What I want you to imagine today is an
orchestra. An orchestra that doesn't know it's an orchestra. An
orchestra of competing sections: brass, woodwind, percussion and
strings. Each of these sections thinks the other sections are stupid
and doing everything wrong. The brass wonders why the string section
isn't blowing into its instruments and the percussion wonders why
everyone isn't just hitting their instruments with sticks. The
woodwind thinks the brass lacks decorum, a bit 'brassy' if you like,
and the brass thinks the woodwind is really 'stuck up'. As far as
each section is concerned, it is engaged in a sonic war against the
others. Each section attempts to assault the others with waves of
sound. The loudest is the victor and each section feels it is always
winning because, from where a given section's musicians are sitting,
they are the loudest. No one gets discouraged and the war goes on.
Kettledrums rumble like tanks. Violin bows are drawn
like arrows. Brass blunderbusses blast and clarinets, flutes, oboes
and bassoons are raised and fired like guns, rifles, mortars and
bazookas.
The conductor is there too of course,
on his podium. A stressed out secretary general of sorts, attempting
to maintain some kind of order. He waves his baton frantically,
favouring one section one moment and
another the next. He doesn't really know what's going on. He clumsily
turns sheets of notation as he mops his brow. He wishes the whole
zero-sum composition would just fucking end.
And the cruel joke is that from a
distance all this tumult and enmity harmonises into a single stirring
composition, the woodwind soaring over the strings and the percussion
and brass propelling things forward. From the seats in the
auditorium, the ominous score builds to an unnerving crescendo that
explodes and then lulls into the saddest adagio ever heard that then
fades before it all happens again but in a different order and with
some variations. It's such a tragic twist that those upon the stage
are unaware of this and labour in the mistaken belief that they are
separate competing entities and not,
simply, 'one'. The sections do not know that they are all playing the
same music and that the music could be joyful and celebratory instead
of frightening and heartbreaking.
But there is one musician who knows the
truth. An orchestra member who realises that every orchestra member,
no matter what section, is part of an indivisible
whole. One guy, sitting all by himself, down the back and to the side
a bit. One fella who knows it would be a waste of time to share his
wisdom with the others because he'd be laughed out of the concert
hall. One member of the orchestra who, quietly and in his own mind,
has it completely and utterly right.
He stands there, stoic, poised and
mindful. He understands the great cacophony as a symphony and bides
his time to prove this to the others. He waits and waits and waits
until a great musical swell rises and then crashes. As the crescendo
subsides he raises his instrument, holds out his wand and strikes
once. Only once and with a perfectly restrained amount of force. The
rage from the rest of the instruments dies out and silence rules but
for the fading resonance of his modest contribution. The triangle
goes ...DiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiNG!
