On the whole I'm a happy camper in a concert hall. I have never altogether lost the sense of wonder that accompanies hearing a massed symphony orchestra play live; all those people, all that musical expertise, all happening right here and now, right in front of me. Yes, there are distractions from my fellow audience members. Talkers, shufflers, snufflers, program-book-crinklers, purse-snappers and chair-squeakers, all add their own custom riffs to Beethoven or Brahms or whatever is being heard at the moment. Not to mention serial coughers, especially the malevolent kind who lie in wait, vigilant to add their mucosal heavings to the most delicate, precious, and fragile passages.
The lion's share of all that can be tuned out, thank heavens. Unless you're dealing with a bonafide phlegm virtuoso, most audience-generated rustles and bustles are insignificant trifles.
Far less insignificant are distracting tics and mannerisms coming from the folks onstage. One generally expects the orchestra players themselves to keep a low physical profile, and they do. Section violinists don't go bouncing around on their seats or stomp their feet or toss their heads around like wounded rhinos or moan loudly or fling their bow arm into the air as though they're Errol Flynn delivering the coup de grace to Basil Rathbone during the last reel of The Adventures of Robin Hood. Major-league symphony orchestras are fun to watch just for the precision, the beauty, and the control of those folks up on stage. It's all about the music. The musicians of a world-class orchestra are, in their own way, poets of minimal motion. Next time you're at the Symphony, just watch somebody turn a page. The action is breathtaking in its unobtrusive simplicity.
Soloists are another matter entirely, however. I will allow that the soloist in a concerto faces a different set of challenges from the orchestra players. The soloist is the star turn, after all, the headliner act that is expected not only to inspire, but also to entertain. Everybody's eyes are on the soloist. Thus it is that while the orchestra players will be attired in black, a female soloist might be tarted up like the madam of an Edwardian whorehouse. Most male soloists dress more or less the same as the orchestra players, although there has been a run on alternate attire of late, mostly in the form of black shirt and trouser combos, with or without collars, and with or without accessories in the form of fancy belts or vests or whatnot. As long as the evening gown isn't too gaudy or the alterna-hip male attire hasn't gone too far off the deep end, or is in sad need of a trip to the dry cleaner's, I don't pay a lot of attention to the clothes. There's one exception to that, of which more anon.
In their desire to keep the audience engaged, some performers have adopted showy gestures that serve no real purpose save to keep the listener's eyes from wandering. Some are harmless; others can become profoundly irritating. I present herewith those bits of casual showmanship that are most likely to ruffle my feathers, get my back up, or leave me wishing I were back home with my living room stereo system.
Rocket Hands
This one seems to infect young pianists far more than older ones. The idea is to fling one's arm skywards at the end of any crisp phrase, even if the phrase in question might be a tiny thing, mezzo forte, or whatever. Over the past few seasons I heard three piano concertos—two by Beethoven and one by Mozart—with my eyes screwed tightly shut so as to avoid the aggravation of watching all that over-acting on the part of cub pianists. Ten points penalty for brief levitations off the bench during the rocket-hand exhibition. Another reason to cherish mature players such as Rudolph Buchbinder: no histrionics.
Stompity Stomp
Some violinists, again of the younger or showier variety, have a terrible habit of stomping and stamping their feet during particularly exciting (to them) passages. When such shenanigans start up, I find myself biting back the admonishment to stop wasting all your energy on the Gene Kelly routine. I should point out that, for me, two of the finest violin performances in recent memory came from Christian Tetzlaff and Viktoria Mullova—both of whom stood quietly relaxed and focused. No stomping.
Poodles
Performers of all stripes—including conductors—who sport big mops of hair absolutely must refrain from shaking their heads around in the heat of performance lust. They all wind up looking like big poodles worrying a bone. I don't need that kind of distraction during, say, a Schumann concerto.
Roll Dem Bones
On the whole I'm not in favor of female performers wearing low-cut strapless gowns. To be brutally honest, most of them just don't have the figure for it. But even for those who do: I didn't come to the Symphony tonight to look at your armpits. Furthermore, more than one partially unclad female pianist has provided a clinical demonstration of excessive shoulder tension as her shoulder blades bounced and heaved up and down, never once coming to rest in their proper position. It drove me bats as I became increasingly conscious of the feel of my own shoulder blades and their contact with the back of my chair and my clothing. It was similar to becoming obsessed with my own tongue, one of the minor gratuitous annoyances of being made out of the same materials as a standing rib roast.