Adventures in Page Turning, Part 1

My program from that evening, signed by Ma and Ax.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Yes, this is a true story, related as accurately as I can, considering that the events occurred thirty years ago.

There I sat, alone—alone on stage at the Peace Center. Alone in front of a packed house—over 2000 people in attendance. And I wasn’t supposed to be there.

You ever have a nightmare where you find yourself in public in your underwear?

Yeah, well, this was kind of like one of those dreams. Except I was wearing a suit.

How in the world did I end up here?

My mind began to drift back . . .

“That Would Be . . . Amazing!”

Months back, at my interview for an usher position with the Peace Center, Gary, the House Manager, asked me why I wanted to be an usher. Part of my answer was that I loved music—I played the piano, sang in choir, loved classic Broadway musicals . . .

Gary remembered those comments when an unusual need came up.

“Hey, you read music, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How would you like to turn pages for Yo-Yo Ma when he comes for a concert in a few weeks?”

My jaw promptly dropped open. “Turn pages for Yo-Yo Ma!?”

“Well, actually, it would be for Emanuel Ax, his pianist.”

“That would be . . . amazing! Yes, I’d love to do it!”

Fast forward to the day of the concert. All day long my mind was rushing. What in the world were you thinking? You don’t even get to rehearse! How will I know when to turn each page? What if I turn more than one page? What if I turn one late, and Emanuel Ax messes up and it’s my fault!? What if the music falls off the piano and loose sheets scatter all over the stage and I have to scramble on my hands and knees to pick them up while Ax and Ma stare at me coldly in front of an absolutely silent audience (except for one little “cough cough” from the back row)? The idea of doing this had been so exciting weeks ago—now it was horrifying! WHAT HAD I BEEN THINKING???

But, whatcha gonna do? I remembered Grandma Swartz’s words of wisdom: “Stevie, all your life you’re going to have to do things you don’t want to do.” I’d committed myself, and I couldn’t back out now.

“It’s All Pretty Straightforward”

I arrived at the theatre early that night—October 22, 1993. Ma and Ax were already on stage, giving a free class to a bunch of young musicians—obviously they were great, down-to-earth guys. They were friendly, engaging, humorous, humble, and very much at ease.

When they finished, I followed them backstage and told them what I was there to do. We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and I asked Emanuel if there was anything in particular I needed to know about any of the pieces.

“Oh, no, no, I don’t think so. It’s all pretty straightforward.”

The program from that evening.

I looked at the first piece they would play. “In the Beethoven piece here—there’s a repeat, which means I’ll have to turn back a page. Are you guys going to do the repeat?”

“Hey Yo-Yo!” Ax yelled. He said “Yo-Yo” like, “yuh-YOH!” with the accent on the second syllable. “Are we gonna take the repeat in the Beethoven?”

“Oh, I don’t know. You want to take it?”

“Sure, sure, let’s take it.” Then, turning to me. “Yeah, we’ll do the repeat.”

I was glad I had asked.

“I’m Sorry We Abandoned You!”

Before I knew it, we were waiting backstage, listening to the low murmur of classical music patrons eagerly awaiting our entrance. Our entrance. You know, when yuh-YO and Manny and I came out to do our concert.

Emanuel gave me a stack of piano music organized in concert order. That way while they were going onstage and getting their opening ovation, I could sit down to the left and slightly behind the piano bench, put the first piece on the piano’s music holder, and pile the rest of it on a chair next to me.

And then, there we were! Thunderous applause as they walked forward and bowed and waved—and as the page turner, praying furiously (“Lord, please don’t let me mess up! Please don’t let me mess up!”) piled the music on the second chair, put the first piece on the piano, and sat down. Whew, so far, no catastrophes.

Both artists sat, and the music started to flow. Flawless piano artistry combined with the singing, mesmerizing tones of the cello. It was wonderful, and I was suddenly glad I was there—even though it was still hard to believe it was all real.

The first piece, the Beethoven, was in multiple movements: Twelve Variations in F Major, Op. 66 on “Ein Madchen oder Weibchen” from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. (I mention this fact so you can enjoy humming the tune in your head.) We made it through the first movement without a hitch (even with the repeat!). As any well-bred audience knows, there should be no applause between movements of a classical piece. You wait until the whole thing is over, and then you clap.

