Music as chanced upon.

The night ended with Horace Silver's "Sister Sadie," the astounding Andy McGhee on tenor saxophone. Now, in a different circle and within a different conversation, it would be an embarrassing admission to say that I have absolutely no idea who Mr. McGhee is, or even who Horace Silver is or, more importantly, if Sadie was indeed a nun. But tonight is special and being candid about my musical ignorance is necessary to describe the remarkable experience I just had.

At 8:15 this evening, Berklee's Rainbow Band ensemble mounted a show that would leave an indelible impression on me. As with many things worthwhile, this beautiful experience arrived unannounced. Half an hour into the concert, I was actually still eating my Mexican wrap at Bollocco. I had no idea what kind of music this group played nor was I excited to watch their show (earlier I'd bumped into Mark, who urged me to watch them perform --- I had nothing to do and I figured that I could spare a dollar to watch them). The friends I was having dinner with had to leave and catch a different concert at the Middle East so I finally crossed to the other side of Mass Av., bought my dollarticket and entered the Berklee Performance Center. I sat down, my schoolbag still slung around my shoulder. Within five minutes, I was halfway through a very interesting dream involving spinach, Tita Maggie and castanets. "Boring, sixteenth note-ridden jazz," I figured. I was apparently watching a big band show. And I was not so impressed. I decided that I had to leave shortly after they begin their next tune, thinking that leaving during the lull in between would make me look like an ignorant poser who just wanted to say that he watched a jazz concert on a Thursday night. And then, Aubrey happened.

Freshman Aubrey Logan (18 years old from Seattle --- at least according to Facebook) sashayed onto the stage after being proudly introduced by music director Phil Wilson. She had a trombone in her hand and a microphone on the other. The pianist then gamely started to play the delicate line cliche progression of My Funny Valentine. I did not for the life of me expect to eventually find my jaws on the floor as this young lady brilliantly wove through the famous Richard Rogers ballad, regurgitating each haunting note with spot on intonation, mature musical sense and clearest intent. That she then took her trombone and played an amazing solo for the same song was almost a funny inevitability to me at that point. I was just bawled over by the music making that was transpiring a few meters away from me. I literally was on the edge of my seat by then. This show was clearly going to take me to another place.

The performers were also sitting on the edges of their seats as Wilson made extemporaneous choices on stage, arms waving, cajoling them to perform the arrangements according to his vision of the moment. The band then performed one of his own compositions. It was a frenetic tune (title to follow) that described his experience of living in Nice, France years ago. As the composer is himself a trombone player, it was no surprise really to find most of the action happening around the trombones with the players tasked to blow out this driving, semi-comical line. The composition evolves around this low and steady frenzy. For a minute it most definitely reminded me of my own experience in that southern French city, running around the maze of tiny roads, gelato on hand, recreating the car chase from the movie "Ronin."

So there he was, my unbelieving self, shouting "bravo" with some other people in the audience who were presumably, hopefully having their own unexpected moment of music. "Bottled lightning," I whispered to myself.

Wilson thanked each member of the ensemble, the audience clapped in appreciation, McGhee is called onto the stage and the band performed the night's last number --- which takes us to where I began. I had just stayed on for the whole show. I started to notice the tiny pain on my shoulder, around which my heavy school bag was still slung. Half of my butt, the half that actually had a seat under it, was on its way to getting numb. Soon I noticed that people were shuffling out of the hall and the music had stopped. Some people were still clapping. I did not know what I needed to do next. I almost had to relearn how to stand up and walk because my whole being was distracted away from my own life's daily grind.

I found my way out and onto the sidewalk. The late November night was still uncharacteristically warm, the #1 bus was still characteristically parked askew beside the Berklee beach and I was back to being me, only a little different. Feeling compelled to capture my moment, I bravely traversed Boylston St. and took the B-line back to my home by Packard's Corner.

As I reflect on my experience, I feel that I may have finally discerned what Berklee should be to us students. It should be this night, this show. All of us got here, coerced by fate and circumstance, not knowing what to expect or what to gain. It seems that that’s actually perfectly fine. By all means, we must come to Berklee bearing all the baggage of insecurities and musical pride that we have. Love the music that you love, loathe those that you loathe. But at the same time be ready to be to be amateur, uncomfortable, unfamiliar, because it is usually in that state when learning actually takes place. And heaven grant, if music really is the ultimate expression of our inner selves, then we may just come out of it with richer, more eloquent souls.