I was dumbfounded to hear that every once in a while a Symphony lecturer doesn’t show up for the gig. Apparently once in a longer while, said lecturer doesn’t even call—but not because said lecturer is lying unconscious on a gurney, has been tossed into Gitmo by the CIA, or was abducted by multi-tentacled things from the Planet WTF$%#{click}, all marginally acceptable reasons for failing to show up for a paid gig. Nope. Said lecturer just doesn’t show up.
Once my initial astonishment faded, I realized that such inexplicable behavior just might have its roots in academia. I’m an oddball amongst pre-concert lecturers in that my background mirrors the orchestra members rather than the lecturers. I’m a conservatory-trained pianist, not a musicologist with a Ph.D. Those age-old cardinal show-biz principles were hammered into me from childhood: show up, on time, and prepared. Anything less is tantamount to career suicide. You show me a player of the caliber necessary to land a seat in a major symphony orchestra and I’ll show you somebody who has the whole reliability-punctuality thing down cold. We all recognize that emergencies happen, but any self-respecting working musician does not flake.
But in academia you’re not playing for keeps. Lectures and classes might be cancelled, even at the last minute, and nobody’s going to have a cow. Most of the students will be relieved to have a few hours off, supervision is generally light, and even if some minor fallout occurs, it can all be made good by extra office hours, an online lecture, or the like. Studio teachers can run late, even by hours, and nobody has a cow about that, either, save the occasional student who has the temerity to protest the unfairness. Teachers can breeze into class, utterly unprepared and at the last minute, then wing their way through a rambling, disconnected lecture that does nothing save fill the required time.
Then there’s that issue of professors who can’t teach their way out of paper bags but are dumped on cringing undergraduates, who are powerless to do anything save howl their disapproval via course evaluations. Yet I’ve known too many instances of teachers who receive scathing, blistering, scorched-earth negative evaluations and sail on year after year, teaching the same courses.
That isn’t to say that all academics are incompetent, unreliable, and lazy sonsofbitches who treat their faculty positions like minor annoyances. Nor are all performing musicians paragons of responsibility and professionalism. Of course not: I know any number of full-bore academics who are absolutely dedicated, committed, reliable. I also know some performers who regularly test everybody’s patience.
But all in all, academia is not a proper environment in which to acquire rock-solid reliability. The stakes are just too low. We might bemoan that state of affairs. We might proclaim that the grave responsibility of training and educating the next generation is so serious that everything in academia matters to the highest degree and that academics most assuredly do play for keeps, and at a downright Olympian level at that. It ain’t so, however. Most academic pursuits are inconsequential and most professors are automatically absolved from all but the most trivial accountability.
A major orchestra might be a non-profit like a university, but that’s where the similarity ends. Big-time performing arts organizations are playing for keeps. People are paying for those tickets—directly, not through tuition or grants or anything else, but with their earned money. That money goes into paying salaries for not only the musicians but the staff and administration, for the publicity and the janitors and the printed programs and the lighting and the audio system and the posters alongside the box office windows. An orchestra that abuses its patrons and donors won’t be around for long. (Vide the instructive tale of the now-defunct San Jose Symphony.) An orchestra’s reputation is right up front and center, unambiguous and crystal-clear. People go to the concert hall; either they are given an evening of world-class music with tip-top support or they aren’t. The lobby floor is clean and polished; the ushers are polite and helpful; the orchestra members are properly dressed; the lighting is appropriate; the program book is professionally printed and written; restrooms are properly maintained. A great orchestra has no other choice but to be a class act from start to finish.
Ergo, the lecturers show up on time. They’re prepared, they’re properly dressed, and they watch their language in front of the audience. They remember that their obligation is to the patrons, not to themselves. They recognize that a symphony hall is not a classroom. Academic freedom does not extend to the stage of a symphony hall.
Maybe I’m over-reacting. Sometimes I can be a prissy little goody-two-shoes. But I don’t think that’s the case here. This past week I was engaged for five services as the lecturer for the San Francisco Symphony. One service was the Wednesday morning open rehearsal; the tech call is 8:10 am and the lecture begins at 9:00 am. I was there, on time. Another service involved driving to Davis, near Sacramento. Traffic can be incredibly heavy, both leaving San Francisco, and at various critical intersections along the 60-mile trip. So I left San Francisco at 3:00 pm, made it to Davis by about 4:45 and thus had ample time for a quick early dinner and was at the hall promptly at 6:00 pm for my tech call. Ditto for my other services: I was there, I was on time. I was properly dressed and meticulously prepared, not only as to research, but also via a timed rehearsal the night before. I’m always on time. I’ll be there 2-3 hours early if I have to be, but I’ll be on time. I’ll be properly attired. I’ll be prepared; my lecture will be researched and assembled and rehearsed; I’ll have whatever equipment I need, and then some.
That’s not because I’m a prissy little goody-two-shoes. It’s what I do, and have done since I played my first piano recital at age four and learned that no matter what, the show goes on. No apologies, no half measures. No B.S. You show up for your gig on time—and that includes the tech call, if any—and you play your gig professionally and responsibly. It’s so simple, so basic, so elemental. At least it is to blue-collar, working-class musicians—who apparently have a thing or two to teach our white-collar academic colleagues.