Dancing In Our Chairs

Following up Sarah's post on the taboo against audience members at an orchestra concert reacting physically in any way to what goes on in the music, I am pleased to report that 20 or so members of the Minnesota Orchestra took a firm (if inadvertent) stand in favor of in-concert dance moves this past weekend.

We've mentioned in past entries that the various (and many would say absurdly pretentious) rules of orchestral decorum are drilled into the heads of countless American conservatory students every year, with the result that most of us enter the professional world convinced that if we sway, tap a foot, smile, or in any other physical way demonstrate that we are enjoying ourselves and the music during a concert, we will be immediately dragged out and shot by the Committee For The Showing Of Proper Respect To The Greatest Music Ever Written. We've also noted that we in Minneapolis (and, most particularly, those of us in the viola section) seem to have largely gotten over this silliness.

So, anyway, last week we were playing a pretty fun concert with one of our favorite guest conductors, Gilbert Varga. Varga works us in rehearsal nearly as hard as does Osmo, but he has a decidedly easygoing feel about him, and always seems to be having a great time on the podium. There were a whopping six pieces on this particular program, ranging from introspective Debussy to understated Dvorak to virtuosic Vivaldi, and the finisher was Respighi's over-the-top and seldom-performed Roman Festivals, which conjures up all the madness and drunken revelry of the best European street fests.

In the last movement of the Respighi, which consists of a series of short jumps from one type of musical whirlwind to another, there's a fun little oasis where all the noise stops dead and is replaced by what sounds like a town band playing a waltz on a merry-go-round. A few bars into this diversion, the melody sort of swoops upward to the second beat of a measure, then falls away, the way waltzes in Tchaikovsky ballets often do. It's kind of a silly moment, and in rehearsal, the first desk of violas sensed it coming, and did this move they're known to do on occasion where they lift their butts completely out of their chairs, as if propelled upward by the music, then settle back down on the next beat. Since this is one of the less disruptive things the viola section is wont to do in rehearsals, no one really paid any attention.

But later in the week, after we'd played our first of three concerts, Varga joined the violas at an ice skating party at violist Ken Freed's house, and commented that he was surprised that our first desk hadn't repeated their move at the concert that morning. Whether he knew what he'd set in motion with that innocent joke, I have no idea. What I do know is that, the next night, when we came to the merry-go-round section, the entire viola section rose at least six inches out of our seats in unison, then fell back and kept playing, as the second violins and wind players shot us strange looks and Varga giggled on the podium.

Now, I'm sure some members of the audience saw us do this. (Although the violas sit in the inner circle of the string section, we're clearly visible to anyone in any of our three balconies, and to a good chunk of the main floor as well.) But aside from one or two grins from the first tier, I saw no physical evidence that we'd been widely observed. But then came Saturday night, our last concert of the week. As we approached the now famous spot, Varga physically turned his head away from the violas, grinning wildly, and even threw up one of his hands to shield us from his peripheral view. On the swooping beat, not only did the violas repeat our full-section rise, but we were surprised to be joined by nearly the entire second violin section, sitting to our left in full view of the whole audience! (The seconds have always been jealous of our shenanigans.)

This time, no one in the audience who had his/her eyes open could have missed it, and a wave of laughter rolled through the hall, even as we continued to play. Varga winked at us, and turned his already flamboyant conducting up yet another notch for the big finish. I suppose it's possible that someone, somewhere in the hall (perhaps even onstage) was offended by our impudent display. But to me, it just enhanced the pleasure of what is already a piece of music meant to show the orchestra at its most unhinged, and I suspect that vast majority of the audience that night would agree. This was the kind of extra-musical spontaneity that fans of other genres of music are always complaining classical lacks, and it was worlds away from the sort of forced swaying and painted smiles that pseudo-classical acts like Andre Rieu are always putting on. And besides, it was fun, and I'm a firm believer that fun is contagious, and we need more of it in this business.

Postscript: After the concert, I remembered that on this particular Saturday night, we had a special guest in the audience: the newly appointed President & CEO of the Minnesota Orchestra, Michael Henson, who is winding up his tenure at the Bournemouth Symphony in England, and will be moving to Minneapolis in February. I have no idea whether he saw our little dance move, or what he thought of it if he did, but it's probably good that he now has a clear idea of just exactly what he's getting himself into. Welcome to Minnesota, boss...