The Dog Ate My Music — Excuses For Not Practicing

by Janet Horvath  

The dinosaur ate my homework. The dog ate my homework. The computer ate my homework. Through the ages teachers have heard extremely convincing excuses to not do their work. Dear music pupils: Don’t tell me you’ve practiced when you haven’t. I can always tell.

My parents were both musicians. My father set the standard for practicing. He would slavishly prepare his orchestral music week after week. I remember that he practiced Beethoven Symphony No. 8, which has a difficult triplet passage in the cello part in the Tempo di Menuetto movement. (It is often inaudible, covered by a gorgeous horn solo, but you can hear it at 3:07 in the link below.) He went over and over the passages with a metronome, starting ever so slowly, then inching the speed up. Both of my parents made sure I practiced properly. Music is more audible than homework so I couldn’t fake it. The piano was in our living room and while my mother, a quintessential piano teacher washed the dinner dishes, she’d listen critically. “COUNT! One–and–DA, Two–and–DA!” she’d bark.

There was no escape when I practiced the cello downstairs either. The door had to be open so my father could intervene. He was from the old school and firmly believed in a methodical approach. “What? You play duets? Why aren’t you practicing your scales and etudes? Popper and Grützmacher.

“Play S-L-O-W-E-R. Do it again!”

One thing for sure—no matter how little I practiced there was no getting out of the lesson that week. They wisely understood that even if I had hardly practiced—according to their standard, at least an hour on each instrument every day— playing during the lesson was worthwhile.

The avoidance of practicing is ubiquitous. Students come up with excuses that are so creative they deserve repeating.

Unacceptable Excuses:

“I didn’t practice this week because I couldn’t be bothered.”
“My hands have grown since last week and so I keep hitting wrong notes!”
“Our housekeeper tidied up the music and I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“I’ve been chewing gum all day and can’t hold the violin today.”
“It sounded much better in the practice room…”
“I sold my instrument to pay for music school.”
“I left my instrument in my other pants.”
“My cat vomited in the piano.”

Possibly acceptable:

A friend of mine told me that a new student presented himself for their first lesson with a great excuse—a car ran over his bassoon. (Perhaps it sounded better?)

Another colleague told me about a trumpet student who fell onto his trumpet and crushed it while the teacher watched in horror!

Once one of my students, Clara, came to a lesson with the black, ebony fingerboard hanging, the strings dangling, and flaccid. Looking very sad Clara proffered her hand to show me four cello pegs. The strings must be wound through the pegs to hold the strings at the right pitch. On a blistering summer day she had left her cello in the car for several hours. When she went to retrieve her cello the fingerboard had come unglued, the bridge, which supports the strings, had toppled over, and the pegs had fallen out. “I didn’t know where to take it to have it fixed.”

Though we sometimes have our doubts, students are only human. To be honest, I’ve known several musicians who have left music, bows, endpins, and instruments on car rooftops. Hence Darren’s story: “After my last lesson I put my sheet music on the top of the car. Then I wrestled my cello into the backseat. My mom was in a hurry so I quickly hopped in. We drove off. I remembered the music when we were almost home! My mother was so annoyed. She turned around right away and we raced back to your street. I didn’t know my mom could drive so fast! Do you remember that it was such a windy day last week? Well the music was scattered all over the place. We found only this piece,” and then he showed me one page of his music. The page was covered with muddy tire tracks.

It’s important for parents to know that some of my best lessons were those for which I hadn’t practiced enough. Lessons were never cancelled. My music teacher used these lessons as an opportunity to practice with me, to isolate the difficult spots, to play slowly, to play hands separately (as in the case for piano lessons.) We would carefully analyze issues:

Was the fingering tripping me up? Did it need to be changed? Were inadvertent accents happening because the bow speed was not smooth and uniform? Was the tempo unsteady? Was I miscounting a passage? Was I being careless with intonation? Was I following all the instructions marked by the composer such as the dynamics, the articulations and the phrasing?

Nothing serves the student better for their future work in music or in any field than learning how to apply oneself and practice effectively. This intentional approach helps the student improve exponentially. Inconsistent practice prevents improvement, but poor, ineffective practice just reinforces mistakes!

A Powerful Documentary Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness

by Janet Horvath

A very special documentary entitled Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness illustrates the power of music to transform people of all cultures. The film received an award at the 59th Golden Prague International Festival and is being screened worldwide at film festivals around the world. 

