CULTURE WARS

A fight broke out at the Angel Peralta Friday night.

I don't mean the Angel Peralta Cantina (if it even exists), but San Miguel's Teatro Angela Peralta, beloved venue for "the top echelon performing artists who come here year after year" to "love our little city and its people," according to Dirk Bakker, board of directors' president.

Dirk is probably right, but you might not have felt the love on the second-storey balcony at the 7 p.m. performance of chamber music by the Claremont Trio. The female musicians played minor works by Beethoven and Brahms and a haunting, plaintive piece by contemporary composer Judd Greenstein, and they played everything beautifully.

The trouble started as they struck the final chord of the second movement of Beethoven's Piano Trio en E-flat Major, Op. 1, No. 1.  

After the first movement, about half of the audience had applauded--with the best of intentions, of course,  but completely inappropriately. As any true music aesthete knows deep in his marrow, one only applauds at the end of the composition, which in this case is a four-movement piece.  Shucks.

But I couldn't help hearing a slight sigh of uneasiness, an irritable stirring, from a couple of patrons seated directly behind me. I didn't think much of it. After all, tiny lapses like "premature applause" happen all the time in my native Philadelphia, where citizens consistently vote the theme from "Rocky" as their favorite musical composition of all time. Most of us in the "city of brotherly love" lack the sophistication to care one way or another.

Very soon, the Claremont Trio was ripping into the second movement called "Adagio cantable." And it was at the end of this movement that--once again--some patrons spontaneously decided to show their appreciation of the fine playing by putting their hands together. Mama mia! Admittedly, the number of clappers was much smaller this time, but they were still numerous enough to disturb the sensitivity of the patrons behind me.

"SSSHHHH!" came a hissing rebuke that combined the reprimanding tone of a primary school teacher and the menacing edge of a prison guard. Ah, a true music aesthete.

I was tempted to turn in my seat to see who was doing the shushing, but through 27 years of marriage my wife has valiantly tried to train me to behave myself in public.  It's been a thankless job. So, I didn't budge.

The band--um, trio--played on, finishing up the Beethoven. After a short break, they proceeded with Greenstein's rhapsodic piece, composed as an homage to a deceased loved one. It was very moving. 

Fortunately the composition was contained in a single movement, so there were no opportunities for any unnecessary interruptions by certain patrons unable to hold back their appreciation until the appropriate juncture.

Instead, the second-floor balcony was startled by the sudden loud chiming sound of--you guessed it--an incoming cell phone call.  What the...! The first rule of concert going, as even a rube from Philadelphia knows, is that cell phones must be switched off before the musicians strike the first chord.  

Shock and awe! This was, indeed, an infamy worthy of crucifixion.

As the high-pitched chiming continued, there were definite rustling sounds coming from directly behind me as a woman's hushed voice entreated her companion to disarm the wailing electronic monster. He--and it was a he--did so, but only after a full 30 seconds of earsplitting chiming that completely broke the mood of the very moody Greenstein piece.

No matter. We balcony dwellers struggled to recapture the movement, as the Claremont Trio continued their immaculate playing.  Yes, yes, this truly was a magnificent--

CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEE.......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEE......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMM......CCHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEE......

Impossible!

For a second time, the same cell phone pealed impertinently. 

"Are you crazy?" an American gentleman in the vicinity growled at the cell phone's owner, who turned out to be, of course, the music aesthete himself.

I thought this would surely mean war.  Remember, I'm from Philly and we learn very quickly not to talk to strangers, even if we have moral righteousness on our side, because by saying anything we run a high risk of getting bum-rushed, sucker punched, head butted, or even worse. 

Luckily this is San Miguel, so nothing untoward happened. The errant cell phone finally silenced for good, we all got back to appreciating the music that swirled through the great hall. What a thrilling performance!

And later, I found myself feeling some sympathy for the poor patron sitting behind me. Yes it's true, music aesthetes are easy to disparage, demean, decry, and deride. But the guy's cell phone going off like that, not just once but twice, well, well, well--that could've happened to any idiot.



© 2014 Tony DeCrosta
Contact me at adecrosta@gmail.com