Somewhere there sits a timer that goes off periodically and indicates that it's time for yet another mainstream media article decrying the convoluted ritual of attending a symphony orchestra concert. Said timer went ding this past week and this article duly popped up. As far as I-don't-get-it articles go, it's a pretty fair specimen, better written than many, slightly more shrill than most. It actually finds fault with picking up tickets at Will Call—hardly daunting, and hardly unique to symphony orchestra concerts.
The author's primary bone of contention is the ritual of silence during performances. He finds it disconcerting and points to the considerably more voluble and vocal audiences of the past. He also brings up the behavior of old-time opera audiences but fails to notice national distinctions. 18th-century Italian opera houses, for example, were almost unbelievably rowdy by everybody else's standards. People went to the opera to gossip, eat, schmooz, socialize, make business deals, even pick up a hooker for the evening. The music itself was far down on the list, and even then was focused mostly on the singers. But that wasn't the case in Germany, or in England, where opera houses tended to be relatively reserved. One needn't look far to figure out why: Londoners had Vauxhall and Ranleigh Gardens, which provided the social nexus that was the bailiwick of opera houses in Italy. Vauxhall was a prime source for decent-quality London whores, just as it was a great venue to throw a big party with good food and music.
Thus the fundamental mistake in the article referenced above. Although the author goes on at length about the what of both present and past, he fails to ask the critical question: why is it the way it is?
That's actually pretty easy to answer. Concert halls aren't our watering holes and gathering spots any more. We have other venues. These days, if we want to throw in some entertainment along with dinner with the neighbors, we arrange for a potluck and consult Netflix. Our home life often revolves around a family room where the TV runs round the clock; nobody watches it unless there's something special happening, but it blares away nonetheless. We also have more venues outside the home than our predecessors. We have lots more restaurants and sidewalk cafés and bars and pubs and dance clubs and coffee houses and wine bars and libraries than they did. We have movie theaters. We used to have drug store fountains. We have conventions and trade shows and conferences and faculty clubs and retreat centers. We have the BPOE and the Eastern Star and the DAR. I'll grant those last are fading fast, but they played a big part in the scheme of things there for a while. We have social centers by the bucket, by the yard, by the barrel.
Back in the day even small towns had an ornate opera house, because it was the social center. That's why opera houses, and eventually concert halls, were designed the way they were. Opera houses with their stacked tiers of boxes, all of them looking straight ahead at—the boxes on the far wall. Concert halls with their flat floors, sizeable anterooms, and moveable chairs. The whole point was to provide a venue to bring people together. So of course they talked. That's what they were supposed to do.
Modern design is conspicuously different. A contemporary concert hall pastes a small lobby onto a large auditorium that has been fussed over ad infinitem by a team of acousticians, critically important given that a hall's acoustics, rather than its amenities, determine its overall reputation. Modern opera houses follow the Bayreuth model with fixed seats that face forward, sharply limit the number of private boxes, and darken the hall during the performance.
Our focus has shifted from socializing and has settled on the music itself. And that's why silence is the golden rule in a concert hall: everything revolves around the music and giving it full attention. I should think that Mozart and Beethoven, rather than being dismayed by our reverent attitude, would be overjoyed. When their music is being played, everybody is expect to shut up and listen. What composer wouldn't love that?
There's really not much to concert hall ritual, when you get right down to it. Anybody can pick it up on a first visit. Certainly it is no more troubling than figuring out the ritual of a baseball game—passing food & drink along, cheering at the right moment, avoiding being lynched by hoodlums for cheering at the wrong moment—or the rituals of a movie theater. We learn by doing and by going, in a concert hall just as in everywhere else. You don't bring a Cherry Coke into the church sanctuary, or into a museum gallery, or into a concert hall auditorium. You can bring said Cherry Coke with you into the movie theater. You can order a cocktail in the lobby of a concert hall but not in a movie theater. You're expected to drop a donation into the basket for the cookies at a church social, but you are required to hand over cold cash at the racetrack. You should not carry on a vivacious conversation with your seat partner during a concert or during a movie or during a church service. But it's OK at baseball game or football game or boxing match or horse race or auto race. (Or not: I confess to limited experience.)
Overall I'd say that concert hall ritual is among the least daunting of the bunch. Dress codes have vanished, although nice attire distinguishes gentlemen from bozos at the Symphony as everywhere. Applaud for the concertmaster's entrance. Applaud more loudly for the conductor's entrance. Glance through your program to figure out how many movements in the work, if you don't already know. Don't applaud between the movements, but it's no big deal if you're moved to do so. Applaud at the end of the piece. If you're in San Francisco, lavish a standing ovation on just about anything. Wait for the intermission to go pee.
And that's really about it: simple, direct, to the point. No arcane scoring system to learn. No betting. No keeping an eye out for hot dog vendors. No figuring out when to kneel and when to stand and when to mumble a response. No standing for the Pledge of Allegiance. No financial extortion via a passed silver platter. No worry about being murdered by the tattooed troglodyte in the next seat. No worry about sunburn or cold wind or ominous rain clouds.
More than anything else, going to a concert means giving your whole attention to the music. You're more or less trapped. No getting up during the Bruckner to freshen your drink or pitter-patter to the bathroom. No deciding the hell with it and switching on the TV. No pause button or fast forward. No instant replay. No babbling commentator. Since a good seat in a major-league symphony hall is expensive, you doze off, you waste your money. Thus a concert is a valuable opportunity to zoom in, pay careful attention, and be altogether in the moment. For some folks an evening at the symphony may be a meaningless ritual; they go because they always go or because they're accompanying someone who always goes. But that's not the case for most people. Going to the symphony can be an exhilarating, fascinating, and sometimes unforgettable experience. The quiet ritual of a concert hall is neither sodden nor glum. It's the hush of happy mindfulness.