Symphonia — Take your life back

May cause drowsiness and mind expansion

Nick MacMahon, staff

illustration by ted barker

Going to “the symphony” is like registering for a course that deeply inspires you during the first few “new-car smell” weeks, only to be gasping for air once the smell of open liquor starts to pervade the whole, bloody car, forcing you to rely on hopeless memory aids and visualization exercises to remind yourself of the former poisonous odour that you so desperately cling to. No? The symphony is a call to awareness of the world’s most infectious disease, after tiresome George W. jokes: our “Me hungry” culture. We’ve been so oversaturated with shiny boobies, pecks, gadgets, and reality TV’s effortless search for unintelligent life in “Canamerica.” It’s only when we’re forced to sit down to read an actual book (Harry Potter doesn’t count, J.K. Stealing! It was R.L. Stine that had children reading again) or listen to an album all the way through (don’t burn CDs, burn IPod’s!) that you’ll realize that your concentration span is roughly three or four minutes long. Those corporate monsters! Fine, pop culture isn’t all bad — who doesn’t have the Spice fever right now? Oh my God! Scary Spice, like, totally deserves better than Beverly “Chills” Cop. You don’t have to suffer in silence, the most trusted name in news’s most trusted name in medicine, Dr. Sanjay Gupta, is on the case. Adderall? Come on, Gupta (sorry, I just like saying “Gupta”).

Symphonia, on the hand, has half the side effects, and alcohol should be avoided, despite Centennial Concert Hall’s pandering to lovers of fine wine and stiff drinks — “Order your drink before the show, and we’ll have it waiting for you at the start of the intermission. As a bonus, you’ll automatically be entered into our AA Sobriety Watch contest.” Two hours plus of pure music! No lyrics, no forced eye contact, none of this scantily-clad business, no televisions! And no flying panties, except for mine during the second movement of Brahms’ Piano concerto No.1 in D minor.

Who can follow up a deaf genius like Beethoven? Brahms and his raw, romantic-fueled power. Indeed, heart-wrenching echoes of Beethoven can be heard in the delicate second movement of Brahms’ masterpiece. Traditionally, concertos have three movements: the first is brisk, the second Slow, and the third is a “we’re better than you” climax (I’ve intentionally avoided the official Italian terms, as I fear Starbucks will spin them into new hits). However, the grandiosity of his music is overshadowed by the rail hugging of this predictable, dated concerto form. The exploration of recurring themes and motifs in a variety of dynamic, rhythmic permutations, allows for a smooth, mirror-checking drive to the fireworks that could have been remedied by putting Grandma behind the wheel during one of her episodes. Thankfully, Jean Sibelius’ Symphony No. 1 in E minor provided the necessary contrast, whilst satisfying everyone’s Finn fetish.

“Give me the loneliness either of the Finnish forest or of a big city.” The Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra satisfied the bizarre, introverts’ request, painting scenes and aural atmospheres of frozen, Finnish landscapes. Like Canada, Finland is a northern land of many lakes with a gloomy winter and SAD funding new saunas for psychologists. A shy clarinet opens up the symphony – a baby loon came to mind, trying to wake up the family, demanding pancakes, disturbing all of the campers trying to sleep off a nasty hangover. What ensues is a dysfunctional relationship between humans and nature – initially a harmonious dialogue, it escalates to a confused herd of deer shackling themselves to trees, finally overcoming their debilitating social phobia, taking on the bigwigs. It’s invigorating.

Pieces aside, The WSO is a force to be reckoned with, as maestro Alexander Mickelthwate, the new flamboyant German showman, taps the vast potential of each individual. Hopping around on stage, flailing his arms with jerky movements, effortlessly controlling the group in front of him, you’d think his plan B was politics. His pro-drug views have clearly influenced the orchestra — explain to me how the strings explode into rapid successions of synchronized passages without beta blockers. Mickelthwate’s eccentricity, though, was no match for pianist Markus Groh’s tailcoat-ponytail combo. He approached the austere piano with a confidence that only comes from years of wearing stuffy tuxedos to recitals with soccer moms cheering you on. Like a canine on a rabbit, he ripped the ivories apart, minus the shock of onlookers. His restraint, however, was probably stylistic, due to the restrictions of Brahms’ music.

Go to the Centennial Concert Hall once this year. Even if it’s not the symphony, you’ll at least have your feet wet, wading into the depths of an experience that is hard work, but shows us what it means to live.