There was quickness to his step that made him seem to bounce as he left out the studio’s door. He moved down the city streets faster today because he was in fact on the verge of something new. Prancing along in his tapered slacks that had tucked into them, around a growing pot belly, a white button down shirt adorned with a thin black tie, he carried in his hand a clarinet case.
Why he was so happy was because today as he sat in the recital hall in practice with his fellow orchestra members a revelation dawned on him; the perfect cadence. He had been trying for so long to come up with one, and today as he was changing his reed the flutist that was playing in the front row let out a brief series of notes that stuck in his mind, and when elaborated upon gave the impetus for the cadence he had been seeking for so long. For those of you not familiar with the style of sonata-allegro form, one cannot overlook the importance of a good cadence. For classical pieces all start with an exposition of some sort, a signature melody that is repeated throughout the piece. This will be a simple melody, and though it may change keys or instrumentation, the theme remains the same and is played all the way through twice. Then after the repetition of the exposition the development played, and it is the grandest part of the piece, for the composer stops playing the main theme and begins to experiment with all the possibilities of the music. Here a departure is made, the unexpected is sought, and it is in this part of the piece where the zenith of musical potential is achieved. Only the most skillful composers dare write the most elaborate developments, the kinds that challenge the very rules of harmony and leave the ear astounded. But before that can be achieved the exposition must be bridged, and that requires a good cadence.
Because it so happened that Norman was writing a symphony, a personal project of his that he had been working on for a very long time, and he had been undecided on how to approach the development of his first movement. Though, he had written other musical pieces he considered them sub-par, short, and simple works. So, he began to work on a piece that would be his finest expression. The process took much longer than he had expected, the notes came slowly and his commitment to perfection made the composing arduous, but he was convinced that this one piece would be the greatest thing he had ever done, that it would be his life’s manifestation encapsulated in notes.
Now, here he was with the perfect cadence that would lead to the excitement of the development. For he had been mulling over exposition for quite a while, modulating keys, modifying the instrumentation, essentially making the same song sound different, and now he was moving on to the unknown of the development. A new path was turning and he felt a breeze of change strike him in the face. Maybe he would take leave and go some place exotic, like Zimbabwe, to create the right atmosphere to write the most stunning development.
He is so exited with the possibilities of this new phase that he decides to go and buy flowers for his wife, so to have something to mark the occasion when he told her the news. As he walks into the flower shop he greets the shop-owner, a lady he has become acquainted with from his regular visits.
“How are you this lovely day?”
She recognizes him and a warm smile spreads as her eyes grow soft, “Why, I’m doing lovely Norman, thank you for asking. Are you here to pick up flowers for your pretty wife?”
“Yes, it’s a celebration.”
“It always is with you,” the smile grows, “will it be the roses?”
“No, I will take the tulips this time.”
“I’m sure she will love them. You do all the right things Norman. Maybe you could teach my husband how to be a gentleman.”
A forced laugh is mustered by Norman, “I just do what I always have done.” He thanks her for the flowers and continues home.
The cadence still flutters around in his head and he is lost in the dream that is his symphony, playing the exposition over and over in his head as he had thousands of times before, but now with the cadence added on the end it became complete, ready for the next stage. His footsteps make notes and he walks in music, for life is playing for him only in the exquisite tones of trumpets and French horns. For him the train’s whine is an oboe and its pounding the rhythm section both united in a merry joining of tones and percussions of the machine’s orchestra. Here he draws his inspirations, interpreting the world into flutes and violas, not to forget the bassoons, for anything can be translated as one sees proper. And this is why his symphony would be the grandest, for it would take all of the mast disjunctions of the earth and unite it in one beautiful harmony of woodwinds sighs and brass thunder. Oh!
Entranced he reaches a street corner and waits for the light, but as he stands there the placid musical perfection that swirls in his head is disturbed by a new sound.
He recognizes it immediately as his spine becomes agitated and he crunches his head into his shoulder, the sound of distortion, as a convertible pulls beside him blasting hard rock. He detests the music, the simple songs, the lack of instruments, the people who played them. He hates the lyrics and the singers, they just scream or whine about what they hate and what they love; no match for the vocals of a tenor. But most of all he hates the distortion of the guitar. The gritty undefined noise of squared sound waves that roar out of electrified amplifiers sounded dreadful, savage, mostly agitating as the guitarist bended the strings and trashed with abandon. There was no art in this type of music, no effort was given in creating a perfect structure of notes to create a most beautiful harmony, instead three cords where bashed upon at random while a madman screams and wails with unadulterated passion. He looks over too see a foursome of leather clad punks sitting in the car, their heads methodically nodding with the rhythm. As he turns his head to look at them the girl in the passenger seat with the Mohawk and gaping lip ring turns to look at him. She eyes him from head to toe then back again, then her eyes wince, her mouth bursts open wide, her head turns forward as the car speeds away, and laughter drowned out by the loud music is never heard.
He reaches his house and upon entering finds his wife sitting in her chair looking out the window listening to music. She slowly turns to him, “why, you brought me flowers.”
“Yes it’s a celebration, it’s a new beginning. Aren’t you exited?”
“Oh…yes, what is it we are celebrating?”
“A cadence, my exposition has ended, its time to move on to new material. I was thinking we could celebrate with a trip.”
“Oh that sounds lovely I haven’t left the house…in awhile, maybe we could visit my parents, they would like it.”
“Well, I was thinking somewhere exotic, somewhere where I would truly be inspired, and create my great development, I was thinking Africa, what do you think?”
“Oh…that’s so far a way, you are always going so far away…maybe we could stay around here, you know…and maybe, catch up, you know…they would love too see you.”
“How can I be creative there? Don’t you love traveling? It will be great—
“NO! no! I don’t want to go to Europe or Asia or Africa! I want you here! I want you to be here not somewhere far away, Please stay here…” sobbing lightly
“What has gotten into you? Why are you so hysterical? What’s wrong my dear?”
“I’m a lonely old woman! cant you see how lonely I am? Or do I have to write you symphony to tell you that? What do you think Norman? WHAT DO YOU THINK!? Do you think, I’m happy?”
“Well…yes I—“
“I’M NOT! I am dying in here, in these wall, in this silence. I wish the piano would talk to me when you don’t! I bet it could find the time to visit its in laws once in a while, especially when they’re old and dying! Just like I am, just like last weeks roses… its always the same slow dullness…” withering into despair.
“…so…you don’t want to go to Zimbabwe?” he asks honestly.
She stiffens suddenly with a caustic stare, “I’m going to my parents Norman.”
“You are?...for how long?”
“A long time.”
“Are you coming back?”
“Doubtful.”
“Wait!...Do you want me to come, please—?”
“I don’t want you—“ as the door slams. He stands motionless and realizes that Wolfgang’s Requiem was playing in the background the whole time.
He calmly goes over to the piano where the sheet-music of his symphony rests and changes the final chord written on the last page from an F to an D minor. He then sits in his sitting chair that has upholstery which projects out and boxes in his head. He listens to the music and as the development comes on with its sudden rises and falls, its crescendos, vibratos, and trills, an unexpected sound resonates in his ears.
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