so precise; but also …show more content…
Still solid and secure, my fingers sunk to the bed of the keys, imitating the hollow sounds of the clarinets. Trills. Ornaments. Played only briefly but gracefully. Every clarinettists played them with so much energy, so much passion. And me? Simply translating every dots on the pages as a bullet to my enemy, crushing and thumping them with hatred; playing with passion but different type of passion, I hate with passion. In the last 10 bars, the trumpet blasted a solo while the flutes did a wild runs up and down the F major scale with the piano’s fast, dissonant harmonies and melodies, all echoing and debating each other like quarrelling mother and …show more content…
Back to bar 30. Fast. Allegro. Driving.” the conductor’s voice permeated the hall. Adrenaline flowed through my vessels. All the same again, the slurred runs, the heavy staccato chords, the same pedalling. All the same… But different.
This time, melodies bounced lightly off the brick walls. My right hand’s agile runs were smoothly contoured, fingers working freely like ten naïve girls sprinting across the hilled pastures. I breathed in deep as they reached the top of the hills, the fresh air and freedom slowing down the thumping against my skull and chest, ready for the sprint onto the next hill. As I gathered the ten girls into one chord, the flutes like forest birds chirping to each other from tree to tree, the drums like patters of rain and snapping branches, the brass roaring beneath the birds and branches looking for preys. All busy conversing amongst their groups while remaining merciless to others, it was absolutely beautiful. The beauty of nature. Cruel but harmonising, like the extra F natural in my C major chord- dissonant but bold.
“Accelerando!” the conductor waved his baton