Vienna: Straatsoper

An exerpt from the boredom-induced writings that occurred at the Straatsoper before the performance of Salome:

It's funny how absurdly self-conscious I am about writing in public. For example, I'm currently sitting in line outside the Straatsoper in Vienna, surrounded by people my age and people much older, students and actual opera lovers operating on quite a different budget than most, passing the time before they open the doors and let us buy our 3 euro tickets.

 There's a man in a fancy coat who speaks English with a proper British accent, who supervises us all, informs us of the specfic technicalities of Line Space Holding, clinging to his paper which, half an hour ago, consumed most of his attention. He paces around now, as the line snakes in from the icreasingly cold rain to our backroom waiting place. People are sleeping, talking, reading, watching. They're absorbed in their lives and, so, I think, I should know that they have no interest in mine. Yet I fear, so I do not write.
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The line has moved from the backroom entrance of the cheap and financially less gifted to the darkened side stair leading to the balcony. Here a severe looking old man who may or may not speak English with a proper British accent watches our actions, us waiters, and we watch him, between fits of boredom, hoping he'll take pity on us and the poor feet of those still standing and let us claim our seats. Well, standing places. We have not paid for chairs.

I haven't a pair of shoes. Long wear and unpleasant aftereffects have made my real shoes currently unwearable and my feet bear the dust of the inside and marks of the rain outside around my pathetic excuse for plastic footwear. Hardly the appropriate shoes for the opera, but beggars may not choose. I may lay down my mantle, though, and buy a new pair of shoes tomorrow.

Ah, old severe gentleman in coat, savior of our standing places! It's odd how, until you open your mouth and prove that you have a literal voice, you are brushed aside. It's interesting how, until you utter an intelligible sentence in the given language of a country, you are conunted idiotic. The additional patrons at the bottom of the stairs walked by us, with our placid, silent, bored faces, and assumed that they knew more that us, sheeple that we are, holding our place in line.

 And then old severe man in coat corrected them, with a voice appropriate for his coat, deep and gravely. I wonder if he loves opera, if his adoration for the art drove him to this usher's place, forever outside the performances. Does he enjoy talking to the patrons, as he does now, conversing in slow but not unkind German with the professional occupant of the standing section? Or would he prefer to be able to fill the room with his voice, standing just once in that perfect place on the stage to hear a single note reverberate around the cream walls, dying on the red seats?

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How many violins do you need, though? From my perch, I can see two oboes, four horns if we're lucky, one harp, one tuba and an army of violins. Sorry, six horns, two harps, one tuba and an army of violins. They warm up in a creepy cacophony of bowed and plucked strings, mixing in with the violas and cellos and string bass to create a ponderous amount of noise. When there was just one, he danced with the harp, they practiced light and happy phrases, one bouncing musical ideas off the another. Now each string practices in a different mode against the background bellowing of the tuba. Sometimes you can't help but think they get together backstage and, knowing the audiences expects natural harmonies during an orchestral warm up, pick the erriest sections of the opera to practice while the seats fill and the public waits.

Admittedly, Salome gives them quite a few options to pick, as far as eerie themes go.

My favorites are the moments of anticipation when the orchestra gets quiet and the audience follows suit, awaiting the entrance of the conductor to begin the opera. Here, the indeterminate slashes of red paint on a white backdrop disappear to reveal the real curtain minutes before the performance begins. I'm already on my feet, watching my fellow musicians smile and shake hands, noting when the sixth horn player walks in through a side door, just before the group settles down.

The crowd applauds as the man appears. The orchestra begins and the lights dim. Standing, leaning staring, wondering, listening, the music guides us on.

I love the opera.