A Death In The Family

Our viola section lost a good friend and former colleague this week. David Ulfeng, who retired from the orchestra in 2004, was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known, and he was also one of the few musicians who never seemed to allow the grind of playing music for a living to diminish his love of it even for a moment. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to viola music, and continued playing recitals even after retiring from the orchestra. He died far too soon on Tuesday, mere days after he’d been diagnosed with late-stage cancer.

Dave was legendary within our section for his sense of humor, and it was a measure of his understated personality that many of our colleagues in other sections of the orchestra had no idea that, in a viola section jam-packed with class clowns, he was by far the funniest. He could sit silently for 5 hours of a 5-1/2 hour rehearsal day, only to slay you with a single quip just when you’d begun to wonder whether he was awake. No one else committed to a bit the way Dave did, and it was his willingness to go a very long way for a very little joke that made him so hilarious.

Shortly after I joined the orchestra, we tuned up for a concert to be conducted by our then-music director, the diminutive but always energetic Eiji Oue, and then had to sit and wait for nearly a full minute before Eiji emerged from the wings. Dave was sitting with his head down, seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness for about 30 seconds, when all of a sudden he looked up to the podium and, finding it empty, whirled his head around and asked the rest of us in full voice, “Where’s the little guy?!” By the time Eiji made it to the podium, the entire viola section was in hysterics, except for Dave, who sat there as serene as ever, quietly enjoying the chaos he had created.

My fondest memory of Dave, though, is a deeply personal one from my earliest months in the orchestra. As I’ve mentioned before, new members of the orchestra are considered to be on probation for our first 18 months in the job, after which we either receive tenure, or are dismissed from the ensemble. During the probationary period, we get a number of progress reports from the music director, based on feedback from the rest of our section, and in my case, my first progress report had not gone as perfectly as I'd hoped. I got some compliments, but some pointed suggestions as well about areas of my playing that needed to improve. I remember being floored by the criticism, and also frighteningly unsure of what steps to take to correct the problems.

What followed was a period of several weeks in which I swung wildly from one playing style to another, desperately hoping that I would, by sheer luck, hit on an approach that would be pleasing to the colleagues who held my future in their hands. In the process, of course, I was wrecking the very playing style that had earned me a spot in the orchestra to begin with, and making myself a neurotic mess to boot. Nothing was working, and I began to doubt that I had any business playing in a major orchestra.

Then, one day, about three weeks after my progress report, I was sharing a stand with Dave, who was kindly pretending not to notice my desperate flailing about in search of a musical identity. It was the final rehearsal before our first concert of the week when he looked around to see if anyone was looking at us, then leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Hey, for whatever it’s worth, you’ve already got tenure in my book.” Then he turned a page in the music, settled back into his chair, and gave me a quick, conspiratorial smile before picking up his viola.

It was such a simple gesture, but it was exactly what I needed to hear, and Dave’s gentle reassurance was somehow enough to allow me to clear my head and begin the serious work I needed to do to become a full, productive member of the section. It was one of those moments of unexpected kindness that you remember forever.

I’m not the only one with a story like that about Dave. When he broke the news to us that he was retiring, during a viola party at Tom Turner’s house (yes, we have viola parties – insert your own joke,) we wound up spontaneously going around the room, telling stories about Dave’s exploits in our midst. We never did run out of them.

It’s a rare musician who can spend the better part of four decades in a single orchestra and leave with no enemies, but that’s exactly what Dave did. I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about the man, and if anyone ever did, you’d better believe there’d be a gang of angry violists to answer to. We’ve lost him far too soon, but those stories we all carry around will keep him alive in the orchestra’s memory for decades to come. Godspeed, Dave, and thanks. For everything.