I wrote an opera.
Let me explain further – I didn’t actually write an opera, the opera was written by a dead white male European in the 19th century. But the music was lost. For more than a century, up-and-coming composers have flexed their musical muscles trying to recreate what was once an undoubtedly brilliant work with their own ideas of brilliance. Some have tried and failed. Some have tried and produced wonderful work. One such composer has spent the past 47 years working on his own version.
And it is awesome. A true masterpiece. And this is where I come in. I was asked to set this piano work to orchestra. And to conduct it.
Let me pause for just a moment to address those few of you who think that orchestration is nothing more that arbitrarily picking instruments that you just think will sound pretty – you are a bonehead. That’s like saying that differential calculus is just writing arbitrary numbers that you think will be fun. Ain’t so. Orchestration is a science. It is truly hard work, and takes a great deal of training.
Not that I’m claiming such a talent, but goddammitonafuckingpogostick, I worked hard on this. For the past year, I have worked so hard that my ass literally fell off. No, really. It’s sitting on a chair next to me even as we speak. I take pride in my work. Not to be a braggart, but fukkinAonagoddammedcracker, I must be some sort of musical genius. This opera is <i>good</i>, I tells ya.
So, we are most proud to present the World Premier of this most fantabulous opera at a local university. In three weeks. A new daddy has never been as proud as I am.
So what’s the problem?
We just got an email last night from a local fraternity. On the second Friday of our performances, they will be hosting a Battle of th Bands. Not in a seperate city. Not down the street. No, they will be doing this right across the hall from us. With doors wide open, I understand. Terrific. My beautiful ppp tremolo strings will have to compete with thump, thumpthump, thumpthump of slackjawed drummers and the hijinks of talentless guitarists who think they are oh so clever by saying “Blooody 'ell, fook Spinal Tap, this goes to TWELVE!”
Fucking thrilling.
And to top it off, the opera’s board of directors are saying “Oh well, sucks for us, nothing we can really do about it.” The same “We don’t really care whether the show sounds good or not” attitude that makes me grind my teeth every single day. The fucknuggets.
Does it not occur to them that this is the very same weekend where our financial losses are to be recouped from ticket sales?
Ah well, at least it won’t be the Saturday night when we tape the show for posterity. No, that won’t be interrupted by Battle of the Bands.
Nope. Saturday night, our biggest night of the run, will have the priviledge of sharing space with Battle of the Bands II.
So I responded the way any self-respecting composer would – with death threats and profanity. AND NOW I’M THE BAD GUY!