One of the themes running through my career has been making classical music more acceptable to new audiences, especially young people. When I saw a proposal on the Brooklyn Academy of Music's website for a "Baroque Opera Cabaret", I was intrigued and put it on my must-see list.
I wasn't really sure what an "Opera Cabaret" was, but the Baroque part was clear (they had listed Purcell as the main contributor). And there was no mistaking the professionalism of the players; they had been culled from the always inspiring Les Arts Florissants, run by the brilliant Michael Christie.
The setup was the BAM cafe: a long, rectangular room with a stage at one end and a bar at the other. There were about twenty four-seat tables with chairs, with about 50 chairs lined up behind them, theatre style, and then about 20 stools at the bar. And when the concert started, it was packed.
I craned around looking to estimate the average age of the crowd. One of the problems facing American classical music organizations is that the average age of the audience is old, and getting older. Many statistics confirm that the average age of a symphony orchestra audience is over 70, and the evidence is clear that this number has been increasing in lock-step. I know when I was running the Baltimore Symphony, we had a team member call everyone who didn't renew their subscription. The top three reasons were (1) the subscriber had passed away; (2) they had moved to Florida; and (3) their spouse had died. Our audience was literally dying before our eyes.
In this case, I would reckon we had a minor win. The average age wasn't nearly 72, and there were a very significant number of thirty-somethings apparently only dates. While it wasn't nearly a young crowd, it definitely averaged around 40-50.
My concert partner went and fetched us wine and dinner as soon as we were let in. (We planned to take full advantage of the 'cabaret' aspect of the concert). I snagged seats near the front of the stage. We munched on barbecued chicken (Very good ) and calamari (Mediocre) as the musicians filed in.
One of the problems with these experiments is that nobody knows how to react. When the musicians filed in, we of course applauded. But the program was not clearly marked, and after the first piece (a rousing and slightly ribald version of "Man is for the woman made" by Purcell), there was an awkward silence. After the next vocal sectiion, "I spy Celia, Celia eyes me," followed by "I see she flies me," I put my hands under the table and started to clap. Luckily, the whole crowd sighed in relief and followed after me.
The crowd was absolutely respectful and quiet throughout the 50-minute performance. Although most of the tables had wine or beer bottles on their tables, there was a reluctance to even take a sip during the music, let alone to refill glasses.
In fact, the crowd was a little bit stilted. I knew it wasn't going to be perfect when a guy at the table in front of me motioned to me halfway through the first song that my shoes were apparently creaking. Huh? I tried to stop them, although I felt like leaning over and saying "maybe the cabaret concept is not your cup of tea".
What the vast majority of concert-goers don't realize is that, prior to the 1930s, classical concerts were often more like contemporary jazz concerts. At 19th century Italian opera houses, vendors hawked wine and food in the audience (the food often saved for hurling at villains or bad singers). The audience stood on their seats after a favored performance and shouted 'Encore', which meant as it literally does, "do it again!", with a singer occasionally having to repeat an aria 3 or 4 times. Many of Bach's instrumental works debuted in a coffee tavern; Mozart refers in his letters to the audience interrupting movements with applause (which he thrived on) and Beethoven launched some of his greatest symphonies in single movements, combined with other works by both Beethoven and others. Critics today sniff at this practice of breaking up movements as "bleeding chunks", their pretension made all the more ridiculous by their lack of research.
The performance of the Arts Florissants musicians would have captured even an unruly 19th century Italian opera audience. Robert Burt and Callum Thorpe had strong voices (especially Thorpe had to visibly hold back in the small hall) and their acting was mesmerizing. The female foil for most of the songs, Claire Debono, was superb not only at singing but at capturing attention; symphony orchestra musicians and soloists could learn a lot from her about engaging an audience (starting with eye contact and smiling, dammit!). The musicians followed suit especially Sebastian Marq, who played at least five recorders, and who wandered throught the audience imitating a flock of birds as Claire sang "Hush ye little warbling choir" by Handel. I can't think of anyone, down to a five year old, that wouldn't have liked that.
In summary, I would have brought my teenage kids to this concert and they would have liked it. We need more concerts like this. The only improvement I would make is to have someone speak before the concert about proper etiquette--and to silence the people like my shoe critic, while empowering people who want to clap, laugh, and react to the music like normal people.