The Peace Center audience was, of course, well bred. Soon the twelfth variation (but who’s counting?) was finished, and Ax and Ma stood to bow as the applause warmly rolled over us. I waited till they finished and started off stage and then followed them while the applause continued.

We weren’t back there very long—just long enough for Yo-Yo to say, “Hey Manny!” and throw his head back while flinging his arms wide and shaking his head back and forth, his mouth open in a huge grin, as if he were milking the moment for all it was worth. They both laughed and told me he was imitating one of Manny’s kids, who apparently loved hamming it up on stage.

Back out onto stage we trooped. I knew the routine. They would take another bow and then start the next piece.

Only that isn’t what happened.

They bowed again . . . and left the stage again.

And there I sat, all by my lonesome. All alone on the Peace Center concert stage.

What does a page turner in a rather worn suit do when forsaken on stage? I can answer that question for you, having lived it myself.

First, he starts to sweat.

Then he thinks, We should have talked about this, I guess.

Then he sweats some more.

Then he thinks, Well, the audience doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen. They probably think I travel with them as a professional page turner, pulling in a six-figure salary every year.

And then he puts the next piece of music up on the piano, folds his hands in his lap, and waits. He is quiet. The audience is quiet. (Except for one little “cough cough” from the back row.)

Soon, after no less than at least a year, the stars returned, again to rousing applause. They bowed, and Yo-Yo turned around to me smiling and said, “I’m sorry we abandoned you!”

I smiled graciously and said, “Oh, that’s fine,” and laughed a little, as though we were sharing a private joke—you know, just me and my bro, yuh-YO.

“I Have No Idea Where We Are!”

The next piece was one of those twentieth-century pieces that sounds as though the composer had said, “Hm. I wonder what a musical migraine would sound like?” And then proceeded to create one.

The piece was called “Phantasmagoria for Cello and Piano” by John Corigliano. (“Phantasmagoria” is Latin for “headache,” by the way.)

The notes were all over the page. There were awkward leaps and crashes, and there were places where no one played. And in the middle of one page, there were two measures with a big, black box around them. I had never seen that before and had no idea what it meant. And I still don’t.

We got part way through that page, and I was completely lost. There was no way to follow this musical gibberish! I said to Manny (yeah, we were pretty tight by now, so I called him “Manny” in my head)—I said to Manny out of the corner of my mouth, “I have no idea where we are!”

Manny didn’t say anything, so instead of watching the music I started watching him. When he bobbed his head like a duck snatching a minnow (do ducks snatch minnows?), I immediately knew that that was the signal to turn the page.

I mean, he didn’t even have to say anything at all. He and I had kind of developed this whole language of nonverbal communication between us. It was like there were two people out there but only one brain.

“Can You Get That Hair for Us?”

Well, I won’t detail the rest of the concert. Suffice it to say that after those moments, all went smoothly. And we left the stage at the end, and they went back on for more bows—but I didn’t, having learned my lesson earlier that evening.

The evening did provide one uncomfortable coda, however.

Ax and Ma came backstage and headed for their dressing room. “Oh!” Manny said, turning to me. “Will you go back out there and get the music?” So I headed out on stage again.

There was a small group—maybe five or seven young adults—standing right next to the stage with their arms reaching as far as they could onto the stage.

Ohhh-kaaayyy, never saw anything like this before . . .

“Hey! Hey!” one of the guys said, “Can you get that hair for us?”

“Hair?”

“Yeah, that piece of horsehair from Yo-Yo Ma’s bow!”

I wanted to condescendingly correct him. “It’s not ‘yo-yo,’ you know. He’s not a child’s toy. It’s ‘yuh-YO.’ Plebian!”

But I didn’t.

My fingers were too clumsy to pick the thin hair off the stage floor, so I scootched it over to him. He picked it up, thanked me, and he and his friends took off, thrilled with their cool (free, unique) souvenir.

I took the music backstage, right into the dressing room as I’d been told to.

That’s when I might have seen something few classical music fans have ever seen.

I might have seen a world-famous cellist wearing only a shirt and black socks and boxers.

I might have. But I’m not going to say for sure. Because, really, it’s none of your business.

Stay tuned for our next true installment, “Adventures in Page Turning 2,” in which I meet Itzhak Perlman and get slapped on stage.

 

Copyright 2023, Steven Nyle Skaggs