As you wait, the orchestra sits on the stage tuning and fiddling with their tools. It sounds like the zoo, a diverse group of animals all pacing in their cages. 
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Hot 'n Bothered at the SF Symphony by Shayna Philipson In the Davies Symphony hall there are tiers on top of tiers of seating. It is possible to be so far away from the stage that it seems that all the orchestra is playing the same unidentifiable instrument. It is in these seats, where the heat rises and makes patrons loosen their ties and raise their skirts, these are the seats where you can capture the overpowering emotions of the symphony. It isn't just the music that pushes you back in your seat, holding you transfixed, capturing you in a trance until the next thing you know intermission comes and disappointment creeps into your mind. You never want the music, the experience, to end. Sitting in the cheap seat, the ones where you can get vertigo as an extra drug-like bonus, you are able to observe the whole affair. You seat yourself, and try to cross your legs but end up kicking the woman's head in front of you. You settle in and realize where you are. Looking down you see rows and rows of peoples heads all anticipating the moment where the lights dim and the conductor, Michael Tilson Thomas, takes the stage. As you wait, the orchestra sits on the stage tuning and fiddling with their tools. It sounds like the zoo, a diverse group of animals all pacing in their cages, their growls, roars, and screeches growing in intensity. And then they stop. The lights dim and you notice goose-bumps on your arm. Michael Tilson Thomas steps on-stage, and before you even get a chance to see him, the crowd is cheering. He comes to center stage and faces the audience. He bows and his gray hair falls in front of his face. Even though it is customary, when the short and delicate Thomas steps up onto the conductor's block it reminds you of a child needing a booster seat. He taps his baton on the podium, something you thought they just made up in the movies, and he starts. As Thomas' body jolts, and his arms flare you think of the Bugs Bunny cartoon where that wascally wabbit becomes a conductor. The two could be twins. Sudden and constant movement. Three opera singers sit in front of the stage waiting for their queues in Igor Stravinsky's Pulcinella. They sit starring at their sheet music, looking as solemn as if they were waiting in a dentist's office. Then the tenor, Raymond Aceto, stands and begins. You can't understand a word he says, and it's possible you don't even read the translation in your program, but you can get the message. The tone and feelings leap over the language barrier for all of the songs. Soprano Michelle DeYoung stands, her hair is a nest of wildly curly blond hair that cascades onto her flowing black gown. Her songs sound like she is pleading. Her voice aches for assurance and love. Bass Richard Clement, stands up and shows his sturdy frame. His feet shoulder width apart, he braces himself and lets his voice rip through the audience. It is deeper and more intimidating than your PE coach who would scream at you as his chubby face grew red. But the bass is so controlled that it can turn from ferocious to soothing in the same song. Pulcinella is composed of 10 songs all interweaved by the skilled orchestra. At times the music becomes haunting. Just one violin, just one clarinet, or just one drum that settles you in a Charles Dickens novel begging for more gruel. And then seamlessly the music becomes light and airy, and then again, just as suddenly, it is quickly transformed into a complex layering where you can't imagine what instruments are used to create the textured sound. You look around and see stillness. No one dares to move around you. Everyone is riveted, mummy-like, to the music. It is the violin that hypnotizes Frankenstein. Then the music and the excitement stops. Abruptly, you feel like something has been ripped out of your stomach, like stopping in the middle of sex. Thomas strides off the stage, and the lights come up and you realize that you have been grasping onto the armrest so hard that your fingers ache. You follow the crowd outside into the lobby and onto the balcony. You catch your breath and regain your settings. But with the knowledge that there is more to come, you can't relax. After a brief wait the lights flash calling you back for more, back for seconds. You rush to your seat and try to regain your familiar position. You cross your legs and again kick the woman's head in front of you. Apologize, apologize, apologize. The lights dim and a flash of blue appears on the Davies Symphony Hall floor. Patrick Stewart, a.k.a. Captain Picard, takes the stage. He wanders into the blue light while playing/saying/singing all of the characters in Stravinsky's The Soldier's Tale. His perfectly bald head reflects the light directly into the eyes of the audience. And they can't get enough. Stewart's voice booms louder than all of his "engage"s combined. The deep, British voice makes all of the women openly melt in their seats, and all the men hide their weak knees. Michael Tilson Thomas conducts a seven piece orchestra into a frenzy. The violinist is a key role in the structure of The Soldier's Tale. At times she plays like a virtuoso, but alongside that she has to create the sounds of a broken fiddle. The percussionist is surrounded by a drum set, cymbals, bells, and a five foot wind machine that took all of the thin framed man's energy to turn it. The seats do their best to clamp down viewers who went beyond clapping. At the end of the performance, people were on their feet, cheering, stomping, screaming, and whistling. They were begging for more, even though they knew they would never get it. They settled on just seeing the performers again. The cheers forcing Stewart and Thomas back on stage for another bow and a grateful smile. The Soldier's Tale and Pulcinella, along with other symphonies written by Igor Stravinsky, is honored throughout the San Francisco Symphony's season. Stravinsky was a pioneer in music whose twisting and emotional compositions inspired Frank Zappa, and many of the free form jazz composers. Stravinsky's works to many people are just sounds, one flopped onto another and then into your ear. But for others, he created a kaleidoscope of multi-leveled music. Where, if you turn it one way, you're presented with a light flush of color, but turn it another way and you're confronted with a blast of blood red. The Stravinsky festival has ended, and Patrick Stewart has left the building, but the excitement and rush of the symphony continues. |
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