We’re both reminded of the Vienna Opera House. A decade ago we backpacked through Europe, before Instagram, before kids, before middle age trappings. The filigree, the chandeliers sparkling high above recall the memory for both of us, hippocampi aligned.
Glossy programs stacked high at the entrance relay the actor’s faces, serious and serene. There is no curtain for this show, only one set with minimal props. The music explodes into the air as the house lights dim. The voices, angelic, trumpet as I melt away into the narrative.
Honeycombed notes ring up through the rafters, beats play out on stage as they reverberate throughout the hall. I am in awe of the cast, of the the crew, of the writers. To bring such a story to vivid musicality, to delight the creative and intellectual senses: it is a feat.
The chorus is stunning to the ears but solos make me pause in wonder. To stand on stage with a spotlight aimed at you like a cannon. Absorb, and then deflect, all that energy from the sea of unseen bodies in the darkened audience. To project such a voice, such a singular act into the void of voyeurs. Talent doesn’t seem a sufficient word for the accomplishment.
I suppose it is a gift, to elicit wonder from a crowd of so many. The applause erupts as the finale decrescendos. We step out into normalcy, soundstruck.