I had a chance to have an in-depth conversation with the producer and director of Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness, Maciej Pawelczyk of Inbornmedia, a TV production company. They produce more than 100 hours of TV content and independent documentaries per year and sell to companies in the UK, Europe, Asia, and the U.S.

We’ll begin by setting the tone with Chopin‘s Prelude in A Minor, Op. 28, No. 2.

Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness © IMDb

What a moving and provocative film! Tell us how you chose the three settings and the three musicians to feature.

Thank you, Janet. As a creative film producer, I feel flattered. We sought locations not only symbolic but also steeped in the sorrows and shadows of history’s darkest chapters, which would resonate powerfully with Chopin’s music within our film. We aimed to juxtapose the evil aura of these places with the sublime beauty of Chopin’s compositions and to explore the transformative potential of music. Since it is a Polish-Korean co-production, the film naturally led us to locations in Poland and South Korea.

In Poland, setting the bar very high, we chose the Nazi German Death Camp Auschwitz. This site arguably represents the bleakest moment in human history and the epicenter of mass atrocities during World War II. Heavy with unspeakable horrors, it evokes intense emotions. We chose Leszek Możdżer, a celebrated Polish jazz pianist whose unique persona and metaphysical engagement with music promised to counterbalance the oppressive and sinister atmosphere of Auschwitz, anticipating an extraordinary, hopeful musical experience.

Seungilgyo Bridge

We considered what story to unfold in South Korea and chose the Seungilgyo Bridge as our stage, at the border alongside the authoritarian regime of North Korea. The construction of the remarkable site began under North Korean control but was completed by the South. Our Korean co-producers from Play Button Media brought Jae-Yeon Won on board, a distinguished South Korean classical pianist, who performed on the bridge that symbolizes a nation’s torn past and its resilient spirit.

Finally, our third protagonist represents multiple cultural narratives. Fares Marek Basmadji, born in Aleppo, Syria, to a Syrian father and a Polish mother, later becoming a resident of Great Britain, personifies this synthesis. Given the ongoing conflict in Aleppo, we arranged for his appearance to be in Lebanon, a refuge for countless Syrian refugees. Beirut is close to the port where a devastating explosion recently occurred. The location is a poignant reminder of the enduring human spirit amidst chaos and despair.

As you can see, each musician and each setting were meticulously chosen to reflect our film’s core theme: the enduring power of music to heal and uplift, even amid history’s most painful scars.

One of the prominent pieces, Etude Op. 10 No. 3 in E Major called the “Tristesse,” is slow and cantabile with a stunning melody—at times optimistic, tender, and nostalgic. I think the poetic nature of the piece allows the audience to be contemplative.

The result exceeded my expectations. This project was not merely about organizing concerts; it explored how spaces imbued with powerful histories interact and reverberate through music. The juxtaposition of Chopin’s passionate music with the intense energy of the chosen locations created an almost tangible atmosphere, deeply resonating with the audience.

It must have presented tremendous logistical concerns.

Navigating the concerts in Korea and Lebanon posed challenges, but the most daunting was playing a concert in Auschwitz, Poland. I was quite terrified. How would it play out? There, the air is heavy with the memories of over a million souls lost, making it the most earth-shattering cemetery in the world. Engaging with an audience so deeply intertwined with these past atrocities required delicacy and reverence. One of the attendees, Elżbieta Ficowska, was saved due to the initiative and bravery of Irena Sendler, who hid the six-month-old child in a wooden box, placed her on a wagon full of bricks, and transported her from the Jewish ghetto to safety. This, of course, brought enormous depth to our film.

In Beirut, the presence of Syrian audience members, including those who had fled the devastation of their homeland, lent an additional layer of complexity. For Fares, the pianist, performing there was not only an artistic endeavor but also a personal journey into the heart of his country’s suffering. The proximity of the concert stage to the site of the recent port explosion added a raw, immediate context. I can’t forget a deeply touching moment when a woman, who was perched high above the concert looking down from a window, became visibly moved by the performance. The tears of onlookers and the silent grief of the city were palpable.

In Korea, the Seungilgyo Bridge represents a poignant symbol for the listeners. A listener reflected upon his grandfather who perished in the Korean War, the bridge symbolizing the huge toll of the conflict. For another attendee, a defector from North Korea, its spans signify the bittersweet embodiment of his journey from oppression to freedom. The bridge is a powerful metaphor for their experiences—not only a physical crossing but an emotional and historical one. It’s a poignant and daily reminder of a divided homeland, highlighting the stark contrast between the suffocating control of the regime and the liberating embrace of their new lives.

