Snotty Savants, Terrible Parents, and Rachmaninoff

Portland Youth Philharmonic: Stupidity and Hubris


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE

Snotty Savants, Terrible Parents, and Rachmaninoff
Hurrying down the sidewalks, the echoes of my close-toed shoes carried off and quickly muted by a cold Portland wind, I harbored no illusions about the potential dangers awaiting me at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall tonight. It was the Portland Youth Philharmonic’s Spring Program., ostensibly a special performance, being the conductor’s (Mei-Ann Chen’s) finale after 5 years, and a night to be much remembered for the graduating class of young musicians, most of whom were soon to be slated for successful orchestral careers. For the participants it might have been all that, but for me this “special” evening devolved in a most disappointing, farcical way. What follows is one man’s experience of, and reluctant immersion in, said farce.
Act 1: Send in the Clowns. After House Manager Bob’s usual thorough militaristic briefing during which he declared that a seat was pulled for a wheelchair at alpha epsilon uno (section A, row E, seat 1 for we civilians) the chimes tolled followed by Bob’s gruff voice calling the staff to their positions. I was on aisle 4 with one of the few smart ushers. Shortly I would discover that if there were smart patrons in the theater tonight they weren’t coming through my door. More chimes. The public poured into the lobby. The shitstorm begins. As my fellow usher and I tried to converse (we had 30 minutes until the seating area opened) about the farfetched idea of retirement, agreeing that the word would never be applicable to us, the crowd thickened around our door. I tried not to look anyone in the eye but someone said, “When can I go in?”
“In about 5 minutes sir. There’ll be a PA announcement.” Grumbling he moved to the side to study his watch. This opened the floodgates of stupidity. The crowd pressed in, forcing me to say that the door would open as soon as the announcement was made. “It’s been 5 minutes,” the man said a minute later. I did not respond. My fellow usher issued a false apology. Finally the announcement, and the ingress began. Suffice it to say it was a thirty minute nightmare. I’ve never had to deal with a more cognitively challenged crowd. Half of these idiots didn’t know left from right. I’d quickly glance at a ticket, and say, “Row P on your left about halfway down,” and the patrons would slowly weave down the aisle, looking left and right, obviously confused. At this moment I realized with perfect clarity that every study I’d ever read linking financial success with intelligence was wrong. This was the moneyed class, capable of sending their kids to elite schools, able to afford the best music mentors for their coddled brats (more on them--the brats--later). Often I had to go down and intersect them to re-clarify. Most of the patrons of the PYP are related to, or are otherwise acquainted with the performers and treat us (the ushers) with contempt. This wouldn’t be so bad if they were capable of thought. Many of them breezed past and promptly sat in the wrong seat. This sin of arrogance is usually not discovered until the lights are down and late seating begins.
Adding to the usher’s burden this night was a worse than usual Ticket Master fiasco. Aisles and sections didn’t correspond, resulting in whole groups who belonged on the other side of the theater entering our door, and wasting time. Of course many of those who blew past us, apparently not needing assistance, sat in the wrong seats. This was discovered as usual in the dark. Finally, the last minute rush. Half the house seems to think it’s a good idea to wait till the last minute, many of them wielding mixed drinks, fueled with alcohol and hubris. Bottled water only in the seating area I said again and again. It’s always the same. “But--” the patron would say. “Sorry,” my indifferent reply. The lights go down which is the usher’s cue to shut the doors, but twenty odd persons had squeezed in so I turned on my flashlight and started scanning tickets one by one while my cohort stood outside listening for the music to start, after which no one can be seated until a suitable break. I was able to seat all but five of these patrons quickly during an introductory speech by an official of the PYP. Now the final five. Section C, Row Z (near the back, thank God), seats 8-12. The cry of the concert master’s violin signifying the orchestra’s readiness for the first piece, Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto Number 3. Fuck! Row Z’s filled with suits and gowns.
This is one of those awkward moments of a usually sweet job during which I have to interrupt the patrons’ enjoyment to check their tickets. They grumbled, silver daggers of outrage shooting from their eyes. All five tickets were for seats on the other side of the theater. A cello shrugged her weary shoulders. The piano softly wept. Idiots! I whispered, “I’ll take you around back. Let’s move as quietly as possible.” So I led them as parents do their children along the Portland streets (minus the omnipresent leash), or as nurses do their Alzheimer's patients, but these were middle aged adults dressed to the nines. After much doddering (theirs not mine) we arrived at the desired seats. Full, of course, with the like mindless. Five minutes into the piece I wasn’t going to risk bothering anyone else. In the very back row were five empty seats. I sat them there and got the fuck out.
