Silence is Music - Brief Article

UN Chronicle, Fall, 2000 by Lawri Lala Moore

"Silence is music; it's when you think." The words of legendary jazz pianist Barry Harris tapped me as I listened to the China National Traditional Orchestra. But it wasn't the pause between notes that captivated me, it was the reverence of the audience. That night I discovered the pith of Barry's observation.

Reporters, armed with smiles and microphones, patrolled the General Assembly Hall entrances. A young woman waved. "Miss, may we ask you some questions?"

"Sure." The cameraman's lamp bathed me in white.

"Have you heard the Orchestra before?"

"No, this is my first time."

"What do you expect?"

"I'm into jazz. I expect to hear great music."

"This isn't jazz, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it. Thank you."

I smiled and hurried past her. Seats on the main floor were going fast. I zigzagged down the centre aisle and slid into a chair. The guests, mostly Chinese nationals, scoured the main floor and upper tiers for seats. Their urgency magnified the anticipation. I studied the fleet of black chairs arranged in a large semi-circle on the stage -- I guessed 100.

The Secretary-General arrived. The lights faded and a video screen descended. I didn't expect to be spoonfed with a crash course in Chinese music instrumentation. Yet there it was, and I ate with relish.

A Close Look at China dished out the name, function and personality of the gaohu, erhu, sheng. dizi and pipa. It compared them to European string and wind instruments. In some instances, we were given a tasty appetizer as the soloist played a few notes. The video ended and a sumptuous feast for the eyes, ears and emotions began.

I first noticed the allure of silence when the musicians came on stage. Their footsteps, which echoed through the Hall, were overtaken by applause. Then stillness reigned. The conductor, Chen Xieyang, dressed in black, approached centre stage; a red handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket hinted at passion on the verge of leaping. More clapping, then a hush.

The first offering, Good News, intimated the extravaganza of an epic Hollywood movie--a delicious welcome. Applause shook the Hall as the conductor and musicians took a bow. Quiet! No announcements were made. Next, Jasmine Flower gently awakened and matched the flow of row-boats on the sea. She surged into a whirlwind.

The conductor's arms twirled, swooped and dived; his hand-dance inspired the musicians. Until the final note, heads and bodies dipped and swayed in unison as a flock of delicate birds. Another bow, applause and silence.

In jazz, improvisation drives the music. Notes played by another band member, or a glass dropped by the waitress, or an encouraging shout from a fan, springboards the musician into a flurry of notes, a spicy horn honk or a melody that makes the gods cry. Jazz nods my head and pumps my feet. When someone hollers "Go ahead", or "Yeah man, do it", I'm never surprised it was me.

The China Orchestra got under my skin. What felt natural to me--to yell out my pleasure--was inappropriate. I looked around. No one bobbed their head or stomped their feet. But I knew the music enchanted them. A cell phone rang. No one spoke, but the air thickened with disapproval toward the owner.

A pipa soloist in a sky-blue powdered dress floated behind conductor Xu Zhijun to the stage. Applause melted into sweet silence. The Moonlit Spring River and Flowers poured notes of grace. Angels sang. I imagined the dance of river flowers. Four more selections continued this exquisite interplay of silence and music, quiet to unquiet, peace to madness. On Butterfly Lovers. the soft face of love's pain spilled tears from the soloist's gaohu strings onto my cheeks.

During intermission, the audience whispered. The crew that were setting up the stage for the silk string quintet were noisier. I was amazed, but understood. The silence was a continuation of the music.

The lights dimmed to expectant silence. I had come to adore it. An all-women quintet played Cheerful Night. Then two male jinghu soloists fired up the crowd with their interpretation of Ye Shen Chen, which began with drum beating. The eye contact between musicians on these latter numbers suggested improvisation. I was enthralled.

The encore performances included Radetzky March, a Johann Strauss composition, which showed the versatility of the Chinese instruments. Conductor Chen Xieyang faced the audience and encouraged us to applaud as the Orchestra played. As he had roused the musicians' artistry all evening, he entreated us to clap loud, then soft, fast, slow or not at all. It was a light, playful dessert.

As I exited the Hall, I was again stopped. "What are your comments about the show?" I clapped. "It met my every expectation."

Fade to silence.