Symphony in a time of pandemic

Despite having maintained my subscription each season, last night was the first time I'd attended the Seattle Symphony since February 2020 -- just before the Covid-19 pandemic reached Seattle via China and Italy.  The music, as always, was excellent.  But some things had changed.

Benaroya Hall has a number of food and drink establishments on the street floor, open to the public, before one enters the auditorium proper -- excellent places for a last minute cup of coffee to keep one awake past 8 o'clock.  These were all closed, and the hall which they line was dimmed.  Instead, I found something analogous to TSA checkpoints at the airport.  I was required to show my proof of vaccination and a matching proof of identity (driver's license).  Also, one could pass no farther without wearing a mask.  Which everyone of course was doing -- classical music fans, at least in the Northwest Corner, don't tend to be anti-mask rebels.

Ticket purchasers were also required to sign a waiver of liability at the time of purchase, although I don't recall that being a requirement last winter when I paid for my own season's ticket.  

Having survived this novel -- but reassuring -- set of requirements, we proceeded further to the auditorium lobby entrance, where we presented our tickets.  Also new this time, although unrelated to the pandemic, was our ability to avoid using paper tickets, and instead use an iPhone app to present a QR code.  A minor change, important only to people like me who also became ecstatic at being able to order Starbucks coffee on an app.

The program?  Interesting, but not one of my all time favorites.  It began with a contemporary work by Natalie Dietterich entitled (in all lower case) aeolian dust.  The music was atonal, but oddly soothing.  The composer described the work:

The idea of aeolian, or atmospheric, dust could be considered an analog to the passage of time within a world where unrelated events coexist and have potential to become something bigger than itself, or perhaps simply occupy a space together with nothing to bridge them but the moment in which they occur.

Maybe.  If one concentrates enough.  In any event, the work elicited some odd sounds from the full orchestra, sounds that I didn't realize were possible.  The composer was in the audience and came to the stage and took a bow at the conclusion.  I'd like to hear more of her work.

The second number was Ives's Three Pieces in New England, (1931), also atonal at times but at other times a rambunctious interpretation of various patriotic songs from the Civil War period.  The three movements are programmatic, and reading the composer's intent in composing each movement was helpful to appreciating the work as a whole.

After the intermission came the major work of the night, Schumann's familiar Third ("Rhenish") Symphony.  A crowd-pleaser that brought the audience to its feet at the conclusion.

It was a small audience, however.  The lobby -- usually packed during intermission -- seemed oddly spacious and quiet last night.  I looked over the crowd after most of us had returned to our seats, and estimated that the auditorium -- usually at or near capacity for a Saturday night performance -- was more like twenty or thirty percent full.

I think we're all still adjusting to being comfortable in large crowds.  Even the Mariners games drew sparser than average crowds, and they were held outdoors.  But we're getting there.  My next ticket is for November 6, featuring Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto.  I suspect Pyotr's warhorse will draw a larger crowd.