In Defense of Loud Talkers

Not only do I want to hear people clap between movements at the symphony, I wouldn't mind hearing someone yell "Right on!" after a stellar piano cadenza at Carnegie Hall.
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I am, I confess, a consummate eavesdropper. It's rare that I can resist the urge to crane my neck or reposition my entire body to catch uttered tidbits of other people's lives -- in restaurants, airports, grocery stores, and especially in concert halls. While it's probably fair to say that most people would be quick to turn around and shush a fellow audience member talking through a performance, as a reporter who frequently covers the performing arts, I relish this kind of behavior. For me, gauging audience reaction is part of the job, but it appeals to me for other reasons too.

Recently, at the Carnival Center for the Performing Arts, Miami's gorgeous (if financially-troubled) new Cesar Pelli-designed complex, it started with a woman in her sixties complaining, in a distinct New York accent, about the fact that Miami is decidedly not a walking-around town. "I used to walk home from work everyday, from 57th St. to 72nd St., and three avenue blocks, too!" And then, "I do miss New York, very much." I liked her already. (In Miami, it's acceptable -- admirable even -- to admit to missing New York.)

The performance was a spectacular contemporary dance piece called Rota, by the Brazilian choreographer Deborah Colker and her troupe Companhia de Dança Deborah Colker. Throughout the entire evening, this woman and her friends, who were sitting behind me, continued talking, decidedly not sotto voce.

"It's like they're not real, I can't take it!"

"How do they do that? It's so different!"

"Beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy ... very sexy."

"Oh my God, I can't believe what I'm seeing. Look at this!"

"I never saw anything like it!"

And so it went, at fairly regular intervals, for an hour and a half. And I loved it. The performance was fantastic, without question, but listening in on these ladies as they experienced dance like they never had before, was thrilling.

A week later I was back at the Carnival Center for opening night of the Miami City Ballet, a wonderful company, performing George Balanchine's Jewels. It was really lovely, but, except for the applause that erupted during several particularly impressive maneuvers, and an occasional whisper of "beautiful," everyone was dead silent. I know that's how it's supposed to be at the ballet, and the truth is, there probably wasn't anything happening that much of the audience had never seen before, but don't tell me ballet doesn't inspire passion. It also inspires "proper" etiquette, and I missed my talking ladies. When Isanusi Garcia-Rodriguez leapt across the stage in such striking form, I wanted to hear someone yell out, "Yeah!!!", instead of the comparatively sedate gasps of appreciation. I wanted to have the guts to be that person.

Why can't high culture be more like sports? Or jazz? When something gets me in my gut -- whether it's an impossible three-point shot from downtown, or an awe-inspiring improvised upright bass solo -- I want to express it, and I especially want to hear other people express it. Not only do I want to hear people clap between movements at the symphony, I wouldn't particularly mind hearing someone yell "Right on!" after a stellar piano cadenza at Carnegie Hall.

That kind of enthusiasm is infectious, folks. Everyone's always talking about how to make high culture appeal to a "younger, more diverse demographic." Maybe here's one answer: If you like what you see or hear, speak up.

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