An orchestra on stage. Via Wikimedia Commons (CC BY).
There is a small ritual before every concert, and the audience applauds it without quite knowing why. The orchestra is already fully seated, and one last violinist walks on, alone, takes the applause, gives a nod to the oboe, presides over the tuning and sits in the first chair to the left of the podium. In Italy the role is called the spalla, the Germans say Konzertmeister, the English concertmaster or leader, which is the most honest term of all.
The concertmaster is the apex of the orchestra’s internal pyramid. In agreement with the conductor, the concertmaster decides the bowings of all the first violins, which the other string sections then adapt: that is, sets, bow stroke by bow stroke, how half the orchestra breathes. The concertmaster plays the violin solos that pop up in the scores, from the Waltz of the Flowers to Scheherazade, and acts as the institutional bridge between the hundred musicians and the podium: when there is tension, it goes through there. And in the centuries when the conductor as we understand the figure today did not exist, it was the concertmaster who led the orchestra, from the first desk, with bow and glances: the German title, master of the concert, is the fossil of that era.
To grasp how much the role matters, two economic clues and one musical one are enough. The first: in the great orchestras the concertmaster has a separate contract, often negotiated individually, and the Berliner Philharmoniker keep more than one on the roster, treated as soloists. The second: when an orchestra goes into crisis with a conductor, the newspapers interview the concertmaster, not the second bassoon. The musical clue is the loveliest: in many halls, a moment before the downbeat, you can see the concertmaster imperceptibly move the scroll of the violin, and the first desks set off on that gesture more than on the baton. The conductor commands the tempo, but the sound of the strings ignites there, a metre from the podium.
There is also an affectionate etymology to defend: spalla, in Italian, is a variety-theatre word, the straight man who holds up the comedian’s act. The orchestra adopted it with unintended precision: the conductor does the number, the concertmaster holds it up, and the audition for that chair is among the fiercest in the profession. The next time that last violinist walks on, give the applause knowing whom it is for: the person who, if the podium vanished into thin air, would still get everyone home.