I’ve never been a huge fan of classical music. I wasn’t exposed to Mozart or other classical composers in my childhood like I was other genres of music. The music of my childhood consists of two influences and two bands. My mother: The Beatles. My father: Johnny Cash. I had no idea anything other music existed until I discovered the Nine Inch Nails in junior high school.
When a friend invited me to attend the Utah Symphony I accepted with only slight hesitation. I haven’t been to the symphony since high school and decided it was time for a second chance. I’m older now; perhaps my musical appreciation has changed.
Our seats were in the balcony, which made seeing people behind me impossible, unless I wanted to turn around and gawk at them. You’re probably wondering why this mattered. I’m nosy, that’s why. If I am within earshot of an interesting conversation I have a need to know exactly what’s being discussed and who is discussing it. I couldn’t help but notice the moment Collin Currie, the especially dreamy percussionist, took stage the women behind me started chattering about how handsome he was. And he so, so was. Being Scottish only made him dreamier. I thought perhaps their hormones would calm down once the performance started. Nope. I leaned forward, and in a whisper, explained to my friend what was going on and that I had to see what these women looked like. He turned around and glanced at the women behind me and grimaced. He warned me that if I turned around I would probably find myself in fits of hysterical laughter. Not wanting to embarrass him I waited until the intermission.
At that point, I turned and saw something that indeed gave me a giggle fit. The women behind me were much older than I was expected. I thought I’d turn to see women my mother’s age, but oh no, these women were older than my grandmother.
I was absolutely thrilled these grannies still had it. They may not be hanging out lusting after men at the bars, like me, but they certainly still had the moxie to find a venue more fitting to their lusting needs.
The women left after the intermission. I assumed they were heading home to bed, but when the music started again and the percussionist didn’t come back on stage I had a different idea where they went. I too have slipped backstage at a concert in hopes of getting a glimpse at whatever musician I may be lusting after that night. I think the two women were doing the exact same thing. I applaud them for such bold moves. Had I not been there with a man I’d have done the exact same thing– Scottish accents are to die for.
With the women gone I didn’t have anything to listen to but the music. After a few minutes I found myself enjoying Tchaikovsky’s Fourth more than I expected. I’m not saying I’m going to be a classical music buff, but I can promise that when my friends’ have it playing in their homes and cars I will stop making exaggerated gagging sounds until they turn it off. And this, folks, is what I call progress.
