Vijay Gupta
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelu-u-u-jah.
Maybe you were there that night, the night of April 25, 2026 that Vijay Gupta first performed Samuel Barber’s ethereal Violin Concerto and then gave us the beautiful gift of an encore: a rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” I was sitting right in the middle of the orchestra (one of the reasons I really love being in the oboe section), and the moment is one of those that will stick with me forever. Vijay started playing, and I started smiling; like most, I love this song. And then he really leaned into the music, and I leaned in with him. And then he invited us to sing along—and the room transformed. In that moment, the concert was suddenly not about the “official performers” on the program. It was about us. Everyone in the room. Together.
Much is written today about the fragmentation of modern society. We spend too much time watching screens. We inhabit our specific political bubbles. We walk into the CVS, find our product, go through the self-check-out, and leave without ever speaking to another human (guilty as charged, I’ll admit). But music magically brings us together. When we’re sitting in the Twichell balcony, we’re not worried about which team the folks next to us root for—we’re all on Team Music. And in those rare, special moments when someone on stage invites us in—invites us to join them in making the magic happen—we are transformed.
This is the magic of the music ensemble. Most professional musicians I know chose their path because of group performance experiences. Everyone has a story about “that time our school chorus performed the Fauré Requiem” or “that part in the marching band show when everyone started belting out the tune to Godspell.” Yes, we all spend so many (so many!) hours alone in the practice room, learning our music and our instruments and ourselves, but the magic almost always happens when we’re making music with other people. There’s a joy in communal creation that just can’t be replicated by oneself.
I’m a longtime fan of singer-songwriter Sara Bareilles (you probably are, too, but you just don’t know that she’s the singer of that song that you enjoy), and I spent a fair amount of time listening to her songs this summer. She has a new album titled Good Grief, which is about, well, Grief. And how it can be Good. Now, I know that this article is about Joy, not Grief, but stick with me for a minute. Sara makes the case that grief is best assuaged by sharing it with others. Her new song “Home” says that one of life’s holiest lessons is that “what is broken cannot heal until it’s known and loved by name—So tell me your story, I’ll tell you mine.” And I would add that there is a type of Joy that, like Grief, is only whole when it’s known, and loved, and shared.
When Vijay played “Hallelujah” for us—no, with us—I can guarantee that every single person in the Philharmonic was tired. It was April. We’d rehearsed long hours on hard music all week, in addition to actually working at our full-time day jobs during a super-busy time of the year. We were all a little bit broken—a brokenness referenced throughout the verses of Cohen’s song. But I saw my colleagues’ faces as we moved from sitting to listening to singing, and so many of them were just beaming with sheer delight. And they caught each other’s eyes and beamed even a little bit brighter, because we all felt the healing of singing together that most profound of words, “Hallelujah.”
So, tell me your story, and I’ll tell you mine. And the next time you find yourself drawn into a music-making that you hadn’t expected, lean in to it and allow yourself—and the community around you—to be transformed. Joyfully.
-Kelly Vaneman
Principal Oboe