Act 2: Terrible Parents. After hearing similar tales of undiscernment from other ushers I prepared to settle in to read a little “Madame Bovary” while listening to the eighteen-year-old pianist perform the most difficult piece in the repertoire. She did an outstanding job. The parents did not. Many loitered in the lobby, downed drinks and engaged in trivial conversation while their small children (doubtless the younger siblings of the savants) simply uh, wandered off. Baby-sitting isn’t usually part of an usher’s job. Tonight it was. Nervously, embarrassed for the parents, I had to “sh, sh” a few of these yapping brats (sound flows easily into the back rows of the seating area). Worse, a few toddlers (unbelievable!) jimmied up to the doors, and tried to open them. I had to stick an arm out, or place my body between them and the door, which could open at any second and smack them in their faces. “No, no--you could get hurt,” I’d say, and where were the fucking parents? “Oh Marcus . . . Oh Meredith . . . over here,” they’d reply if at all. Obviously, these fools didn’t think it through or count the cost before deciding to make babies. The babysitting continued throughout the concert. Berry, an older usher, turned to me during a brief respite from the ignorance. “Kids aren’t cute,“ he said. “I hate kids.” In the midst of such folly that was a beautiful moment. Fortunately my friends are good parents. Still, I am thankful that I could give one ear over entirely to the brilliant pianist, Judy Clark. She performed flawlessly and wept with joy once the performance was finished as one bouquet of roses after another was brought to her.
Act 3: Snotty Savants. Intermission went off without a hitch. In fact I had a nice polite conversation with a kind, grandparent-like couple about how inspiring it was for these young people to continue the classical music tradition. The second half wasn’t as memorable, either for the quality of performance or for the elements of drama which make for good storytelling. There was a piece by Debussy. Another by Bartok. It was pretty dull. I went out for a smoke with Berry. We laughed at our experiences of confronting stupidity and both having beers in the fridge to run home to, shared a desire for a quick end to the evening. It wasn’t to be. The concert ends. I went down a side aisle to watch the curtained exit which leads to a shitty ally behind the posh Heathman Hotel. Sometimes patrons ask where the exit leads. That’s why I’m there. Amid raucous parental applause the orchestra bowed as usual and the conductor did likewise, and that should have been the end. The patrons should’ve filed out, after which the ushers check for lost and found, then wait to be dismissed. Those beers were calling. I glanced at Berry who stood frowning at his door. Something was wrong. The applause didn’t stop. The conductor stood bowing and grinning, bowing and grinning, and then a fourteen-year-old violinist stood and whispered into the conductor’s ear. Uh oh, I thought. Several other musicians got up and vanished backstage. The rest applauded, beaming at their conductor.
Depending on perspective what follows is either heart-rending or obnoxious. One after another the young virtuosos re-emerged from behind the curtain, bearing bouquets which he or she presented to the conductor. Each then launched into a long-winded speech (10 minutes each, no lie), extolling the virtues of their conductor, and their musical educations under her tutelage. These pampered high schoolers from suburban candyland clearly loved their conductor and parts of the speeches were truly moving, but what struck me was the pompous, self-congratulatory tone. Each made allusions to the sparkling careers awaiting them in orchestras around the world. These kids made no allusions to overcoming adversity or humble beginnings. They did express gratitude for their conductor in flowery language and she did weep at these sentiments while bowing and smiling all the while yet I got the impression that these spoiled chosen ones had clearly been isolated from any “real” world I’ve ever heard of or experienced. In their defense I might have felt the same at fourteen or sixteen. In criticism their oratory was over the top, the cockiness in which they elucidated their dreams and desires offensive not only to myself but to the other staff (ushers, gate attendants, janitors, food and beverage servants) in the theater, the vast majority of whom will work hard their entire lives sans the fanfare and comforts that these kids are bound to receive. After forty-five minutes it ended and the dunces left, self-satisfied to chat and backslap in the lobby. Berry found a quarter with his flashlight. “Thanks for the tip, fuckers,” was all he said. The beer that night never tasted so good.