- Tell me what does music mean to you?
Yes?
- How old are you?
- Well, how old do you think I am?
- 70?
- 70, do I look like that?
Really?
Anyone else?
Anyone--how-- what does music
make you feel? Yes?
- Nothing.
- That's a really good answer.
That's really good because
music, indeed, is nothing.
It's just vibrations
that travel through the air.
We connect it with our emotions
and with everything that we like or dislike.
That's when music becomes something.
Very good, very good answer.
- I have a question.
- Yes?
- What does music mean to you?
- It's--it's my life.
It's what I...
It's what I think about all the time.
I wake up with it.
I go to sleep with it.
It's actually the way that I communicate
with the world and with myself.
So it means everything, really.
If music suddenly disappeared for me...
I don't know.
- So Winklestrauss said we don't the votes?
- No, not exactly.
- Shit.
Where does he stand?
- He's a good guy.
He's sympathetic.
- But he said we're gonna be having
lots of free time.
- Free time is overrated.
I'm back!
- Darling, welcome.
- There is a magic
in what we do...
if we do what we do
the right way, yeah?
As long as I'm up here,
the right way is...
My way.
- Oh, brother.
- When I was a baby,
sucking at my mom's tit, yeah?
I heard Beethoven's "Fifth."
It's my first memory.
- A mammary memory.
- I knew I had to conquer it.
I knew that as a baby.
Let's, um...
let's find out what you know.
All: * Twinkle, twinkle, little star *
* How I wonder *
- * What you are *
- You must be sick.
Stop.
Stop, it's a bit off.
Uh, it's all right.
Oboe one only.
No, no, stop. All right.
Your battery's-- a little bit low there.
Just--again.
Sorry, again.
Please?
No, stop!
Once more.
This time just go for it.
Have fun, do something different, yeah?
Do something good for once, yeah?
- Respectfully, Maestro,
I've played it like this for 35 years.
- 35 years?
Wow, that's a long time, isn't it?
At what point in those 35 years
did you begin to develop arthritis?
Now, again.
Wait, wait.
Where's our other oboist?
The young one, the pretty one
from the poster.
- I--I think she went--
- I'm right here.
- Brilliant.
Come, come on in.
Mm. Have a seat, love.
- I tell you what.
Miss this shot, and I'm done for good.
Make it, and I'll leave it up to you.
Yes!
Good one.
A double bubble.
Okay.
If you say so.
Oh, Jesus, that's good.
You may be only a--
a second-and-a-half rate composer,
Tommy P.
You're a first-rate handsome devil.
Pathetic.
Well...
Good old dada.
- Maestro...
What note is that?
- E.
D.
- What about this?
- Do it again.
Ah.
I don't-- no, there's something wrong
with the piano you're--
you're doing it wrong.
I don't know.
- Rodrigo, you are suffering from amusia.
- Amusia? - Amusia.
It's a rare disorder of the inner ear
that prevents your ability to decipher pitch.
It's usually associated with some kind
of blunt force trauma to the head.
- Shit, yes, yes, yes.
Recently yes, I--
I got cursed.
- Cancel my afternoon,
and reschedule lunch with my son.
- You have a hat?
- I don't have a fucking hat.
Hey, give me your hat, and I'll piss in it.
Eh?
- Maestro?
- What are you doing here, Rutledge?
- I--I was just teaching
a lesson on Mercer, so--
I was just walking to the train now.
But what are you doing here?
- I live here too.
But presently, I'm living in the moment.
Simultaneously I'm composing a little ditty called
"Homage to Papa!"
Go fuck yourself, papa!
I love you.
- Is this man bothering you?
- Oh.
- Bothering her?
No, constable!
She is bothering me!
- It's fine.
We're fine.
- God, I wanted to be a composer.
Look at me now.
I can't even compose myself.
- Where did you get this thing?
- It was my one sole inheritance.
That and my nose.
My dad, may he rot in peace--
he was a salesman.
And on the rare occasions that he used to get home,
usually stinking of Irish whiskey,
would strap this thing on,
and he would humiliate the crap out of us kids.
Go!
Jesus, yes!
Congratulations.
Well done.
There!
Why?
Just why, why, why did I do it?
Why?
God, why did I willingly
give away my orchestra?
- I thought that you wanted
to willingly give away your orchestra.
- Oh, don't be insane, woman!
No!
Listen, if you get an opportunity,
you seize it.
You just seize the fucking thing.
- Thank God you're here.
- What the hell happened in here?
- Hmm.
- Constanze.
Oh, how lovely to see you.
There's room enough for two in here, you know.
- I bet there is.
I'm gonna get you dried off.
Where's your towels?
- Why did he call you Constanze?
- Can you please get four eggs?
Crack them into a tall glass.
- Sure.
Why did he call you Constanze?
- I hate surprises.
- I did this for us.
Try to keep an open mind, okay?
- Jesus.
You did all this?
- Yeah.
- There was a red--
- Oh, it's--it's under there.
All your stuff's here.
