Where My Mind Went Listening to Mahler

The Boston Symphony Orchestra began its 2010-2011 season last week, and I saw two consecutive Thursday night concerts. Each featured a symphony by Gustav Mahler (1860-1911), a late Romantic composer infamous for his bombast. Now, if you've ever seen a Mahler symphony, let alone two back-to-back, you know what to expect. They are long. Over eighty minutes long. And even when one enjoys the music, one's mind tends to wander. Imagine this interior monologue (condensed, of course):

Movement I. I'm glad to see James Levine has recovered. What was the face he just made at the first violins? Did they screw up before they even started playing? Ahh, the opening fanfare; I forgot how simple Mahler is. Wait... simple? What am I saying? There are enough musicians on that stage to fill Rhode Island. I wonder how they all fit. Perhaps Symphony Hall removed the first few rows of chairs. These seats are terribly creaky. I wish that kid in front of me wouldn't bob his head to the beat. Is there a beat?

And it's over. What a swell symp... oh. That was just the first movement.

Movement II. This second movement is even darker than the first. Listen to those trills, the horn solos, the high violin passages. The program notes say "tempestuous." I bet it will rain when I leave. And is there an umbrella in my bag? I can't check now. The girl next to me is practically having an affair with my armrest. Why are there more empty seats for Mahler than there were for the first half? Did everyone else get the memo about how long this is?

In the last Mahler symphony I went to (No. 6), there was a cowbell. More cowbell, please? More cowbell?

Movement III. Thank goodness, the seventeenth movement. I'll get home before tomorrow. I should go into work early tomorrow, and take the afternoon off. Or maybe I will sleep in and show up at noon; my back's been a little stiff. Grown man behind me who is kneeing my chair repeatedly--you are not helping.

The ushers are rushing about in the corner. Hope that old man's all right. Is he breathing? If someone kicked it at Symphony Hall, would the concert stop? He could be wailing in agony, but you can't hear it over that music. Oh for the love of Mahler, man in Row L, get your middle-aged knee out of my seat cushion.

Movement IV. Groceries. I didn't buy groceries this week. Groceries require a whole movement of thought.

Movement V. The finale, at last! How come it took longer for the paramedics to arrive than the last movement? At least the old man's walking out. He's probably hungry. So am I, come to think of it. Maybe I shouldn't go to the gym before BSO concerts; too much of an appetite. Who was it that thought Mahler made pastries? Just down around the corner, come get your piece of Mahler's. I see the last page on the stands. Maybe it's a trick. Maybe there's an encore hidden behind their folders. Elaine Stritch thought Mahler was a baker, that's it!

Why is everyone rising? Is all this clapping written in? No: the symphony's over! We made it to the other side. You'll have to excuse me, fawning seat-neighbor. I have to get out of here presto. I've been thinking of nothing but Mahler for the past two hours.

For your reference: Elaine Stritch on Mahler.