1: Orchestra Rehearsal

The multifunctional complex playing host to the Sixth Triannual Yoshigaë International Piano Competition contains three halls.

A small hall, capacity four hundred—there being no conservatory in Yoshigaë like those in Paris, New York, and elsewhere, the Yoshigaë auditions had taken place here.

A large hall, capacity one thousand—here, the First through Third Rounds.

And the orchestral hall, capacity two thousand three hundred—the only one capable of fitting a full orchestra on its stage, and the site of the Final Round.

This competition’s concerti were as follows; the order was decided by lottery, but besides Frederic Dmiy and Masaru switching spots, all others remained the same.


Sujong Kim (Korea): Rachmaninoff—Concerto no. 3 in D Minor, op. 30

Frederic Dmiy (France): Chopin—Concerto no. 1 in E Minor, op. 11

Masaru Carlos Levy Anatol (United States): Prokofiev—Concerto no. 3 in C Major, op. 26

Han-sun Cho (Korea): Rachmaninoff—Concerto no. 2 in C Minor, op. 18

Jin Kazama (Japan): Bartók—Concerto no. 3 in E Major, Sz. 119

Aya Eiden (Japan): Prokofiev—Concerto no. 2 in G Minor, op. 18


It was now the second day of Final Round rehearsals. The Shin Doto Philharmonic, led by Masayuki Onodera—a respected, dependable conductor in his late forties—had been busy at work.

The orchestra members had collective experience of over a millennium, but accompaniment to a concerto—especially a Final Round contestant’s concerto—is still a serious task, not to be taken lightly.

Why? Because the contestant, no matter how brilliant, is still an amateur. And amateurs need to be handled shall we say delicately: the orchestra must be more willing than usual to bend to the will of the soloist, if only so that no blame can be put on them if the results don’t come out in a given contestant’s favor.

Preparation, too, is often a mess: the permissible concerti number almost thirty. Any orchestra worth its keep has played all of them at least once, but with some of the pieces being workouts for the orchestra as well, they must take time to prepare any pieces which have been selected by contestants and might be challenging for the orchestra. This usually happens around the Third Round, when the number of possible concerti shrinks to something manageable. For example, the orchestra had been preparing Bartók’s Third since the publication of Second Round results, knowing that Jin Kazama was a favorite to make it to the Final Round and that Bartók’s orchestral writing was not easy for any orchestral section.

The six contestants all had different pieces. This was a blessing and a curse: far more enjoyable for both conductor and orchestra, but harder to prepare. Onodera had once conducted a Final Round of another competition consisting of four performances of Beethoven’s “Emperor” and two of Chopin’s First; he had no idea how the conductor and orchestra of the Chopin Competition survived almost a dozen performances of Chopin’s First and Second, both dull in the extreme for the orchestra.

Onodera, friends with Stage Manager Hiroshi Dakubo, had interrogated him for information on the contestants. How they were backstage, how they received assistance or advice. He also read their résumés, their competition repertoire, and attended their Third Round performances.

Contestants’ experience and knowledge have a shocking range, even at this level. Over the years, he’d seen plenty who had no concerto experience, and though everyone had to start somewhere, a Final Round was not an ideal place, to say the least. The concerto is a genre more than almost any other favoring the experienced. For starters, the feeling of being in an orchestra—foreign to most pianists—i unlike a recording or even prime seats in a concert hall: one can feel the orchestra in one’s bones. And, being so close to some sections while further from others, one can’t even tell what the orchestra is playing at times. Entering at precisely the right time is unlike even chamber music; following a conductor is maddening.

Onodera had conducted two contestants in his career who had simply stopped playing during their Final Round performances. The first, so engrossed in his performance, fell completely out of sync with the orchestra; he had been a full measure ahead. The second had had the opposite problem: unsure whether she was playing in time with the orchestra, she had begun playing a little quietly; the orchestra had quieted alongside her to maintain the balance, and both had eventually diminuendo-ed into silence.

Whoops.

But things were going smoothly; five out of six contestants had solid concerto experience, and Dakubo had said that they were all levelheaded contestants. Four rehearsals had begun and ended without even minor incident: all, despite their youth, had a particular musicality, colored with a maturity and subtlety that belied their age. The orchestra members seemed to like them all, with the exception of Masaru Carlos, whom they adored.

There is no thrill quite like a perfectly executed concerto performance: the feeling of pacing a top-of-the-line marathoner, breathing and running in lockstep. Onodera was nominally in charge of the orchestra, but everyone—the members, the conductor, the soloist, the audience—knew that the soloist was in charge in the Final Round concerts: “Softer now,” “Turning this way,” “Let’s ramp it up.”

Han-sun Cho’s rehearsal had concluded about forty minutes ago; Jin Kazama was due in five minutes. The orchestra members returned from lunch, or practice rooms, or the poker table, in threes and fives.

Jin Kazama was the only contestant without concerto experience.

Onodera was half worry, half excitement. His Third Round performance had been a miracle, but his unorthodox interpretations could obstruct a smooth performance.

And his piece. Bartók’s Third. Syncopated to all hell. Sudden mood shifts. Demanding solos. A challenge for an experienced concert pianist and orchestra; potential suicide as a concerto debut.

Tuner Asano was finishing up the piano. Jin Kazama was nowhere in sight.

“Is this OK?” he asked to no one in particular.

“Mm.”

Onodera turned around; the boy was sitting in the very rear of the orchestra.

Huh?

Onodera had thought the person was a staffer, but it had been Jin Kazama.

What is he doing over there?

“I think the piano’s ready, but I think I need to hear the orchestra. Mr. Asano, would you listen from over there?” He pointed to the right rear of the hall.

