What I Learned Driving Seiji Ozawa’s Jaguar

by Drew Holmes

The summer I spent at Tanglewood, summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, was one of the most memorable of my college career. I was working as a Guide, Tanglewood’s title for “information desk attendant”, a job with a level of glamour commensurate with the name. What it lacked in cache it made up for in opportunity, as it was a fantastic way to make connections in the music industry and hear some of the best musicians in the world.

The main performance venue at Tanglewood is the Koussevitzky Music Shed, a large outdoor auditorium with covered stage and seating area and a massive open-air lawn, perfect for an afternoon picnic. There are several access points into the Shed which allow for performers and support staff to go backstage but, as one would expect, the public is always looking to gain entry and take a literal peek behind the curtain.

Enter the Guide staff. During performance Guides are stationed around the Shed to ensure only authorized people go backstage. This is a simple if uninteresting job, but in addition to hearing great music there was one key perk: you never knew who you were going to meet.

One afternoon I was positioned at the loading dock, my favorite spot because it had a nice bench to sit on during the performance. The downside of that location was having to tell people without a red parking pass to move their car. There were limited parking spots in that area, so only a select few were granted the privilege.

All available spaces were occupied, and a Jaguar pulled up, blocking several cars. A red pass hung from the mirror and when the driver emerged, I instantly recognized him: Seiji Ozawa, Music Director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Clearly authorized to park wherever he pleased, I greeted him as he climbed the loading dock stairs.

Seiji paused for a moment, sized me up, and said “You have a driver’s license?”

“Yes, Maestro” I replied.

“Good!” He handed me his keys, pointed to the blocked vehicles, and started to walk away. “If they come, you move my car,” he called to me as he entered the Shed and disappeared, not waiting for a reply.

I had barely processed what had just happened when the driver of a blocked vehicle returned. I got behind the wheel of Seiji’s Jaguar, carefully maneuvered out, allowed the other car to exit, and parked back in the now vacant spot. One of my fellow guides saw me get out of the car and exclaimed “You drove Seiji’s Jag? I would have been terrified!”

Instantly I realized what she meant. What if I had dented it or another car? How would I even begin to resolve the situation?

Then I realized: in the moment I had no fear. There was no “what if” there was just a job, and it was mine to do. Worrying about possible consequences of failure would have likely caused it and failure was not an option.

Tunnel vision can be an asset in the right context. As musicians, we are asked to maintain focus for extended lengths of time while excluding our surroundings. We cannot second guess or have doubts, especially when playing solos or highly technical passages. Staying in the moment and performing our part is one of the most crucial skills learned in music making.

Mental resources spent worrying about negative outcomes are better spent concentrating on the task before us. Staying in the moment is a skill that has many real-world applications beyond music making. It can be something as mundane as writing an email, leaving a voice message, or driving to the grocery store. And sometimes it is driving Seiji Ozawa’s Jaguar.