Oboist Mary Noden reflects on the past year and her hope to perform to full concert halls once again
It was only November, and mid lockdown, but I noticed that the Three Wise Men had already arrived. No gold, frankincense or myrrh to be seen; instead they had a drumkit, some cow bells and a glockenspiel. Seated in front of me, a friendly viola player looked cosy in his colourful Christmas pyjamas (with clashing sequinned socks). And the whole, socially-distanced orchestra, was festooned in tinsel. This second lockdown was proving a lot more fun than the last!
After months of practising music alone in my attic, I was back where I belonged, in the middle of an orchestra. So why was it that, as the last chord of the final, rousing carol faded into the hall’s seats, I was left feeling deflated? I didn’t understand it and frankly, it scared me. How could I be so ungrateful? After all, I was lucky to be there when so many of my incredible, talented friends were at home or bravely taking on vital, new jobs. What was wrong with me?
Feeling flat, I slowly packed up my oboe as the rest of the musicians filed out into the cold, sunlit autumn day. And, as I gazed around that beautiful concert hall, I realised, with a jolt, what was missing. Or rather, who was missing. The hundreds of seats, in the stalls and balconies, were empty. Microphones, cameras, strict silence and a red recording light had replaced the smiles and rustles of an excited audience for weeks now. Each piece wasn’t followed by an avalanche of applause, stamping feet and whoops of appreciation. Instead our sounds faded back into silence, and we hurried on to the next piece. A conveyer belt of music went outside to be collected, edited, cleaned up and published online, or broadcast on radio. When would it go out? Not sure. Who’d be listening? No idea. Would people enjoy it? Hope so!
For me at least, performing music just isn’t the same in the socially-distanced, audience-free vacuum that lockdown necessitates. Let me explain what I mean with an analogy. Imagine that you’ve got some wonderful news. Something you’ve worked hard for that you are desperate to share with your friends. You know that they’re going to be delighted, intrigued and their mood uplifted by what you’re sharing. You wonder exactly how best to tell them, and try different ways of explaining it. Practising in the mirror at home, you prepare every word in perfect detail. You can see, in your mind’s eye, just how pleased they will be to hear what you have to say. You feel nervous, sick with excitement as you pick up your phone and call their number. It’s ringing, and ringing until you get…the answering machine.
This is how it feels, to me, to record music, week after week. Some people might say, ‘But you can listen back to yourself, isn’t that wonderful?’ Well, yes. That is of course lovely (if it goes well)! But the thing is, it’s not approval or praise that I want. It’s that unique and empathetic feeling of giving, and in return receiving. The musicians their music and the audience their time and emotions. That’s the day I’m excited about. The day that we can share music, live again, and in person. Because that’s why I am a musician.
So I hope it will be sometime soon (long before those Christmas jumpers return this year) that we can come back together, so that you can listen to me, and also, I can listen to you.