I witnessed a kaleidoscope of emotions during these concerts. The director, Joanna Kaczmarek, and I were able to capture this emotional tapestry on the screen. The synthesis of Chopin’s music with the intensity of the locations created an unforgettable journey—I still have tears in my eyes when I watch the final scene!

There’s a lovely image of the grand piano on an otherwise empty stage with empty seats behind it. We hear the Korean protagonist play the Chopin Concerto No. 1 in E minor Op. 11 with a group of string players. How did you decide how much of the individual performers’ histories to depict and their personal connection to the sites within the larger conflict of the actual locations?

Maciej Pawelczyk

Creating a harmonious balance posed a considerable challenge. We chose Polish jazz pianist Leszek Możdżer not because of any historical ties to the extermination camp but because of his captivating personality and metaphysical approach to music. His segment had to transcend conventional storytelling. The omnipresent shadow of Auschwitz, the factory of death, called for a weighty meditation on the battle between good and evil. Music here, we felt, needed to act as a cosmic and crushing force so deep that it would dominate the story.

Our Korean protagonist is from Paju, just 30 kilometers from the North Korean border. He passes by the barbed wire daily, and it stirs deep reactions in him. It’s a stark reminder of one of the world’s most oppressive regimes, where freedom of expression is perilously curtailed.

The most intimately woven narrative, however, emerged in the poignant tale of Fares, who was driven by two deeply significant motives. First, a desire to reconnect with his fellow Syrians displaced by the war, and second, by performing one final concert to bring closure to his musical journey.

As a documentary producer, when I see we’ve genuinely made an impact on the protagonists, I am gratified. This was the case here. Fares decided to wear a traditional Syrian costume. Once a source of shame, the garment symbolized his journey and transformation, his deeper understanding and empathy towards others, free from the shackles of prejudice and stereotypes. At the same time, we set Fares’ personal story against the backdrop of the Syrian war. The conflict has displaced millions of Syrians, who fled to Lebanon, a country beleaguered by a severe economic crisis. The interplay between Fares’ individual experience and the larger context revealed the goal of our film: to weave the personal narratives with the historical and social conflicts of the locations and to create a rich, multifaceted story.

You describe how one’s work “is never done” when playing music. As a musician, I know that musical interpretations are not only a reflection of the growth the musician has experienced up to the time of performance and the inspiration the musician feels in the moment but also in the resonance achieved in and from the audience. The actor describes this eloquently. How did you decide to depict the final scenes and the resonance with the three audiences?

As a creative producer, I fully identify with Fares when he says that an artist’s work is never finished. The multitude of interpretations of a piece, a film, or a painting is evidence of maturity. A film can be improved infinitely, but deadlines must be met. Ultimately, a musician needs to perform a piece; a filmmaker needs to release a film.

We tried to illustrate the effect of Chopin’s music in several ways— the reactions of the audience: tears, contemplation, reflection, and silence; their individual observations, what they felt while listening to the piano in places marked by pain. Depicting the musicians’ reactions was critical, too, especially Fares, who seemed to channel each note emotionally. The final device we used was to interweave the entire performance with symbolic images— shots of the Auschwitz, Birkenau concentration and extermination camp, views of refugees from a camp in Beirut and the destroyed port, and landscapes of South Korea near the border with North Korea. Our goal was to create a mix of extreme emotions compressed into the final climactic scene of the film.

From the beginning, you juxtapose serene and idyllic nature scenes with urban scenes, vistas, and art with barbed wire and destruction. Can you describe how you chose the visual cues?

Maciej Pawelczyk during the shooting of the documentary

You have discerned our narrative mechanism! The most potent artistic expression lies in contrasts, hence our decision to juxtapose such polarizing images. Isn’t this the same in music? For instance, the enchanting landscapes of a town where a barefoot Polish composer wanders through the forest are set against the harrowing extremity of Auschwitz; the captivating mountainous vistas around Seungil Bridge, are contrasted with the barbed wire beyond which lies the cruel ‘state of darkness,’ North Korea; or the splendid city of Beirut, juxtaposed with the aftermath of a port explosion and the plight of Syrian refugees.

You feature both auditory and visual metaphors, such as barbed wire and railroad tracks. Later in the film, there are several shots where these images become ubiquitous, and we cannot pinpoint where they are located.

Indeed, barbed wire is a recurring motif—barbed wire symbolizes enslavement, of course.

It appears in the refugee camp in Lebanon, in Auschwitz, and on the border of the two Koreas.

