First of all, I would like to thank my wonderful neighbor Morgan and
her finch birdies for being responsible for my first live
symphony experience. Yes, I have never been to a classical concert before (my first opera and ballet also still pending) and it was amazing - I believe that to witness such beauty for the first time at 30 is equally moving as to do so at, say, 9, for the long wait made it worth a while.
John and I arrived in the city about 3 hours before the event, had an early dinner in Chinatown (something that I
payed dearly for), and entered Davis Hall when the audience was already gathering. It's was a night of many first impressions, and the amateur anthropologist that I am, I began observing and writing things down:
Apparently, the high heels/long shawls combo is the uniform of the symphony. Luckily, I had intuitively perceived that; I wore strappy heel-sandals and a shiny scarf. The men wore suits, or formal pants and collar shirts, and even the casually dressed people looked quite pretentious. I saw one too many skinny jeans, preppy sweaters, heavy make up; smelled a bouquet of musky French evening perfumes. You see, I only notice these things because they indicate people's attitude to a certain event. The crowds felt the need to appear glamorous and special at a place where you usually just sit down and listen to music for 2 hours, so I figured that going to the symphony is yet another elaborate way of socializing. How naive one must be to presume that people come here merely to enjoy a virtuoso performance?! Ah, I have so much to learn...
The age of the audience fluctuated between 10 and 75, and the senior
connoisseurs somewhat prevailed. That would explain the abundant ads for retirement homes in the show's program. The elderly fans looked quite dandy, in the typical American East Coast aristocratic way of having a dignified, slightly stiff and snooty air of wealth that passes for fine artistic taste these days. I might be too harsh, yet I am European. Eastern-European, yes, but still I smell the difference from miles. European blue blood/old money people have this effortless, innate appearance of elegance and parvenu.
Not that I actually care either way; I was far more interested in the gay and lesbian part of the audience. There was a group of fascinating gay women drinking champagne in the lobby, wearing pocket-watches on silver chains and suit vests over their shirts, and there were gay men that looked as if materialized directly from the cover of V Magazine. I couldn't help but feel like in some sort of a contemporary movie with a perfectly chosen diverse cast. You read about such people in lifestlyle blogs and see them in big city night-life photos, but bumping into them in actuality is just so curious, so delicious. I think I was that impressed because it's been awhile since I was a part of an urban movement of any sort (I was definitely the it girl in the early 2000's underground scene of Sofia and I remember what it was like - you know the hot city clubs by heart, and the bouncers know you by name), and also inspired as I felt that such people had given up falsehood a long time ago to become the true charade itself. In a hypocritical society - be it the generally liberal San Francisco such - defiance is admirable. Or maybe, the writer in me is talking once again.
Speaking of charades (and to conclude the fashion analysis), I saw at least 3 women wearing fur, one girl in a crassly short skirt, and the inevitable men in corduroys. It's 2011, people, the age of Giant Particle Colliders and eco cleaning detergents. Evolve already! But then again, it's also the age of reality shows about New Jersey's illiterate, and of extreme religious picketing. I better be grateful that I saw so many people in the symphony at all, regardless of their attire. What can I do; the style snob in me is talking once again...
We hung around for an hour watching a pre-show tango demonstration, then took our seats. There were actual ushers. Turns out we had great $85 seats, almost the equivalent of a rock concert front row section! I was practically squealing with pleasure (and gratitude to Morgan) while I was reading through the booklet and looking up to admire the architecture of the hall.
It was beautiful, and what the program promised was too - violin soloist Lara St. John, Michael Francis conducting, Handel's Royal Fireworks Music for openers, and Vivaldi's Four Seasons as a main piece, intermixed with Piazzolla's The Four Seasons of Buenos Aires. Soon enough, the music began. I can't fully convey the sentiments and apprehensions I had during the couple of hours that followed, but I'll at least try.
I was grinning and simultaneously on the verge of tears the whole time. It was extremely uncomfortable condition but somehow pleasant, too. I know The Four Seasons almost by heart; my Mom bought one of those Classical CD Sets when I was a kid and we always listened to them when we weren't listening to rock'n'roll. That night, however, I was hearing it anew. The entire orchestra hived and breathed, the instruments twitched like organic, living things, the bows poked up and down, the strings vibrated and the air was full with joy. I felt big with music, uplifted and humbled by its undeniable power over both my mind and heart. Quite different from Soundgarden, let me assure you. For one, you can't really bang your head in rhythm (haha), and shuffling too much in your seat or making noises is considered utterly inappropriate.
I realized then that seeing one my favorite rock bands live, although a cathartic experience, cannot compare with hearing the music of a composer such as Vivaldi being performed. While rock music is to a certain degree a physical, almost sexual experience touching the aggressive and controversial parts of one's soul, classical music stimulates the graceful human spirituality and has this spontaneous invigorating effect. I was comically surprised to find out that I had the potential to really sense and think the things I did. Mostly, I was awed by the organic connection between the melody and the qualities of Nature's real seasons.
I come from a place with four well defined seasons (well, not lately - changes in the global climate make the definition a little vaguer every year but that's a whole different story), and I could relate to the representations of the elements. I heard the hope of Spring and May's turbulent yet creative storms, I felt Summer swelter and its still nights full of desire, I saw the world turns color in the Fall, nostalgic and forlorn, and then become all peaceful and exciting again in the Winter. I hadn't known that Vivaldi was only rediscovered in the 1950's, more than two centuries after his renowned life and his obscure death. He played for the Pope twice and composed brilliant operas which were very much in demand during early to mid 18th century. And then, in less than a hundred years, he was forgotten.
Violin prodigy Lara St. John did justice to his music with her passionate performance and meticulous, tight technique by also adding something quite mischievous from herself. She played the entire evening by heart, on a 1779 "Salabue" Guadagnini and wore a hideous ochre yellow, asymmetrical dress that suited her well against all odds. The conductor provoked silent giggles in me - at first I found him more distracting than functional (in truth, he sets the mood and the tempo), and I thought that feeling music and telling other people how to feel music via a baton is a job as cool as professional mattress testing (in fact, conductors must be tremendously talented and reach excellence in at least 2 instruments). He had the shiniest shoes I've ever seen, and won me over as soon as he spoke. Michael Francis is British and so is his sense of humor. The orchestra made one blunder during The Seasons, messing up the tempo a bit, but Francis made sure he briefly stopped the performance for correction and made a joke about the hemispheres that was only half a joke, proving thus that Vivaldi might be easy to listen to yet tough to play.
Piazzolla's pieces were unusual, a strange mix between jazz and ethno music composed within the conventions of classicism. It added to Vivaldi nicely and provided another opportunity for St. John to shine. There was an encore called Oblivion and after many minutes of applause, we exited the building and smuggled quietly into the night.
