The Last Concert
By Dylan Cyñl V. Tecson
It is both hot and cold now. I cannot seem to trust my mind anymore. Surges of nervousness, excitement, satisfaction, and confidence pass through my thoughts every now and then.
It’s March 7, 2020, the day of the Come Alive concert. After years of performing, this feeling I get while waiting for the company call hasn’t disappeared. Pre-concert jitters so they say, and it varies from person to person in the choir. Before the concert, on the stairs at the side of the performer’s entrance of Abelardo Hall, you see kids channeling out this crazy feeling. Some sit down and try to relax. Some stand silently. Some hum or quietly sing the hardest or their most favorite part of the repertoire. Some have fun conversations. As this conversation grows louder with laughter and giggles, there are some other kids who shush them in an even louder tone. We line up, and again resume the varying states we were previously in. But as the beginning of the concert comes closer, our myriad feelings distill into a single, ever-familiar feeling. “Mag-sisimula na.”, “It’s starting.”, “Five minutes guys.”. As we hear these phrases, like soldiers in full gear, we form our lines, call out to our fellow squadron mates, and mentally gear ourselves up for battle.
Within the line, I look straight ahead, and from the tiny window on the upper half of that performance door, I see the familiar brightly-lit stage of Abelardo Hall. What strikes me today though is something I have never encountered before in a performance: flashes of my Cherubim life. And this nostalgia goes through my head. The fact I auditioned twice to get into the Cherubim, my first summer camp to Batangas which was my most favorite summer camp of the Cherubim. How we played cards all night during the Christmas overnights, the piece “Cerf-volant,” personally my most favorite song performed by the Cherubim. How I regretted not being able to perform as tagapagsalaysay and sing in Awit ni Pulau. And how good the last Messiah concert was, and how I hope that next year’s will be even better. Then it hits me: there will be no Messiah concert for me next year, because this is my last year with the Cherubim, and my last concert performance with the group.
The door opens, and they call us in. As I walk into the annoyingly-hot spotlight, I realize that this may be the last time I am annoyed by that light. As the first song comes to an end, I think that this may be the last time I will sing this song with the group. And as every part of the concert ends, similar thoughts pass by me. Gone will be the time that I peer into the audience to see anyone I know, gone will be the time that I sneak in a little chat with the person beside me till the next song starts. Until finally I think, gone will be the time, that I call myself a member of the UP Cherubim and Seraphim. As we perform You Will Be Found, the last song of the concert, I am on the brink of crying. I lose focus and mess up a few of the lines. The beauty of the lines of the song hit me, pointing out my ironic situation that from now on I will be singing alone and will be no longer be singing with others, that from now on, a big part of me is ending, and that no one can find me, for I am lost.
“Found” … the last word of the song. As the applause fills the hall, we bow. Then I look up and see something amazing…smiles. Smiles from the other members, smiles from Tita Len, and Ate Liya, the other performers, and the most amazing of all, from the audience, most of whom are alumni members, and they look happy and proud, just like the current members. As if they were performing as well. And then I realize that like the Alumni, this was not my last concert, and this was not my last anything at all. Those smiles reassured me of the fact that my time with the Cherubim will never end. And like the cheers of everyone in Abelardo Hall, even though the concert had ended, there will always, and forever be an encore to perform.
