Sad truth, but so: we are vulgar and uncouth. "Who are we Tully?" you ask, dear children. I don't know, Montrealers, Canadians, North Americans, Continental Americans, the sons and daughters of the old world, etc.
"Why the hostility, Tully?" Wellywellywell, sit down-no, not there, closer to me, yes, that's right, and I shall spin forth a web a tale of my week's doings, filled with the promise of enlightened culture, wrought with pathetic recognition of my fellow man and woman's primitive glee.
Harold Pinter recently won the Nobel Prize for literature, but trust me, I have been a fan long before the publicity train got-a-rollin-on. Nevertheless, there has been a resurgence of interest in his work (early work, that is, before he turned axe-wielding lefty pundit, not that there's anything wring with that) and us Montrealers bought our tickets for the train wreck of drama known as The Caretaker. I will not comment on the fact that the lead actor was replaced by a on-stage-script-reading understudy (more on that here), but would rather critique the behaviour of our dear audience.
Who the hell applauds between the acts? Is everyone so damn eager for intermission, smokes, drinks, pretentious banter, their hunched neighbor's senile interpretations, their powdered accomplices humble admittance of total ignorance of the menacing world of Pinteria, etc. People here just want to clap. Maybe they think that it demonstrates the fact that they aren't completely lost and unsettled ("It's nothing like Mambo Italiano, I don't understand"). If you do not know how the circle closes, don't swing the hoola-hoop, keep your hands to your sides or in your pockets (or through the holes therein). Oh for shame.
Part 2: Last night I went to the 'Big Concert Series' at the Place des Arts for some even deeper European tradition. Nagano conducts with simple enthusiasm, no Furtwangler, no Toscanini, and definitely not a Boulez (let alone Sir Neville Mariner), but capable and apt. The evening began with Rossini's 'William Tell Overture', always a crowd-pleaser, and calls to mind Alex rip-romping two teeny devochkas in super fast motion, enough to get any viewer short of breath and blood. But what should transpire during the main event, Wiggy Beethoven's Seventh? Well, guess it, entre les movements, more applause. Should we offer pre-concert workshops for the culturally impaired to prevent this rape and sacrilege? I remember during a performance of Tchaikovsky's 'Pathetic', some simian boor ripping open a clap attack in media movement, simply because the music had reached a serene and dusky interlude. In my petty fascist ideal state, he would be stripped, tarred and feathered--Old world charm at its best, nicht wahr?
Harold Pinter recently won the Nobel Prize for literature, but trust me, I have been a fan long before the publicity train got-a-rollin-on. Nevertheless, there has been a resurgence of interest in his work (early work, that is, before he turned axe-wielding lefty pundit, not that there's anything wring with that) and us Montrealers bought our tickets for the train wreck of drama known as The Caretaker. I will not comment on the fact that the lead actor was replaced by a on-stage-script-reading understudy (more on that here), but would rather critique the behaviour of our dear audience.
Who the hell applauds between the acts? Is everyone so damn eager for intermission, smokes, drinks, pretentious banter, their hunched neighbor's senile interpretations, their powdered accomplices humble admittance of total ignorance of the menacing world of Pinteria, etc. People here just want to clap. Maybe they think that it demonstrates the fact that they aren't completely lost and unsettled ("It's nothing like Mambo Italiano, I don't understand"). If you do not know how the circle closes, don't swing the hoola-hoop, keep your hands to your sides or in your pockets (or through the holes therein). Oh for shame.Part 2: Last night I went to the 'Big Concert Series' at the Place des Arts for some even deeper European tradition. Nagano conducts with simple enthusiasm, no Furtwangler, no Toscanini, and definitely not a Boulez (let alone Sir Neville Mariner), but capable and apt. The evening began with Rossini's 'William Tell Overture', always a crowd-pleaser, and calls to mind Alex rip-romping two teeny devochkas in super fast motion, enough to get any viewer short of breath and blood. But what should transpire during the main event, Wiggy Beethoven's Seventh? Well, guess it, entre les movements, more applause. Should we offer pre-concert workshops for the culturally impaired to prevent this rape and sacrilege? I remember during a performance of Tchaikovsky's 'Pathetic', some simian boor ripping open a clap attack in media movement, simply because the music had reached a serene and dusky interlude. In my petty fascist ideal state, he would be stripped, tarred and feathered--Old world charm at its best, nicht wahr?
Ok, so I admit to being a bit of a Europhile, easily seduced by cobblestone, sausage and arrogance. Chide me all you like, but please, save your comments (or applause) until after I speak my peace.
4 comments:
let them clap. is music for pleasure? or for pretend sophistication?
The sound of music is quite pleasurable. The sound of the fops and fools drooling in the galleries, putting on airs of sophistication, is quite nauseating. I mean, this is not a general admission roick n' roll show.
classical music is dead because it got revered instead of lived. don't change a note if you play it, and don't make a sound while you listen, just shut up and pretend you're not there. this is not for you, you'll only interfere. the end.
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