By Michelle Huang
“Cellos and bass, why don’t you start us off with a B, E, A, and D; something like this––”
We hesitantly did as we were told. Soon the violins and violas joined, plucking Es and Cs on the offbeats as Charl instructed. My fellow cellist friend and I exchanged a look of gleeful surprise upon hearing the steady, harmonious loop the orchestra had created. All those hours spent slaving away at online music theory assignments passed briefly through the back of my head. Drums then join, adding bursts of flavor to our loop, and then came acoustic bass, who smoothed out any wrinkles in the loop like taking a spatula to icing. Having finished assembling the chords, Charl tapped out a simple tune on the piano. A violinist was encouraged to reciprocate the tune. He tapped out another tune. Another follows, this time adding her own flair. The South African pianist grinned, delighted. On and on we went across the room, each bow stroke more confident than the last. The more a musician replicated his tune, the more swing and notes Charl added, daring us not to fail, not to recreate, but to improvise.
Once our orchestra had all their turns, he turned to the drummer of the trio. Without the need for pitched notes, Peter caught hold of the flavor of the tune and returned its rhythm, head back, smiling, and eyes closed. I would later recognize that as his signature look as the entire music department performed on stage. Then Charl moved on to Werner, who, without breaking his suave, composed manner, nor the smart glint in his eye, picked up the swing without missing a beat on the acoustic bass. The mood within the room filled to the brim with nervous, excited energy. Jazz was airborne!
Later that night I sat, entranced from the PAC balcony, as African-flavoured jazz radiated upwards. A couple performances later, as our orchestra waited for our turn, not a single person stood still listening to the trio backstage. The contagiousness had caught itself in our joints, and we were swaying to the beat whether we knew it or not. So this must be freedom! I thought, my own heels tapping against the ground. A carefree showcase of a medium so utterly mastered, moving not without direction nor dissonance until the perfect opportunities called for it to happen.
It was a true concert. Though the bus rides back were a little tiring, and whatever earworms caught from the performance a little soporific, no one could forget the feeling earlier that night of being spun into the air by jazz.