Last night Mr P and I were invited to attend a closed rehearsal of the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus as they prepared for tonight’s world premiere performance of William Bolcom’s Eighth Symphony under the tutelage of James Levine.
The evening started in a reception room with a buffet of cheese and crudites and a cash bar. Then we were shepherded into Symphony Hall, where the orchestra and choir were warming up in a cacophany of melodies. Everyone on stage wore comfortable street clothes that made the audience of 200 invited patrons look overdressed. Mr. P and I couldn’t believe that the staid and proper concertmaster was wearing casual slacks and a hooded sweatshirt. If I saw him on the street dressed like that, I’d think “retired high school science teacher.”
Up until last night, I had never laid eyes on James Levine, the BSO music director since 2004 as well as the longtime music director for the New York Metropolitan Opera. I have only ever seen guest conductors — unfailingly some old white gaunt distinguished European man.
Seeing Levine at last was both surprising and oddly endearing. There he was, perched on a wooden stool with a plush velvet seat, commanding the room with a presence that was more visceral than graceful. His pot-bellied frame, thin-lipped expression, and a crown of wild gray hair circling a bald spot glinting under the spotlight made him appear both formidable and eccentric—a character who seemed to relish the intensity of the moment.
Initially, the rehearsal felt thrillingly “behind-the-scenes.” Levine would halt the orchestra mid-flow, repeating sections meticulously, sometimes five or six times in succession. His instructions focused on nuance and dynamics: “I’m concerned about bar 45. Let’s ensure the crescendo stays controlled until the second half of the bar, where it should reach mezzo-forte. 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, bing-bong-bing-bong…”
But as the minutes turned into an hour, the enchantment wore thin. The musicians and chorus members showed signs of fatigue, their eyes glazing with repetition. The audience fared no better, fidgeting and coughing, whispers occasionally escaping. When Levine interrupted a key crescendo for what felt like the hundredth time, an elderly gentleman in front of me leaned forward, staring at Levine with a silent, fervent plea: Just let them play for longer than thirty seconds, please.
Pictured to the right and below are some shots of the rehearsal from Mr. P’s cell phone. In the top picture on the right, one can sort of see the 80-person Tanglewood Festival Chorus at the back of the stage. Obviously, Levine is the guy sitting in the stool.
