English: Looking northeast across Livingston and Clinton Streets at a building of the Packer Collegiate Institute, formerly of St Ann’s Church. ZIP 11201. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I don’t remember having been to a classical concert. I’ve been to operas, orchestras there are in the pit. You only see the conductor when he is introduced, before the curtain opens.
For $18, on a Thursday morning, you can go to the New York Philharmonic rehearsals. Batting practice for musicians if you like.
The audience is mostly over seventy. I was definitely bringing the age level down. (I will be 57 December 7th). I felt like a child.
My Mom goes with an old friend of hers. Lulu worked with her many years ago at Packer Collegiate Institute in my home neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights.
The two of them together? Picture Statler and Waldorf in the Muppets, only women. Lulu is quite funny. The two of them together make comments about the other passengers in the subway car. They figure anyone insulted may WANT to hit them, but wont. Oh great, now I am with them and will have to defend their honor. I am trying to avoid hitting someone myself and ending up in the Tombs. (The jail in Manhattan). I can see the judge now. Of course, this is another case of Monty Python ruining my life. The judge puts a black cap on before sentencing. Or as was said in an episode of Rumpole of the Bailey, with the crusty old Judge Bullingham, “I didn’t think we had executions in Watford any longer.” I digress, the judge would probably tell me, “Please get on that plane and never darken New York’s door again.”
When we got off at 66th Street, three other women got in the elevator. All were thoroughly amused by me, NOT because I was THAT funny.
You could sit anywhere in Avery Fisher Hall you like, except the first eleven rows, which were roped off. They would probably object to someone sitting on stage, but I don’t think any of these senior citizens would make it on stage.
Here I am, cowboy boots and my University of Arizona sweatshirt. I look like a fat version of the Marlboro Man, without the cigarette.
I am getting some funky looks from these older New Yorkers, like when did Tex ride into town and there aren’t any hitching posts on Broadway these days.
Mom told me one of the violinists is the mother of the conductor. So that’s the secret to being able to boss Mom around. Become a classical conductor.
The pieces are interrupted, so the conductor can give constructive criticism. There is one violinist (Not his mother), who seems to argue every point. His constructive criticism in American Football terms would be, “You missed a block and our quarterback got nailed. Dueling violins, violas, and cellos. Could be the movie Deliverance.
I almost expected the conductor to act like a baseball umpire, wave an angry index finger off stage and shout to this particular violinist, “You’re outta here!” We are dignified though at the Philharmonic.
That’s why you have to be careful, about letting lowbrows like me in such venues. You get silliness like this.
I will be serious now, (For a welcome change). While I’ve been doing the DNA stuff and reading about how Ashkenazic Jews have the lowest rate of Alzheimer’s Disease, I work to stretch my mind.
I enjoyed listening to the different pieces (Mendelssohn and Mozart, hey M&M’s, candy for the ears and soul)!
I was picking different feelings out of them. I admire the conductor have to know what all the instruments do and hearing the subtle differences, he can hear.
Thanks Mom, as silly as I am being, it was very pleasant to listen to, as well as being educational.