Jason took me to the symphony on our second date. This pleased me very much, but not as much as it pleased my mother. Never having been particularly partial to "piano banging," (her reference to long-winded instrumental concertos) she was delighted on my behalf that I had finally found someone who would escort me to these concerts, and perhaps appreciate them as much. "How romantic!" she exclaimed over the phone when I told her of my upcoming date, "he must be very sophisticated!" and I knew she was imagining Jason in a suit with a bunch of roses, talking animatedly of the dead classical languages and Pericles.
I love classical music, and my years playing in an orchestra have allowed me a slight familiarity with pieces and composers. I don't pretend to be at the height of musical sophistication. I have only shallowly skimmed the surface of musical depth. When Jason and I attended the symphony last Saturday, (Tchaikovsky's Little Russian) I couldn't even pretend to know the pieces that were played, mostly because none of them are in my Meditation library and I never played them in the Cache Valley Orchestra. And I am one who has, for years, deliberated between Dvorak and Tchaikovsky as my favorite composers. My favorites! And I haven't even heard, let alone know, all their pieces! Pure conceit.
The Little Russian was amazing. And when I say Little Russian, I mean the little Russian man with a short, blonde ponytail who played an astounding concerto on a shiny grand piano in the forefront of the Utah Symphony. There was a good deal of banging that my mother would not appreciate, but his light, airy fingers danced across the keys and my heart swelled, the way it always does when I hear beautiful music. He returned for an encore two.... three... four times. As my dad reflected humorously afterword, "maybe that's how it's done in Russia."
Then that is where they do things right.
Bravo, little Russian pianist! Bravo!
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