That Amethyst Jacket

That Amethyst Jacket By Nanisi Barrett D’Arnuk If you’re a percussionist in an orchestra, unless you play tympani, you could go long portions of a movement and even longer portions of a rehearsal with nothing to do. It isn’t uncommon to count a hundred or more measures of silence before just one cymbal crash, a single triangle tinkle, or a brief xylophone riff. I ‘m not sure, but I suspect composers are just plain sadistic to write something like that. Maybe they had a nephew who wasn’t too energetic but needed a job. I remember counting one hundred and eighty measures of silence, only to have the conductor stop the orchestra at measure one-seventy-two, correct something in the brass section, and then start again at measure one-twenty. I sighed so loudly, Jim, another percussionist, looked over at me and rolled his eyes. It must be nice to play in the string section. They play just about every beat and had some incredible sections to show off their abilities. Even the woodwinds and brass had good sections to play, but percussionists? Unless it’s a military piece or something written after nineteen-fifty, you’re just decoration. You have to do something to make yourself look important. We make one tap on the triangle look like an art form. Actually, the Russians love percussion, and there are always good parts to play: church bells, cannons, horses, thunder. You name it, they probably write it. The Asians like tuned woodblocks and bells, so there is always something to sink your teeth into there, too. So, what do you do during those long quiet sessions? You think, observe, dream, and fantasize. Anything to take up the time because you have to stand there and look like you’re paying attention. Watching the other musicians is boring. Because you’re behind everyone, all you see are the violinists’ left shoulders and the backs of everyone’s head. If you are far enough toward stage right, you get to see most of the fronts of the cellists and bass players. When they move, sometimes, you get to see even more…like the red-headed cello player who sits second on stand two. She was right in my line of vision. At one concert, she’d worn a rather low-cut blouse. When she leaned to her right with her right arm extended to her bow’s full length, we had a good look at her cleavage. I thought, Lean right, lean right… When the oboist stood to play her solo, I almost shouted, “Sit down! You’re blocking my view!” When the concert ended, I packed up my instruments and hurried backstage to see what I could see. By the time I got there, she’d added a scarf and jacket to her ensemble. Oh, well, maybe next concert.