Anybody who knows me knows that my taste in music can be described as eclectic, to say the least. Some rock, a dabble of country, the guilty pleasure of pop. People seem surprised when they find out I listen to a lot of rap. But I've never been one for the concert experience-my excuses for not going ranging from it being too crowded, too loud, too expensive, and, should independent artists be involved, not having the faintest idea who is on stage and not necessarily enjoying the music (Not to mention the tumor-esqe presence of the hipsters-Independent/alternative concerts are to hipsters what Lakers games are to celebrities; you don't go there to watch the show (it's going to be terrible in some form either way), you go there to be seen and for bragging rights (with all due respect to Jack Nicholson, who seems to take his basketball seriously)).
But last night was different-I went to my first concert, but the "concert" part is not my focus. Rather, I think of it as my baptism into classical music, courtesy of the Seattle Symphony Orchestra. And I shall now tell you the story if this baptism, and with it, hope that a generation obsessed with the likes of Katy Perry, Luke Bryan (do I really need another baritone voice and set of washboard abs to compete against, ladies?), and Young Money Records might gain an appreciation for the older style and a little high culture.
Seattle Symphony plays out of Benaroya Hall, which is located at the boundary between the Central Business District and the Pike Market (of flying salmon fame) neighborhoods in Downtown Seattle, about a mile north of Seattle's two sports stadiums and King Street Station and a little over a half-mile southeast of the Space Needle. The modern and understated exterior opens into an atrium on the east side, leading concert-goers past the facility's gift ship, a small Wolfgang Puck bistro, a Starbucks (it is Seattle, after all) to either a recital hall or to the 2,500-seat main concert hall. The foyer to the concert hall, like the hall itself, has multiple stories to enable guests to reach the different seating levels.
Inside the main hall, there is a heavy use of cream and beige, which creates a warm and intimate feel in spite of the fact that, if you sit in the main section, the ceiling is about four stories above your head. Something people who might be accustomed to going to outdoor concerts that rely heavily on sophisticated sound systems might find surprising is the relative lack of them in the hall. There are still speakers so that a performer or lecturer on the stage (which features a massive and prominent organ in it's center) can use a microphone to speak. Concert halls used by symphony orchestras don't need the electrified walls of sound (a term actually born from symphony orchestras) you see on a normal stage because the very design of the building is keyed to acoustics-something that was readily apparent to me, waiting at five minutes to eight, as the audience began filling the hall. The idle banter of at least 2,450 other individuals becomes surprisingly loud. The roof lights dim very slightly, a projector mounted in the rear displays on the wall above the stage a reminder to guests to turn off all electronic devices (to include cameras), and when the foyer is empty, the doors close, the house lights dim a bit more, and then-quiet. Quickly. To the point of being eerie.
Now, while the resident group is indeed a symphony orchestra, the size of the orchestra itself was a bit smaller than I expected. Perhaps this was merely the effect of the large stage in a much larger hall (the entire building occupies an entire city block).
The string section was alone on the stage after the lights went down. Then, from stage right, comes the first source of applause for the evening-the first violin. She walked up to her seat, took a bow, and then led the string section in the calibration of their instruments (that deafening monotone that has become something of a stereotype within music altogether) before taking her seat. Shortly thereafter, the conductor-this evening, Eric Garcia, an assistant conductor with the orchestra-walks on stage to more applause. He takes his bow, and then assumes his place at the podium to lead the strings in the first performance of the evening.
The reason the string section was alone at the beginning was because the first pice of the night was written exclusively for their instruments-Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. Composed in 1936 and premiering in New York City in 1937 with the NBC Symphony Orchestra, lead by Arturo Toscanini, Adagio has assumed something of an iconic status in popular culture due to it's distinctly tragic (and, in a way, romantic) sound. Cinephiles might recognize the use of Adagio in Oliver Stone's Platoon. What strikes you about the piece-especially if you've never heard it in it's entirety-is how it subtly builds itself in intensity, starting with the violins before adding the larger, lower strings in, growing stronger and stronger before stopping with a sudden silence that only seems to intensify the whole performance (and where, like me, you hear your breath literally being taken away) before moving to a final section that uses the first five notes from the opening melody and gently slips back into silence. Not a bad warm-up, maestro.
The conductor took his bow amidst the applause, and briefly left the stage as the remainder of the orchestra, their instruments in tow (to include a few gentlemen carrying rather large bassoons), take their seats on stage. Again, the first violin leads the orchestra in calibration, then takes her seat. The conductor returns to the stage, and it is on to the next one.
The second piece of the evening was the 1919 version of The Firebird Suite, composed by Igor Stravisnky. The Russian-born modernist was notorious in his time for his iconoclastic approach to composing, incorporating polytonality and discordance into much of his work at a time when most music was relatively simple and orderly. This is best typified by perhaps his most famous work, The Rite of Spring (Le Sacre du Printemps in the original French). The piece, which later found a wide audience here by being incorporated into Walt Disney'sFantasia, was accompanied by a ballet dance (both music and dance in turn were heavily inspired by pagan Russian lore) that was considered so shocking and raunchy that a riot infamously broke out at it's premiere in Paris. The Rite of Spring itself typifies Stravinsky's style; very jumpy, experimental, menacing and mischievous.