In North Korea, barbed wire symbolizes not just the physical confinement of almost 26 million people but a broader spectrum of state control, oppression, and isolation, both from the outside world and within its borders. The importance of this symbol is even more significant since some 5 million soldiers and civilians died in the Korean War, which led to the division of the country.

In the context of Syrian refugees residing in Lebanon, barbed wire marks the boundaries of refugee camps or enclosures where Syrian refugees live and represents the displacement these individuals have experienced after being forced to leave their homeland due to war and conflict caused by Bashar al-Assad. Over 12 million Syrians remain forcibly displaced from their homes, including an estimated 1.5 million who fled to Lebanon, a country of only 7 million.

The railway tracks in Auschwitz stand as a stark emblem of destruction, deeply linked to the camp’s dark history. These tracks saw the arrival of 1.3 million individuals to Auschwitz. Notably, in just 5 years, 1.1 million were Jewish, with 960,000 succumbing within the camp’s confines and 200,000 others perished, mainly non-Jewish Poles, individuals with mental disabilities, Roma, homosexuals, and Soviet POWs.

These haunting symbols are a stark reminder of the dire outcomes that can emerge when authoritarian regimes rise to power. Our film stands as a manifesto against all forms of physical and mental subjugation of people.

There are several times in the movie when the piano music of Chopin returns. I felt myself calm. The Scherzo in C-sharp, composed in 1838 minor Op. 39, is featured prominently. The piece, composed in an abandoned monastery in Spain, is a terse, heroic, and grand work. It vacillates between the mysterious with lovely high fleeting passages, then moves to aggressive octave passages.

All three musicians had something to give to bring calm or healing to the lives of their audience members. But you also use disturbing sounds and silence very effectively.

I took a creative part in deciding the direction of the film’s musical arrangements; indeed, Frédéric Chopin’s music does not dominate the film as you can’t tell a story on one level of emotion. Dynamics are the basis of narrative, and if we played Chopin’s music continuously, its power would be less weighty.

And that is the same in music. What would an interpretation be like all in monotone without contrasting dynamics?

We keep viewers in suspense, waiting for the climax at the film’s end, when the Chopin compositions dominate and bring utter relief. Disturbing sounds within the film only intensify this effect, causing a dissonance between the state of exaltation and the darkness associated with places of evil.

I found it particularly effective that the three performances are aligned. Would you comment on what your intention was for the viewers?

Our film is not only a concert but a cinematic endeavor carefully crafted to captivate, enchant, and grip the viewers. In weaving the performances of our three pianists together, we hoped to harness a profound synergy. Channeling Chopin’s music and the all-encompassing benevolence of the sounds into a decisive moment is akin to what would happen if we focused sunlight through a magnifying glass. This confluence of energies could not have been achieved by showcasing each performance separately.

I think in a world where understanding and harmony between cultures should be paramount, particularly in these times fraught with uncertainties and conflicts, the film is a testament to the unifying power of music. The three threads – Arabic, Jewish, and Korean – intertwined artistically that converge in a climactic final scene shows we are one, bound together by the universal language of music and its ability to bridge the divides of our human experience. I hope our film highlights that.

The emotions raised are powerful. Do you think the three musicians achieved their goals? What did these experiences do for them?

This is a good question because we spoke with the film’s protagonists after we concluded the film. One thing is sure: for everyone, it was an unprecedented, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

For Fares Marek Basmadji, the concert met expectations and allowed him, in a sense, to get in touch with a part of himself. He told us that he couldn’t stop thinking about the people he met there and that the experience gave him a broader perspective on life.

Jae-Yeon Won mentioned that before the film his knowledge of the Korean War was only through books and movies. He fell in love with Chopin’s unique harmonies and bel canto style, but on the bridge, he experienced an inexplicable shuddering. It reinforced Jae-Yeon’s belief that Chopin’s music can be a powerful tool to reach and soothe those suffering from trauma.

Leszek Możdżer, was always confident about the outcome of our musical experiment. We accomplished our mission, a sentiment underscored by his quote, “I am not afraid of darkness,” which inspired the film’s title.

Were there any unexpected outcomes?

As a producer based in Poland, I couldn’t have imagined that the Syrian crisis and the brutal Russian attack on Ukraine would echo so poignantly in my backyard. The parallels between the Syrian and Ukrainian situations have become strikingly clear, especially as I witness the influx of Ukrainian refugees seeking refuge in Poland.

I think the enduring strife in the Middle East makes this film even more timely. The two narratives, the Arabic and the Jewish are woven together and culminate in an emblematic union.

