You can just sense when a tradition has begun.
My parents accompanied me to Handel’s Messiah…and what an experience. I’ve never attended the symphony with the same person twice, so each performance has been beautifully unique. As this was a Christmas performance, I felt the need to dress for the occasion. I broke out every bedazzled frock that I could reasonably adorn without blinding myself and/or others and made merry, Christmas-style. Out of respect for my fellow symphony-goers, I left my musical reindeer antlers at home.
The Mendelssohn Choir was ridiculously wonderful. I know that I’m walking a precarious line between hokey and corny, but I have to admit that their voices were heavenly. Hearing the “Hallelujah Chorus” live for the first time ever was amazing. Why did I wait 29 years to see this? The performance nudged the elusive “Christmas Spirit,” which seems perpetually out of reach, just a tidge closer. I felt the warm glow and had visions of a star, a star, shining through the night…it made this snarky Scroogette pause for a moment to absorb the radiant light of Christmas.
The conversation that the Messiah spawned with my parents was certainly one of the most entertaining aspects of the evening. My mom was enthralled with the performance. My dad…was dad. His hidden narcolepsy magically emerges during any sort of cultural event (or Hallmark Channel movies, though for that, I cannot fault him). Dad can be anti-cultural, but even he had to admit that the Hallelujah Chorus was “pretty cool”. My parents generally don’t like anything, so to say that they loved the symphony is a compliment in the highest regard.
Though I must share this—when I asked my dad which soprano was his favorite, he responded, “Tony.” Ok then.