It seems sad to report that the most enjoyable and memorable event of last night’s trip to NYC for a concert was the roast beef sandwich consumed at 11:30 on the train home.
In an ideal world of course, the plagues, stresses, deadlines and distractions of life would not interfere with one’s enjoyment of music and the sheer pleasure of the event itself would outweigh and eliminate ordinary stresses from the mind. But I do not live near a venue for great music and cannot easily decide on a whim to attend a concert, and in this day of scheduled events tickets are often purchased long in advance. Not that the anticipation lessens the enjoyment of the work. An impending concert is normally a source of joy and anticipation. But I have felt distracted of late, unable to focus, without perspective, and to some extent attention. It seems the demands of others have sucked away all my time and attention of late and I have felt deprived of the ability to pursue my own interests. I had hoped that a concert would lure me back into my own piece of the world. This proved not to be the case.
Alas, my loss.
But the evening was not, in fact wasted. I read. I let my mind wander. I thought about my book. It felt like the first time in weeks that I had actually been able to concentrate on anything without constant interruption and disruption. It was a blessed relief.
I took Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals with me for the train. I had started this book months ago, had gotten all wrapped up in it, devouring the first few chapters before my chain of thought got interrupted with whatever minor household or familial crisis was swirling around last fall. I picked it up occasionally, luckily finding that I retained the details easily and was often able to resume wherever I had left off as if only a day had passed, but then it drifted further out of my thoughts. I did a lot of reading in January but did not return to that book. By the time I was ready for it again, the opportunity was gone, swept up in the demands and distractions of other peoples crises.
And here I was, after a disastrous day, a day where I almost decided not to go in to the city, finding myself finally at my wits end ready to escape, tired of being patient and helpful, ready to wrap myself up in a book and lose the world.
And I did. The train trip was far too short. And I found the key to that part of my brain that I had felt was missing.
Actually the concert seemed promising. The entire evening was devoted to Richard Strauss’s “Ein Heldenleben” and G had been anticipating it and eagerly awaiting the concert for weeks. I, not so much, but it is not one of my favorite works. That we didn’t enjoy the performance really had nothing to do with the musicians. I was bored with the “behind the music” production that occupied the first half of the program. It was an interesting exercise, and I can see its purpose to appeal to different audiences and reach out beyond the “stuffy” and “highbrow” monikers that are so often flung at classical music. But it did not appeal to me. It was well done. But I personally did not like the changing photographs and images, the bits of the music pasted together to illustrate points. To me it seemed too fast, too much like a pastiche of ideas with no depth. The presentation reminded me of nothing so much as the Nicole Kidman movie, Moulin Rouge, which I also hated. I was bored to tears.
I was looking forward to hearing the work. The week had been stressful; a little bombast seemed like the perfect antidote. But I had also probably already closed off a part of my brain and I was not really receptive to something new. I wasn’t really listening to the music. I wanted the familiar, overblown Germanic heroicness that is “Ein Heldenleben”. But flash and bombast was not Alan Gilbert’s take on the piece. The performance was beautiful. It seemed to accent the romantic nature of the piece, the intricacies, which had I been more receptive I might have enjoyed. But instead I was bored and closed off. It was unfortunate.
I would like the opportunity to hear it again. But now the opportunity is lost and I missed my chance. It reminds me of that phrase from Frank Herbert’s Dune, “Fear is the mind-killer” but I would restate this as: Boredom is the mind-killer.
G was bored as well and we snuck out a few minutes early. G wanted bombast. He loves bombast. Strauss and Bruckner are his favorite composers. I don’t think he was looking for a different perspective. He wanted the comfortable and familiar. But when things get too familiar we stop noticing.
Oh well. I read more of my book on the way home. I would love to spend time over the next few days curled up with it, tuning out the world, thinking about Abraham Lincoln and his cabinet. This may not happen. The lives of others are once again about to rule my schedule and attentions. But a switch has been flipped back on and I am loath to let it get shut off again.