The Seungilgyo Bridge divide continues to resonate powerfully. The escalating tensions at the Korean border, the advancements in lethal technologies, and the strengthening bonds among authoritarian regimes are distressing reminders of today’s reality.

You have a passion to highlight political divisions and tumult. Tell us about your other projects.

Authoritarian governments often start by subtly eroding freedoms gradually, imperceptibly, by creating false narratives and even fake foes through propaganda. This underscores the importance of vigilant media coverage, which I try to promote as a producer.

In our international documentary television series “Auschwitz in 33 Objects,” we present the history of the concentration and extermination camp unconventionally through objects discovered in the camp that belonged to the victims. We are just completing the “Dictator’s Hideouts” series, which explores the bunkers of European dictators and the unique paranoia of each dictator. Isn’t it essential to draw lessons from the past?

Chopin: I am Not Afraid of Darkness, is available on IMDb. A final quote from the documentary is, I think, apt.
“Music is a kind of language that is very close to God.”

Our Favorite Funny and Musical Animals

by Janet Horvath, Interlude

Who doesn’t love their pets and animals in general? Musicians do too of course. According to musicians, our pets are quite musical. Leave it to us to make musical jokes about them. In case you thought I’d exhausted all our jokes and puns, I hope this latest article will dissuade you.

Who isn’t fascinated by alligators? But don’t get too close…

Here are two favorite jokes.

“What do you call an alligator that can play the banjo?”
A crock and roll musician.

“Why did the alligator have to sit at the back of the music classroom?”
He didn’t practice his scales.

“Why don’t you see crocodiles in the orchestra?”
Awkward! as you can see.

In music history, the three “B’s loom large. Bach, Beethoven, Brahms.

So, no wonder that B may be a musician’s favorite letter of the alphabet!

The letter also lends itself to lots of jokes, such as:
“Our dog’s Bach is worse than his bite.”
“He’s classically trained.”

A musician for sure, conceived this fable of B’s:
Last night a swarm of Bees showed up in the living room to listen to some music. But picking a genre frustrates them as there is so much to choose from. There’s bee-bop, Bee-thoven, Bee-yonce, the Bee-tles. There’s Amy Beech, the Bee-stie Boys, Cros-bee, Still and Nash, or Justin Bee-ver!

Beavers, though, can be showoffs.

And don’t forget that fabulous foursome, The Beagles!

Let’s make sure cats have equal airtime.

According to this cartoon, Haydn might actually have been inspired by his cat.

The piece of music depicted is the Symphony No. #94 in G Major Surprise 2nd movement, Andante, from 1791. Legend has it that the sudden forte chord and burst in the timpani was meant to wake up members of the audience who’d fallen asleep.

There are some cats who can play puuurfectly.

And other cats that can hold their own on the piano, even fooling your teacher!

Did you hear the one about the lovely flamingo who showed up for a Flamenco audition?

Or when the 8-limbed Octopus took the percussion audition and easily surpassed the other candidates?

We musicians are often plagued by earworms—the tune you cannot get out of your head that repeats and repeats all day long. Birds, I guess, are not immune.

“Chirp! Great… Now I’ll have that stupid song stuck in my head all day.”

And speaking of birds:
“What do birds sing on Halloween?”
Trick or Tweet.

Here’s a handsome performer: Goose Springsteen.

“What do you call the coyote that plays the French horn instead of howling.”
Cornyote!

And if you liked that one, here is an oboe-players version.
Loboe!

Watch out Trombone players. Playing a high-frequency riff might attract the attention of a lovesick elephant who could mistake your sound for a highly stimulated elephant looking for a mate.

Piano jokes with animals are quite plentiful.
Have you ever tried playing hide n’ seek with a zebra?

Please, don’t teach the piano to a woodpecker! You’ll run into trouble.

Snoopy tells us that you never know how a Chopin piano work will affect someone.

I think we agree that we are moved by these lovely Nocturnes, whether in the major or the minor key.

Did you know that the famous “Minute” Waltz in D-Flat Major Op. 64 No. 1, a miniature piece composed in 1847, was originally titled “The Waltz of the Little Dog.” As Chopin composed the music, a little dog was running around the piano chasing its tail. I can picture that. The series of grace notes in the middle section supposedly is to denote the little bell around the dog’s neck! 

Now, to be fair, again, we should feature the cat.
What could be more amusing than Rossini’s Duetto Buffo di due Gatti the Cat Duet? The lyrics throughout are simply the word.

