This afternoon I went to see my dear
friend make her Carnegie Hall debut as the mezzo soloist in Mozart's Requiem.
As it was 90 degrees and a bezillion percent humidity, decided to risk wearing shorts and sandals to the concert; I did wonder if perhaps there was a dress code for the dress circle. As it happened, had I worn cut-offs and a tank-top and brought a can of Bud with me, I would have fit right in.
It was the New England Symphonic Ensemble and an entire gaggle of guest choirs from all over Red America, with the audience consisting of several busloads of uncouth relatives. But first, the music...
The unnecessarily long afternoon (it dragged on for a full three hours, and the Requiem was
last -- this is how much I love you, honey) opened with
American Journey by Jackson Berkey, a piece designed to "show America's history in six diverse movements." The music was just a hair more complex than the score of
Red, White and Blaine, but without the sincerity and clever lyrics. There is a long and honorable tradition of working folk melodies into serious music; however, in my opinion, there are many miles between Brahms' "Zigeunerlieder" and "Camptown Races." "Skip to my Lou" is not a piece I needed to hear orchestrated.
Ever. The orchestral and choral voicing was so consonant it could only barely be considered polyphony. To be fair, the arrangement of "Amazing Grace" was inspired and original, and deserves a concert future above and apart from the rest of the work.
The second of the three halves [sic] consisted of Robert Paul Baker's
Requiem of Psalms, which accomplished the singular feat of taking Christianity's most sacred texts and setting them in a way which utterly drained them of any meaning whatsoever. The composer obviously views blandness as a virtue, as if John Tesh were exploring the frontiers of western music. The baritone soloist possessed a heroic, ringing healthy voice of impressive range and vibrant color. I did not understand a single word.
I did not realize how much I hated the first two pieces until the Mozart began. I mean, I knew I disliked them intensely, but the contrast was astounding, as if I'd been invited to a dinner party where the cocktail hour consisted of diet Pepsi and defrosted wiener wraps and the main course was
chateau briand and
Veuve Clicquot. Hearing the
Dies Irae makes you begin to wonder if that text had not been pre-ordained to be set to that exact music at some point during the six days of Creation, the fit is so miraculous. Mozart makes you tremble before a God of immense and terrifying power, whereas the same movement in the Baker work gave the impression that God's most devastating weapon is
ennui.
The soloists were more than competent; the baritone did not quite possess the power of the lower range necessary to really nail the opening bars of the "Tuba mirum," but that's me being picky. The soprano sang as if her vocal cords were located somewhere just south of her gall bladder. The tenor had singer hair. Bias aside, the mezzo soloist looked and sounded ravishing, confident and fully involved in what she was doing. The 50 minutes of the
Requiem passed many times faster than either of the preceding pieces, which were about half as long.
Now the gloves come off.
I stopped in the mens' room before the concert began, and noticed I could smell my own cologne, which is a bad sign. (As it was super hot today, I over-spritzed, I guess.) I hoped that I did not end up sitting next to someone with a sensitive nose. I worried about this because, you see, I am a sensitive, thoughtful audience member, who is aware of those around him trying to enjoy the performance.
I sat next to a woman who was so completely doused in perfume that I sneezed twice before the lights went down; she had an intensely floral, powdery aroma. In fact, I think it might have been
Glade. She was also carrying an enormous bouquet, which I assumed she intended to give to one of the performers after the concert. I had never seen such large blue flowers before, so I gave them a closer look: they were silk. I had the following vision:
A double-wide trailer, somewhere in Tornado Alley, Nebraska. The year is 2041. A woman gestures toward the bouquet on the vanity. "Now, thum thar, that's the BOO-kay that my mama done give me when I sanged at CarNaygee Hall in New York City back in 2005."
I will say this much for her: at least she came on time, unlike about 60% of the rest of the audience. I can only surmise that by arriving 20 minutes late they had hoped to miss the previews.
The gentleman in front of me had to be told by the usher
three times that photography is forbidden in the hall. "Even when they ain't nobody singin' nothin?" he said, the third time he was reprimanded.
At one of the intermissions, a twenty-something girl in pigtails ran to the front of the balcony and yelled out, "Yoo-hoo! Ellie Mae! Up here! Yoo-hoo! Heya, Ellie Mae!" She pronounced "here" with two syllables: "hee-urr." She really did say "yoo-hoo." Then: "Shoot! Why idn't she wavin' back? I guess mebbe she cain't hee-urr me." That, or perhaps Ellie Mae has a sense of decorum.
A cell-phone rang during the first piece. No one answered. It rang until it stopped. It rang again at the start of the second piece. Again, it rang until it went to voicemail or they hung up. A few minutes later, it rang
again. An usher came looking for the source. It was the woman at the end of my row. She was unaware that it was her phone. She claimed she didn't know how to turn it off. Then...
she answered it. "Ma'am, I have to ask you to leave," said the usher. "Just a minute, I'm on the phone," the woman said.
Sadly, I am not inventing this.
Aside from the talking, the lateness, the cell phones, the flash photography, the crinkly wrappers, the people shuffling through plastic bags looking for god-knows-what and two stultifyingly dreadful pieces, it was a horrific afternoon. Doesn't anybody have any class at all anymore?
