Backstage Fright

I had never been so cold in my life. I was shaking and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. Thinking back on it now, it may have been the nerves that caused the shaking. That being said, the cluttered backstage area of the concert hall was chilly at best. As I sat in my uncomfortable chair, I thought through my pieces and the minuscule details that had been worked into my head through hours of practice. I was experiencing déjà vu. This all reminded me of the last time I had tried to perform for a large audience. It had not ended well and the remembrance of this experience added to my nerves.








I could hear the symphony just start to gather on stage, as I had arrived nearly an hour earlier than I was supposed to. When I had walked in ahead of schedule, some symphony members had looked at me and chuckled, seeming to find humor in my nervous state. This was the biggest day of my life, to date. I had just turned fourteen and was going to play a piano concerto with a full symphony for only the second time, at Verizon Hall. The piece was actually calming in nature, which was hugely ironic given my present state. I had played in many venues before, such as local concert halls and small recitals, but nothing this large. I normally held back the nerves before performing, but something this momentous was too much. My whole future career as a concert pianist relied on my performance tonight. As the time for my recital drew closer, I began to sweat even more. The small digital clock on one of the few tables in the wings of the hall displayed “8:12.” I had eighteen minutes before the most influential recital of my life. No more time to prepare, no time to add more flourishes to the piece, only time to be cold and agitated. I got up out of my chair and paced around the small backstage area and eventually wandered to the water fountain mounted on the wall. I bent down and pressed the lever to get a drink. It didn’t work. I kept pressing for several seconds then gave up. As I sat back down, I wondered if the water fountain was a metaphor for my performance. Would I freeze? Would I forget the very piece I was to play? Would my hands stop and not work? My stomach drew even tighter into a knot. These things had rarely happened to me, but they had still happened. I kept telling myself that I would be fine, that I’ve played this piece thousands of times. There is no way I could forget and ruin my performance tonight. As I sat thinking in my uncomfortable chair, a stagehand tapped my shoulder and mouthed “five minutes.” Only five minutes until I would walk on stage. I began pacing and trying to focus. I tried to think about nothing. Three minutes. Still trying to think about nothing. Still not working. One minute. I straightened my tuxedo and dramatically flipped my coattails, which made me smile. Applause started suddenly and I knew the maestro had walked on stage. Then it was my turn. I breathed deeply, coerced an insincere smile on my face, and walked out. The conductor looked and nodded at me, seeming to reassure me. The symphony members sat tall and ready, prepared and calm, while I felt the exact opposite. The nine-foot Steinway full grand piano stood unmoving, imposing, and arrogant. It seemed to dare me to try to play its pristine ivory keys. I continued walking across the glossy hardwood floor of the stage and sat down at the piano. I cracked my fingers and tried to dry the sweat from my clammy hands. After wiping them on my pants, I nodded at the director, signaling that I was ready to begin. Complete silence consumed every space of the concert hall as the audience waited for me to begin. The orchestra quickly began tuning their instruments in classic fashion, matching pitches to the single a note from my piano. The conductor raised his hands and we were off. I sat quietly for the first several bars, waiting for my cue from the maestro. Finally, the signal came. As I raised my hands to the keyboard to play, I froze. My mind went blank and I could not remember any part of the piece I was supposed to be playing. My stomach dropped and I stopped breathing. I was staring intently at the piano as my face turned a rather surprising shade of red. It had been several seconds since I last inhaled, but the thought of breathing had not even crossed my mind. The maestro’s jaw had dropped and he stared incredulously at me. The audience that had fallen into a nervous silence began to murmur among themselves. The symphony had stopped playing and was staring angrily at me, as if trying to impart their embarrassment to me. I still hadn’t taken a breath and I didn’t dare lift my eyes from the piano keys. As the conductor jumped down from his box and strode angrily towards me, the room began to spin. And I fainted.