The Lark: Vol 3, Issue 17, February 2024

My Marche Slave

by Ruth Mills

The music begins with a low rumble, a dirge played by cellos and timpani. After a few measures a somber folk tune joins in. Gradually the music builds, grows more joyous, ending with a raucous celebration of Slavic peoples. At the first performance in 1876, as the final note was played, people jumped to their feet, some stood on their chairs, weeping and shouting. For an encore, the entire ten-minute piece was played again. The reaction the second time around was the same.  I get it and I am not even Slavic. I loved the piece.

This was not the case when I sat home alone preparing for my first NYSMA (New York State Sectional Music Association) concert. While I was familiar with Swan Lake, The Nutcracker, and the Pathetique Symphony, I had never heard Marche Slav. My father played Tchaikovsky full blast on his hi-fi as he sat in his study preparing sermons. It was his way of drowning out six kids, creating ironically, peace for him. But as I scratched out those four measures, one note repeated again and again, it seemed like something I did not need to practice. Oh I knew I should count it out, but I was sure I could wing it.

Student musicians representing twenty schools from our geographically huge but sparsely populated section of northern New York gathered in my high school’s gym to practice for several days, preparing for a concert on Saturday night. Our guest conductor, lured to us from the Albany Symphony Orchestra, was getting exasperated. Someone kept coming in at the wrong time. “I’m not Eugene Ormandy,” he complained. “I can’t just stop and start over.  We all have to come in at the right time.”

I was starting to notice angry glances in my direction, especially from Brooks Willoughby, seated next to me. His placement there was no accident. He was an accomplished cellist for his age, in part, I am sure, because his father was chair of the music department at our local branch of the state university. I was seen as the weakest link and they hoped he could help. His lanky body wrapped around his cello, with the obligatory shoulder-length hair, he exuded all things cool. He did not relish the role of mentoring me.

Perhaps if someone had thought to play the piece for me in its entirety before I joined this ad hoc orchestra, I would have prepared better, knowing how every part worked together. My sixteen-year-old brain never thought of this and neither did anyone else’s. I was not sure how I got accepted into this elite group of high school musicians anyway. I did earn a 3A at the individual competition but that “three” means I played something really easy.

Brooks was extremely interested in the willowy blond behind me and I doubt it was her superior musical ability that interested him. Shockingly, she wore a mini-skirt while playing her cello, which provided more than just her pretty face for him to look at. During every break in the music, he turned around to flirt with her. I tried not to look at them, fearing I might be the object of some of their derision. While my eyes portrayed my perpetual fear of humiliation, her eyes gleamed with the ability to administer it.

And I was a sponge for humiliation. During breaks, we all rested our cellos on their sides on the floor near our seats. Once when I returned, I managed to trip over my mine, breaking the bridge.  My music teacher ran to assist so that I would not interrupt the practice. Brooks, the mini-skirt, and others were openly laughing.

Finding the right dress for the concert was a challenge. In 1969 the styles were quite straight, making it difficult to play a cello. I did not want to be like Miss Willowy. My sister, an excellent seamstress, found a pattern and beautiful moiré fabric. She sewed a simple dress and made it a little wider around the hem. Yes, this would work!

We had heard of panty hose by then but they were not yet available in our part of the boondocks.  We still wore garter belts. I tried on the dress with nylons held by garters, sat down with the cello, and confirmed that there were no unfortunate displays. The night of the concert, the nylons I had tested now had a run. I grabbed a new pair, hitched them, and set off for the concert.

The problem became apparent as soon as I sat down with my cello. The new nylons were shorter and the garter kept peeking out from under the dress. My furtive tugs did not help.  Brooks and Willow were practically in tears trying to hold in their laughter. Willow, of course, was wearing something modest and appropriate.

“There is nothing you can do about the wardrobe malfunction,” I told myself and I tried to focus on the music. Tchaikovsky rumbled and then soared, delighting all.

Shortly thereafter I bought my first LP, Marche Slav played by the Philadelphia Orchestra with Eugene Ormandy conducting. That summer, when visiting my grandparents, I went to the King of Prussia Shopping Center, largest mall in the world at that time, and bought panty hose!

The following year, Brooks’ high school hosted the NYSSMA concert. Again I was placed next to Brook with Willow behind us.  I was still an inferior musician but a little better prepared. I was able to ignore Willow and Willoughby.

I am sure Tchaikovsky would be shocked to know that anyone associates his beautiful Marche Slav with unfortunate garter displays. That, however, is my reality. Today I hold my own celebration, not of all things Slavic (because I am still not Slavic), but of old age. Oops! I mean retirement. My celebration is a little too tame to be called raucous. It is a celebration of freedom, of having survived adolescence, of learning to laugh through life’s humiliating moments, and of having made it to joyous golden years.