Having heard the Fantasia version of The Rite of Spring before, I was at least partially prepared to expect some of the same for The Firebird, which like The Rite of Spring originally featured an accompanying ballet routine and drew from Russian myth and folklore. The start is what you'd expect from a Stravisnky piece-the air of menace and some mischief is readily apparent in the music, with the low strings and the mythic horns. The massive bassoons I mentioned earlier play their part; Stravinsky seemed to have an affinity for the instrument and wrote music that played to the extremes with the bassoon's range (most evident, once again, in The Rite of Spring, where the bassoon plays the opening bars at an abnormally high note range). About a third of the way in comes another Stravinsky trademark-a sudden, violent change in direction and volume. If you watch the performance as well as listen, you have a few seconds' warning before such an occurrence because the conductor conducts a note or two ahead of the musicians. I later thought that, if there was a concert-goer with a diet sufficiently high in cholesterol and the conductor had just the right (or wrong) timing, it would be possible for an orchestra to kill the poor man with Stravinsky by sending him into cardiac arrest from the inevitable shock.
Much of the second half, including the finale to the suite, was more peaceful, orderly, and I daresay romantic (a word that must be used carefully with any Stravinsky piece because the man defined his career by breaking with Romanticisit tradition). The finale may well have been one of the best parts of the entire evening, because the orchestra had me engaged. The conductor did his job actively (which made him fun to watch), and most importantly, I found myself not wanting it to end. I rose with a good portion of the audience to applaud afterwards before everyone stepped out for a brief intermission.
Returning to my seat some ten minutes later, I was reminded of the reason why I had chosen this evening to attend when I caught a glance of the large grand piano that had been wheeled out to center stage. Seattle Symphony had a special guest this evening in Herbie Hancock. If you are unfamiliar with the name, you ought to be ashamed-Mr. Hancock is one of the most accomplished jazz musicians and band leaders of the last fifty years. Starting as a member of the Miles Davis Quintet in 1963, Hancock has gone on to win 14 Grammys (including an Album of the Year win in 2008, the first such win for a jazz album in 43 years and only the second ever), 5 MTV Awards, and an Academy Award for Best Original Soundtrack (Round Midnight). And, as Mr. Hancock-who was gracious and entertaining whenever he spoke to the audience-would prove, he is also a damned good piano player.
Mr. Hancock began by playing three solo pieces-all of which, I am sorry to admit, I have only a fleeting familiarity with-a piano rendition of a jazz standard called Footsteps, a sweet George Gershwin number, Embraceable You, and another jazz piece whose name escapes me but whose melody proved vaguely familiar. Through it all, Mr. Hancock's hands seemed to move over the keys at lightning speeds. Mr. Hancock also played the last piece without the aid of sheet music. Not bad for 71.
Mr. Hancock, after taking his bow, left the stage as the orchestra returned. The first violin once again returned to the stage to applause and led the orchestra in calibration, this time striking a key on the piano rather than leading off with her own instrument. Then, Mr. Hancock and the conductor walked onto the stage, and took their places. Mr. Hancock and the orchestra proceeded to play an orchestration of an earlier Hancock song, Sonrisa, which had been arranged by George Whitty (who was present in the audience and received his share of applause after Mr. Hancock pointed this out). I'd never heard or heard of Sonrisa, but I must say that the orchestral portions of the song seemed positively haunting; creating a contrast to the warm piano.
Finally, the moment the audience has been waiting for approaches; after the four previous pieces, they are at a fever pitch. The house lights dim a little more, and blue stage lights are switched on. The conductor raises his baton, and the moment you hear that opening clarinet, you can feel the smile grow on your face as the glissando reaches it's zenith and you know you are listening to Rhapsody in Blue.
Rhapsody may well be the best representation for the United States in terms of classical composition. Written somewhat hastily in the winter of 1923 to meet an advertised premiere of 12 February 1924, Rhapsody in Blue was composed by George Gershwin, who at the time was better known for writing the music to the jazzy standards that populated the music halls of Broadway (his brother Ira frequently wrote the lyrics to these pieces). Gershwin claimed that the inspiration for Rhapsody came to him while on a train journey between Boston and New York City, stating that the rhythm of the train along the tracks and grand visions of America became the basis of the work (interestingly, while Gershwin wanted to conjure up images of the whole country in the piece, it has long since been associated with New York City; something likely reinforced by the use of Rhapsody in a 1970s ad campaign by United Airlines that touted United as "The Official Airline of the Great White Way").
Much has been made of what is now considered George Gershwin's master work. The conductor Damrosch once noted that, in Rhapsody, Gershwin "made a lady out of jazz." Indeed, with the heavy use of piano throughout (Gershwin himself played the piano for the premiere), the jazz influence that molded Gershwin's career is undeniable. Rhapsody is also undeniably a piece of classical music.
I am intimately familiar with Rhapsody; I consider it one of my favorite pieces of music, so I already knew what it would sound like and roughly how long it would last. Now, I would be treated to finally seeing it live-with a master manning the piano. Mr. Hancock, while at times adding a little of his own interpretation to the piano portions, stayed true to the spirit of the piece. The orchestra, and Mr. Garcia, handled their parts masterfully. I admit to finding my eyes rather moist (but not to tears) at the piece's unmistakably romantic midsection, with it's uplifting string base that is still capable of giving me the chills. The whole affair took perhaps sixteen minutes. And I was smiling for every second of them.
It would not be an exaggeration to note that, immediately after the last note went silent, the performance merited a standing ovation of approximately five minutes. Mr. Hancock had to return to the stage for bows four times.
Quite a different beast. If you haven't been to a symphony orchestra performance before-if you've never been to a concert or live performance, period-take my advice. Find an orchestra nearby (San Diego, Seattle, Philadelphia, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and New York all have at least one), find a friend who is into classical music so you can pick a good concert date, and save your money (my ticket was $125, and I'd recommend investing in a suit. It doesn't appear to be a requirement, but most of the audience is dressed to impress, and the orchestra members are white-tie. Remember, this is a "high culture" thing). I think you'll find that you'll have an unexpected good time. But that's just me.
Originally published on 19 November 2011.
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