It is 7:20 on a cool September Friday night at the downtown Tempe ASU campus. My fingers slowly reach up to my throat and tighten my black tie. The warm sunset reflects off cool glass panes as a gentle breeze glides across the parking lot. With a trickle of people, I make my way into Gammage. As I take my seat near the front of the auditorium, dissonant notes of the symphony fill the air around me. Hurriedly tuning up and practicing those last few runs, the performers of the ASU Instrumental Ensemble convey an attitude of nervous excitement. One by one, the individual instruments fade out and a time-killing chatter spreads over the hall. I am suddenly struck by the strong smell of perfume mixed with the subtle hint of beer. This is a strange combination to find in such a refined and professional setting, but then again, this is a college campus.
The lights fade out and the lead flutist plays a high E, tuning the symphony and getting them on the right “page”. An elderly man with wispy, grey hair enters from stage right and saunters up to the conductor’s platform. I glance at my program and see that this must be Gary Hill, the conductor. The crowd, meanwhile, applauds out of respect. A hush settles on the auditorium. A blanket of silence covers all as the lights are dimmed. A slight flick of his wrist and the concert begins. Dark and ominous, the deep sound of trombones builds ever so slowly from a gentle whisper, culminating with an astounding percussive crash of symbols and drums. This jarring noise shatters the silence and the orchestra has our full attention.

A woman who looks like Mary Poppins is playing the Piano. This is my first thought as I scan the performers. But this professional-looking woman has none of the warmth and glow of our favorite nanny. Stoic demeanor resembled her shoes: plain, dull black, sharply pointed. I am caught up in these thoughts, when the rise and fall of the music crashes relentlessly on the shores of my conscience.

The music being performed is from the great classical composer, Mahler. Bold and powerful, his music portrays a time long ago: cathedrals and kings, dragons and knights. Mahler’s music draws me backwards in time. I cannot pinpoint the source of this pull but still I search for it. Is it the strange way the cellos and baritones are harmonizing? Is it that I only hear this kind of music in movie scores? I do not know, but it is grand.

Naturally flowing from the pulses and vibrations in the air, I am moved with the desire to close my eyes and float on the waves of sound. This power is unique to music, at least the strength of this power. Memories are inherently clearer and feelings stronger when music plays with the notes of my soul. As much as I attempt to explain it, music is unexplainable, an inherently mysterious power.

All these thoughts flash through my head as I drift from reality into a dream-like state. The crash of the tympani wakes me and I am in my seat. Still, it is hard to resist slipping back into my trance. The hypnotic motion of the bows as they rise and fall in rhythmic unison play with my mind. Maybe I should say they play with my soul for I do not desire to explain the beauty of the music. I only wish to feel it, to let the sound move me where it pleases. I settle back into my seat and a slight squeak escapes from its unoiled hinges.

Flashes of light strike my eye as the wind instruments reflect the stage lights into my face. I cannot see the bass drum, but I feel its beat against my body, almost as if I am the drum being struck. I realize the performers are also in a state of slight hypnosis. Every pair of eyes is focused, unwavering, on either their music or conductor. The music brings them all together. Every background, every way of life and personality is united for a while through the mysterious power of music.
Black. The musicians dress as if for a funeral. Dim lights. Evil music. Darkness and despair is displayed through every aspect of the performance, a perfect way to convey the title of the work, Music for the End of Time. Indeed, I feel pulled ahead into the last few desperate moments of time itself. While horribly evil, the music also portrays a mental picture of tragic beauty, like the death of a noble hero in an old movie.
Mary Poppins has been still for quite some time now, as have most of the other members of the symphony. The fade from despair into acceptance is almost final.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. The upright basses and percussion beat in rhythm with a dying heart, the death of time. Thump-thump, thump-thump. The music dies and the lights fade. Thump-thump. The beat dies. The diming lights convey the departure off the soul. It is finished.
Standing up, I glance at my watch, realizing that over two hours has flown by as I have sat hypnotized by the music. Applause thunders throughout the hall and ASU’s Instrument Ensemble rises to their feet and bows with dignity. Shuffling from the building, I slowly saunter back to my car. My fingers gently loosen my tie. The sounds of crickets penetrate the quiet night.