“Sure.”

Dakubo had said that the boy’s hearing was incredibly bright; Asano had said the same. He had never seen a tuner working so closely with a soloist, though.

Asano caught Onodera’s eye. “Sorry the tuning’s taking a while.”

“Not a problem.”

The last of the orchestra members were getting seated. The boy walked down the aisle and jumped onstage, turning toward Onodera. “Nice to meet you! I’m Jin Kazama. Thank you for playing with me!”

“My name is Masayuki Onodera. We’re glad to be playing with you.” He took the hand proffered by the boy, who shook it eagerly and then shook hands with the concertmaster.

Cute boy.

Simple, keen, but not overly excited. Pure.

“So, what would you like to do first? Do you have a section you’d like to start with, maybe an entry or two that’s on your mind? Or maybe play through, stopping as you’d like?”

The boy lightly sh0ok his head. “I have sort of an odd request.” He looked at Onodera with his round brown eyes; he was taken aback by the depth of his gaze.

“A request? Sure. We’re here for you.”

“Would you play the third movement on your own?”

Onodera was in disbelief.

“What? Just us? What about you?”

“I’ll listen from the rear.”

Without waiting for an answer, he hopped offstage and jogged to the very back of the hall, where he had been listening to the tuning.

Onodera looked at the concertmaster. “What do you think?”

The concertmaster shrugged. “Why not? More practice for us.”

But Onodera couldn’t shake the feeling of being tested. He didn’t like it.

“Thanks!” Jin Kazama waved from the back.

Onodera made a let’s-be-understanding face to the orchestra and raised his baton. They didn’t look at all happy, but readied themselves.

Bartók’s Third, third movement.

Brilliant tutti from start to finish; clear, bright soundscapes whooshing past toward a magical finale.

The orchestra played marvelously.

You want it? We’ll give it. Our full capacity, our power and might.

Fortissimo brass; pulsing strings.

You think you can match this with your piano? We’d like to see you try. We’re happy to quiet down for you if you need.

Onodera felt his orchestra’s pride in each note.

The seven-minute movement came to an end.

Onodera exhaled, and then turned around; Jin Kazama and Asano were whispering.

He really doesn’t look like a contestant.

“Thank you!” Jin sprinted to the stage and leapt up.

That was a high jump, Onodera thought, but before he could process what he had seen, Jin Kazama had burrowed into the orchestra.

Is he—is he moving the members?

Everyone was watching him, confused.

“Hi, could you shift over this way?”

He’s even moving the basses.

The members were smiling bitterly, trying (and not really succeeding) to hide their displeasure.

This boy—in his first orchestra rehearsal—is just going to move orchestra members who have been playing for decades?

But the boy seemed oblivious to the simmering anger.

“If I’m over here, it’s much more uncomfortable,” the principal trombone grumbled. The boy spun around.

“Ah, yes—I moved you there because the floor is uneven. My guess is that a few years ago, there were some repairs—they placed some composite wood there that’s less dense than the rest of the stage. Your sound is getting trapped there and not spreading outward properly.”

The principal trombone started. The members started exchanging glances.

The boy walked back to the piano and sat down.

“OK, so, can we play the third movement again? Mr. Asano, if you could listen again—”

The boy looked up at Onodera and smiled, who nodded along and raised his baton. The members seemed hypnotized; half of them were staring at the boy.

A brief silence.

The boy played the opening bass trills; Onodera felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

It’s big.

The members had a new spark in their eyes.

The sound is big.

How could it be so clear.

Onodera swung the baton, looking into his orchestra’s shocked faces.

The music was at full throttle in an instant.

Piano phrases soaring alongside the woodwinds. Tremolos deep in the bass roaring with the brass and timpani.

What a solo.

Rhythms and turns full of confidence and charm.

A bullet train leading the orchestra.

How is it so big, and yet so precise.

The strings took over the theme.

How, how, how.

He had thought the sound before was big. This was something else altogether. The orchestra’s and Jin Kazama’s sounds combined to produce something greater than the sum of their parts.

The members looked dead serious. Transformed. Trying with all their might to keep up with Jin Kazama.

Onodera realized something else too: the balance had become much better. The bass notes were much more solid, making every melody project that much better. He remembered Jin’s words: it’s not spreading outward properly.

The chair, the stand, the instruments moved by the boy. Could that really have been it? Could those shifts affect the sound that much? And how did he know, after only one listen?

The climax was approaching. The members seemed surprised by their own performances. They were being remote controlled—by Jin Kazama.

Onodera watched them, disbelieving it as he lived it.

Had this orchestra’s brass always been this good? Hadn’t I always harped on them for their power? Hadn’t they always mourned critics’ chiding mentions of them?

The piano, an orchestra in one instrument. The real orchestra, not backing down one step.

The magnificent tutti.

Woodwinds brrr-ing as hard as they could. The air quivered.

The piece ended.

A thrilling sense of release. Onodera almost fell over. The members seemed drunk on the music, still dissipating in the hall.

And then applause.

Onodera looked out. Asano was running toward them, clapping, red-faced.

The boy’s quiet voice. “Mr. Asano, how was it?”

“Amazing, so amazing. I’ve never heard better.”

“Should it be softer?”

“No, this is perfect.”

“Great.” The boy turned to him. “Can we go from the first movement now?”

Jin Kazama started.

“Um … is everything OK?”

Onodera, and the entire orchestra, were staring at him, wide-eyed, as though he were some mythical or extraterrestrial creature.

“What’s going on?” A note of nervousness entered his voice, but the hundred-person-strong orchestra, pale as a sheet, did not answer him.


© BSP 2022