It's accounted for.
- How'd you fix this?
- I literally just Googled,
"How do you fix an old projector?"
- Who are you?
- Come on, I want to show you something.
- Darling, the tomato juice.
- Yes.
Got that. I got the coconut, ginger.
- Bananas and sanka.
It's a disgusting concoction,
but it works every time.
- Asparagus. - Oh, I thought
we omitted the asparagus,
'cause you hate the way my pee smells.
- I should probably actually get going.
Um, but, it's really nice to run into you
and stuff--
Bye, Maestro.
- You know, Thomas and I go
really far back.
- Like you said,
"Conductors are very complicated."
- Yes.
So are cellists.
- Evidently.
So are oboists.
- Uh, um...
- Tape player--oh.
- Testing, testing, one, two, three.
- Is that you?
- This is Bradford Sharp.
A podcaster's born.
- Daddy.
- Yes?
- Did you go to work?
- I did go to work.
- Did you fly in a jetpack
and hit a building?
- No, I did not
fly in a jetpack.
I drove in my car.
- Did you fall from a plane?
I did not.
Next question.
- Can I drink soda?
- No!
Good try, though.
- I am...
I wish I'd gotten a chance to meet him.
I'm sorry I gave you a hard time
about having so much stuff.
Fuck, say something...
Anything.
What's the word for--
For this?
- Oh.
- You know, we'd settle for no reduction in pension
and a slight raise in health care
and base pay.
Sounds reasonable, doesn't it?
- It's reasonable, but, you know,
you got to get past all this bullshit.
The lawyers and Bibens and Union Bobs.
You got to sit down
and talk woman to woman.
- With you?
- No, dear. Not with me.
Don't be cheeky.
- Those are five rows down and two seats in.
- Okay. - Welcome.
Enjoy the show.
Enjoy the concert.
Enjoy the--Maestro.
- Yes, yes-- I know
it's kind of funny, right?
It's funny, but I just came as a civilian.
Just treat me like a normal audience.
Like a normal audience, like a--
- Oh, hope it's nothing permanent.
- Welcome. - Thank you.
- Gabrielle, teacher.
You know what?
I'm gonna go backstage
to talk with Lennox and my orchestra,
wish them good luck.
I'll be right back, okay? - Okay.
- I'll be back.
- Stop.
That was sweet
like cake, like birthday cake.
I fucking hate birthday cake,
always shite.
I want a steak.
I want meat.
How hard is this?
It's off, it's wrong, yeah?
I mean, fucking hell.
Where's arthritic Betty Cragdale when I need her?
- Hey, that--that's enough.
It's almost time for the performance.
- I'll you what time it is, Bob.
It's time for you to take your flute
and learn how to play it better, all right?
Much better!
Better than you're playing it now, Bob!
- Lennox, Lennox.
Hey, come--
Come. Hello.
- All right, take five.
Off to the toilet Bob, yeah?
- Take ten.
- Sorry got a bit vexed, yeah?
But I don't like what I'm hearing in there.
- Yeah, yeah, no, me too, me too.
I don't like it. I don't like it at all.
- I just want the short cadenza for solo oboe
in the first movement to be played quickly!
- Yeah, but that's just, like, your interpretation, man.
- It should be brisk.
- Well, you can earn that, you know?
If you let the oboe breathe a little bit more--
You know, you let it flow,
then you can-- you can let the orchestra
then later come in with all its anger and fury.
- Anger and fury, that's what I like, mate.
That's who I am.
That's my brand. You get me?
Anger and fury is Lennox.
But those old-age pensioners in there--
their brand is no discipline, no focus,
and constantly asking to go to the potty.
- I know, I know--
- The pack of spoiled little brats, man.
- I know--yes, they are,
but that's my orchestra you're talking about.
And you're just treating them like shit, yes.
My orchestra-- you're treating them like shit
and they don't deserve to be treated like that, okay?
Ludwig doesn't deserve to be treated like that.
And don't ever talk to the oboe like that.
You know what? I'm going to fire you.
I'm gonna fire you, fire, fire--
- Fire, fire? - Fire.
- You can't fucking fire me.
- Lennox, I can.
Yes, because you know what?
It's in my contract,
and that is my red tape.
And you cannot cut that red tape.
I can cut it, but you cannot cut it, okay?
You can't cut that red tape--you're fired!
- Pissing me-- like I need any of this.
Man, fuck this shit!
- Did Rodrigo actually just fire him?
- Yes, and I need your help.
- What? No.
You are Rodrigo's assistant now.
This is way too complicated for me.
I told you this is your job now.
- He can't conduct.
- What do you mean? He can conduct Beethoven's "Fifth" in his sleep.
- He couldn't even conduct "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."
And he was wide awake.
- You think you have hearing problems?
I can't hear scheisse!
- Ludwig.
- I composed most of my "Ninth Symphony"
in complete silence.
Imagine that, writing an ode to joy,
while I was in complete despair.
On--in 1824, my hearing
was completely nonexistent, but...
