Classical Music Cheer Squad

Classical music performances attract a high proportion of wealthy retirees who bristle in fur coats and wear sparkling brooches and red Chanel spectacles.  That may be why many people dismiss a night at the Perth Concert Hall as too ‘high brow’.  Even though my parents followed traditional Asian child-rearing practices by foisting piano lessons upon me, I know little about classical music.  Nevertheless, I am proof that any commoner can enjoy a symphonic soiree.

On my last visit to the Concert Hall to see the WA Symphony Orchestra play Rachmaninov’s Symphony No. 2, the crowd of tuxedoed men and bejewelled women onstage looked like a page in a “Where’s Wally?” book, except all the parts were moving.  Violin bows stabbed the air like a school of mackerel flicking out of the ocean. Glints of light shimmered as French horn players emptied their spit valves.  Cellists leant forward to embrace their instruments.  Flautists turned pages in unison like street performers miming a scene on a bus. 

In between that flurry, there were delicious moments of anticipation, when the conductor raised his arms and a reverent hush descended on the audience.  The resting baton whispered into the silence, “Wait for it, this is going to be good.”  The audience stayed frozen with restraint, suppressing urges to clap, sway and nod, and there was no sign that they had enjoyed the performance until the orchestra lowered their instruments.  Suddenly, middle-aged men exploded into wolf whistles, shouted “Bravo!” and stomped their feet like boys at a school carnival.  I clapped until my hands buzzed and the insistent applause coaxed the conductor out from the wings again and again.

What I most love about a classical music performance is the cheesy, Brady Bunch togetherness of it all.  If I concentrated on pulling apart the strands of sounds to listen to one instrument, it often seemed as though it was playing the same two notes over and over.  But that little thread wove itself into a glorious and complex sound that vibrated along the Concert Hall walls and swelled within our chests.

Sometimes I feel like I’m playing the same notes every day – walking through the same streets, tapping on the same keyboard, repeating small talk with neighbours – when all I want is a solo, with everyone focussed on listening to me while the rest of the orchestra fades into the background. But, even though I cannot hear it from where I’m sitting, I like to think that the mundane days are part of some other music – magnificent and beautiful and bigger than anything I know.