Sound of Silence

As a conductor, I arguably deal in silence. Ideally, I don’t make a sound—whether during a concert or in rehearsal. A babbling conductor is poor form. Coming from the violin, that took getting used to.

One of my first important musical memories is from a visit the famous klezmer clarinetist Giora Feidman paid to my high school. I went to a music high school, so it wasn’t unusual for musicians to give a master class. His was unlike anything I’d seen. Instead of teaching only clarinetists, he gathered the whole school—cellists, pianists, violinists—and taught music.

Before we drift into a sea of banalities, I’ll say this: most sessions like that aren’t my cup of tea. They can be feeble attempts at philosophy by musicians lacking in other departments. This master class, however, was the closest thing I’ve had to a musical baptism. I’m not a good writer, so I’ll keep it brief. Mr. Feidman worked with us on silence—how to choose the delicate moment to begin. He taught me to listen to the silence and play in that context. Once you “hear” silence, there’s no ignoring it. It’s like a radio station you can tune to; suddenly you hear all kinds of things. It talks to me.

Two of the most magical parts of music are the silence just before you start, and the hush after you finish—if you’re lucky.