I conducted.
- I know. I know.
I always wanted to ask you,
how did it go?
- Dreadfully.
I couldn't hear the orchestra at all.
My count was off,
but I continued to conduct
even after the Symphony had concluded.
- And everybody noticed? - Oh, everybody knew.
- Ah, that's horrible.
Why are you telling me these things?
Why?
- It's a good question.
You don't even exist.
- Who are you talking to?
- Just to Ludwig.
- Mike told me.
- About the... - Mm-hmm.
- Oh, my God, no, no, it's gonna be terrible.
It's gonna be tremendously horrible.
Yes, I should have stayed in Mexico.
I should have listened--
- No, Mexico was a fantasy-- that was a fantasy, okay?
- A fantasy?
- No one will know
as far as tonight goes.
I promise you.
At least no one in the audience.
- Ladies and gentlemen, there's a change in the program.
Tonight's performance will be conducted
by our very own Maestro, Rodrigo DeSouza.
- Maestro, I know. We got this. We got this.
- Shit, shit, shit.
- Sorry, sorry.
Sorry.
Thank you very much.
Hey, guys-- no, you, you guys.
Hey, "Hai Lai," "Hai Lai"!
Hey, hey.
- Hey. - Thank you so much.
Thank you because I know that you--
you and Warren Boyd and Michel,
you guys worked it out.
- Of course.
- Came out okay, right? - Yeah.
- Yeah? - Yeah.
I also--
I just wanted to say
that the orchestra really loves you.
I'm not saying that as, like,
some kind of cheesy metaphor.
It's just--it's true.
- Me too.
Me too, I love--
I love the orchestra as well.
- Can you help them?
- I'll try.
- Ah, come in, Cynthia.
Listen, I wanted you two to get together
because you're the two people that I love the most
in this planet.
- Cynthia, I want to apologize
for the article in "The Post."
It won't happen again.
Just trust me.
- Glad to hear it.
- How about we cut through all the bullshit.
- So I know you've got important things to discuss,
but one suggestion,
please...
Keep it to yourselves.
- Hey.
- I did it.
It's settled.
I mean, not settled, settled, not yet.
But I spoke to Gloria, and she's cool.
We--we're cool. Major progress was made.
- Please don't go behind my back
and try to negotiate.
They'll eat you alive.
Anyway, Gloria doesn't have any power.
- She's the Head of the Board.
- No, Biben's got all the votes.
Look, this is a gutter fight.
Well, thankfully,
I have some news too.
Here are some facts
you'll find interesting.
- Have you given this to anyone?
- "The Times."
What? - What do you mean, "what?"
You've ruined everything.
Gloria's gonna lose her shit.
- Let me do my job.
- Your job?
No, your job is you work for me.
Nina, you work for us, the orchestra.
You had no right.
- Cynthia, let me ask you something.
What if I sat in with the orchestra sometime,
tried to play cello.
How do you think that would go?
Not good, right?
Because I don't play cello.
So don't you try to come into my office
and think you can do what I do.
- No, I don't think I can do what you do,
but I can damn well do my version of it.
You--you're on to some other city as soon as this is over.
- You think that as soon as I seal the deal
on these negotiations, that I'm gonna move onto someone else?
- You have one hell of a fucking ego.
The orchestra is my family.
I won't let anyone or anything hurt it.
You're fired.
- What?
- I don't trust you, sorry.
- Cynthia...
Go fuck yourself.
- I intend to
for the foreseeable future.
- I'm really sorry about the whole Lennox thing.
- Laws of the jungle, baby.
Besides you're my student.
I can't make you better than I am,
maybe I'm a terrible teacher.
- You're an amazing teacher.
- Reg?
Hello.
- Hailey, this is Reg.
Reg was my student too.
Now he's first chair
with the Des Moines Phil.
- Oh, wow.
- He was at the concert last night
and heard you play.
He thought he was going to hear me.
- Betty said you were great.
The articulation, the placement--
You have such a naturally flexible soft palate.
It's wonderful.
- He's right.
You play beautifully.
- Hailey,
we're about to lose
our second chair oboist.
The job is yours if you want it.
- Wow--
- Truth be told,
we do do a lot of pops.
But sometimes we manage
to sneak in a little Sibelius.
- I am so flattered, truly.
Like, this is a dream job
for some people.
It's just that I've spent
a lot of time trying get where I am
in New York, and I--I just think
I should stay here, so...
- You know there's no need
to give me final answer right now.
Just think on it.
- Okay.
- Reg, darling.
Won't you scoot that sexy ass
to the kitchen and whip me up
an Iowa omelet?
- You goddess, you.
- Look, Hailey, I'd like to play BFF
with you all day long--
braid each other's hair,
prank phone call the percussionists, the works--
but the truth is,
Des Moines isn't your choice to make.
- Wait, what?
- If you don't take that Iowa job,
I'll make sure everyone knows about your Mexican tryst.
Not good for you or the Maestro.
Like I said, that jungle...
She's a bitch.