Imagine. The curtain rises, to reveal the stage shrouded in darkness. Then a beam of light shines straight down, and illuminates a lone saxophone. A lone saxist plays, lost in his or her own world, improvising, playing, with no distinct rhythm nor tune.
Then, another spotlight turns on, and focuses on the drum-set player, who is now gently thumping out a distinct rhythm. One that blends well with the sax player and offers security and sets a steady pace.
By now, the sax is bleating out various notes of presumably no connection whatsoever, but closer examination of what one hears detect a certain scale being played.
Suddenly numerous spotlights of various colors are powered up, and we see various instrument players. A trumpeter here, bathed in yellow light, a tubist there, with a soft white halo caused by his tuba's bell. Another saxist joins the jam, enveloped in neon green, and she plays against the first saxist, both creating increasing tension.
More streams of light highlight various players as jagged notes that create friction slowly blend into one another, some become as one, yet from one, there is some.
The clarinets surge against the rising trumpets. The flutes screech in horror and flutter away as the trombones sweep in. With thunder and lightning from the percussion, bombs rain repeatedly from the bass lines while the horns sound their war cry. Amidst all these, the euphoniums wail their mournful tones, as bodies lie all around. The saxophones exchange heavy fire and then, for no reason, no cause, with no warning or signal, the band is quiet. Eerily quiet, and we hear the wind. A low heart-churning breeze that wafts from left to right, from back to front.
We hear a soft melody from the percussion, and then no more.
The lights dim, but the piece isn't over, because the bassoon starts to cry out. A song of agony, of fear, of lives that have been lost, of dreams that were to be but will never be. Passions that went unfulfilled.
A horn joins in, with its own tale of misery. A mother's love so great that she used her own body to shield her children. A father who died while saving his pregnant wife from the ruins of a shelled house.
Their stories intertwining, the audience gets tugged forward by their hearts into the grieve, the tubas solemnly leading the funeral rites. The flutes ruffles the leaves with their soft gentle soothing draft.
Then, the mood changes. From that of sadness and despair, to that of fury, determination, resilient in nature. Morphing with random speeds, like a disease that strikes the players. Emboldened with dreams, and fresh memories of loved ones, the army rages on into the distance, its flag flown high, its many hearts that beat as one. The woodwinds soar forward, with new strength, while the brasses trudge on, armed with heavy machinery and ammunition, the percussion firing far into the horizon, straight into the smoke of the enemy's camp.
Amidst the fanfare, and purpose-driven march, a lone saxophone moans. Of satisfaction, being pleased with itself, with a dark underlying tone that hint of deception, trickery and mystique. Rising above the rest for but a moment, it slowly softens and blends with the rise, though never fully together with the army.
The lights slowly fade, as the army marches on.
