Salvador Brotons stands still and gazes into space. A rare moment of silence. He’s listening, inside his head, to Sergei Prokofiev’s ballet “Romeo and Juliet” — clearing away all other sounds and distractions, steadying himself, summoning the precisely right tempo.
Then he jabs his arms, and the 80-strong Vancouver Symphony Orchestra bursts into sudden sound — a dramatic leap into one section of this timeless tale of doomed passions and warring clans. The story is legendary, but this version is told without words. The roiling, rushing music must say it all.
Brotons talks and sings and occasionally shouts his way through comments to the musicians while they play — “Drums a little softer please, keep it very soft.” “Please don’t rush.” “Evereebodee should plaaaay right heeere.” “Very flat, please do better.” “The last two notes are staccato, very important notes!” — and when they’re done, he plunges into more critiques and corrections in friendly but businesslike fashion: “Let’s see what we can improve. …”
“If I do this,” he gestures toward the strings, admonishing them to watch him more carefully. “You must make sure the notes are all together.” To the tuba and trombones, regarding a macabre marching motif: “Very low notes. Like elephants. Let me hear it.” He counsels the French horns to tighten up, not “brrr brrr brrr” but “bop-bop-bop,” and they repeat the phrase three times over before he’s satisfied. “My eyes are getting old. Is it bar 15 or 16?” He reaches for a pencil and scribbles in his score. “Is it piano or pianissimo? It’s pianissimo here.”