Hertford Symphony Orchestra

He was not merely keeping time; his entire body had become an instrument of physical persuasion. His hands carved sharp, uncompromising angles into the air to discipline the brass, and then hovered palm-upward, trembling slightly as they coaxed a warmer, more fragile vibrato from the cellos. As the symphony surged toward its climax, he rose onto the balls of his feet, leaning dangerously forward with his spine drawn into a taut bow, attempting to physically pull the crescendo upward from the depths of the orchestra. Then, with a sudden, rigid drop of his shoulders and a silencing slash of his wrist, he halted the tempest, resetting the breathless musicians with a sharp, corrective nod; opening night was only days away, and every sweeping arc, every pinched finger, and every urgent sway of his torso was ruthlessly devoted to carving perfection from the raw sound.

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