I'd signed up for this local orchestra's "summer camp" when I was still high on my youth orchestra's reunion performance in May. It was another chance to be part of a big symphonic sound ... even though I barely knew where the notes were, even though my biceps ached from hauling a bass around in Lexington, I thought it was time to try this again.
But standing there Monday night I wasn't so sure. The Tragic Overture wasn't the only omen. The room was filling up with musicians — violinists, flautists, brass players and half a dozen cellists (including one who doubled as a French horn player). But no one was walking over to my little corner of the orchestral universe. And no one did. I was the lone bass player Monday night.
And ... it wasn't as tragic as I thought it would be. The notes came back into my fingers again, the lower C, the high D. The string bass part often doubled the cellos, so I mimicked my fellow lower strings as much as I could.
We played the first movement of Schubert's Symphony Number 9 in C Major, the Brahms' overture and a lovely waltz-like piece by a local composer who was there to hear us rehearse. The thrill was back. The tragedy ... nowhere to be found.