RPO Shostakovich

I don't often get to hear the orchestra, but I knew after the PET scan that I would need a bit of soul medicine. And who can resist Shostakovich? For that I am willing to suffer through a Nielsen Flute Concerto. I buy a ticket online at the last minute, waiting to make sure I will feel well enough to go. Friday after the PET test I was feeling fine right up until 5:45 as I was leaving work. As I stepped through the Library front doors, it was as if someone had pulled the plug and it was all I could do to make myself walk to the car and get home.

But the brick wall had passed, and I had completed most of my homework and volunteer work, so I indulged in a bit of musical medicine. My assigned "cheap seat" was on the main floor all the way to the left and just under the balcony overhang. I could see fine since there were many empty seats in the rows in front of me. I relaxed in the red velvet seat waiting for the music to begin.

Two women next to me struck up a conversation, the older one relating how she had sat next to the conductor, Jahja Ling, on a plane flying into Rochester. He had asked her what there was to do in Rochester, and for the life of her, she could not think of anything to suggest except to shop at Wegmans! Wow. How sad is that?

The Nielsen piece was what I expected, a pyrotechniques virtuoso thing and of course, the flautist was stellar. Just not something I was needing at the moment although there were moments of loveliness here and there. I wandered about a bit during intermission as they reset the stage, and decided that since no one was seated in the primo seats on the main floor, I would move to a better location for the second half of the concert. I had just settled into my center/center vantage point (and far from the rose perfumed drenched grand dame seated near my previous digs) when they flashed the lights - including the huge chandelier! I have never seen a chandelier flash its lights. It was a bit eerie.

Then the conductor was onstage, baton poised, and at his gesture the music began. I wanted to be sucked in, to be carried away, to be Russian. My battered soul longed to cry passionately, to cleanse the heart's brokenness, to plumb the depths of the world worn yet eternally hopeful. With each significant gesture of the conductor, I ached to be touched, to be understood, for my voice to be recognized among the vibrant sounds falling from the wailing strings.

Every movement led me to believe that I would get the extraordinary cuisine in the next line, the next phrase. The performance was solid, note perfect (save a horn kerflalful or two), nuanced. The pianississimo of the strings so soft you wondered how you could hear it, the fortississimo of the brass full and bright, the delicate duets enticing. Yet they did not take me where I should have gone.

The phrase "white Russian" crossed my mind. We in America do not allow ourselves to feel passions, so how could we communicate it in our musics? When we are sad, we take an antidepressant. When we are joyous, we are accused of being manic and we take depricote. When we are angry, we go to anger management class. When we fall in love, we do not allow ourselves to reveal the depth as a protection against being hurt deeply. When someone we love dies, we take tranquilizers. Dmitry goosestepped through revolutions without even alcohol to numb his bleeding heart.

Perhaps I am being too harsh. Perhaps not. The orchestra received a standing ovation, a recognition of the skill of the instrumentalists, an appreciation for their work to bring us good sounds. I do not give a standing ovation unless I am either feeling very generous, or the performance touched me deeply, moved me, spoke to me. It requires that rare combination of composer who knows how to speak movingly and musicians who know how to interpret perfectly.

Tonight I do not know whether the composer mumbled or the musicians translated confusingly. I only know I came for the filet mignon and I came away with the hamburg. Still, it was a treat. I always enjoy a good orchestral wash of sound.