Let’s end with a few quick puns.

Percussionists enjoy this one:
“What’s the most musical part of a chicken?”
The Drumstick.

“What kind of music do Santa’s elves listen to?”
Wrap music.

“What music should you listen to while fishing?”
Something catchy!

I hope you found these humorous. To conclude our musical animals feature, did you know that many of our favorite composers have written bird and animal music? Check out one of our previous articles.

FAIL! – Onstage kind!

by Janet Horvath, Interlude

Before we enter that hallowed space—the concert stage— there are the ritual last minute precautions—men: fly zipped, check; women: hooks and buttons fastened especially in the front, check; string players: extra strings, check; oboe and bassoon players: good reeds soaking in water, check; music, check; brass players: valve oil, check; flute and clarinet players: swabs, check.

But no matter how prepared we are, unforeseen calamities can and do occur in performance. Batons, mutes and bows slip out of hands clattering and careening down the stage and sometimes into the audience.

Usually we are prepared for the inevitable string snapping. If it is the soloist or concertmaster, someone will hastily trade violins and then a musician at the back will as unobtrusively and quickly as possible change the string. When it comes to a cello that is easier said than done. My six-foot-four stand partner had a knack for breaking even the thickest string—the C string causing an exploding sound, throwing the entire instrument out of whack. How did cellists react to broken strings on stage?

Guy Johnston BBC Young Musician of the Year 2000 

Midori Goto

A famous “fail” occurred in 1985 when the then fourteen-year-old Midori had to swap her violin twice due to two broken strings during a performance with Leonard Bernstein. It was her Tanglewood debut with the Boston Symphony. She was performing the 5th movement of Bernstein’s own Serenade After Plato’s Symposium. In the heat of the action Midori broke the uppermost string—the E string. She quickly traded violins with the concertmaster. A few moments later she broke that violin’s E string. This time she was passed the associate concertmaster’s violin—all without missing a beat! 

Certainly I’ve witnessed some startling equipment failures. Yuri Bashmet, world-renowned violist, had a spectacular “fail” during a concert. He was playing his 1758 Testore viola. Suddenly the entire bridge, which holds up all the strings, literally exploded. Dazed, all he could do was shrug.

Yuri Bashmet’s 1758 viola falls apart during performance!

We musicians are often worried about falling: we might trip dodging all the onstage clutter of chairs, stands, microphones, instrument stands, and risers. Sadly, there have been several well-publicized falls of Maestros falling of their podiums James Levine included. Our principal guest conductor in the 1980’s, Klaus Tennstedt, who was a large man, once came tumbling off the podium toward me. I jumped up with my cello, and grabbed Tennstedt to steady him with the cello between us!

Conductor falls off podium 

It was particularly horrifying when Itzhak Perlman fell in front of our eyes. Fortunately he was not hurt. Another violinist had carried Perlman’s violin. Perlman refused anyone’s help, got up, and then played brilliantly.

Conductor “fails” are more common. They are known to lose their tempers but rarely do the sparks fly as they did with Arturo Toscanini the great Italian conductor of the NBC Orchestra, who threw temper tantrums regularly. There are two famous stories of him actually causing bodily harm. Once, trying to mediate between two feuding musicians, Toscanini started pummeling one of the players with a ferocious intensity. Another time in Turin, in 1919, Toscanini snapped a musician’s bow near the violinist’s face causing injuries and narrowly missing the player’s eye. Despite apologies and some financial compensation the musician sued. Toscanini was acquitted.

Audiences cause concert “fails” too. Recently at a Toronto Symphony concert an elderly gentleman turned up his hearing aids to better hear the mesmerizing opening of the Shostakovich Violin Concerto played by Julian Rachlin. The cellos and basses begin very softly and in a low register. Then the violinist entered playing without vibrato—starkly. A very loud high-pitched squealing ensued. The conductor stopped the soloist and the orchestra, as the ushers scrambled to find the perpetrator. We sat quietly waiting until finally the gentleman was located and led out of the hall saying, “What’s going on? I can’t hear anything!”

An orchestral concert is not usually the site of fistfights, but there have been two of late. In March of 2012 Maestro Riccardo Muti was conducting a performance of Brahms Symphony No. 2. One usually sits motionless and restrained in symphony concerts, but that evening two men started fighting in one of the boxes. A 30-year-old man started punching an older man over a disagreement regarding their seats. Muti continued the concert during the melee, turning around to throw irritated glares at the perpetrators until they could be subdued. No one was charged.

During the first twenty minutes at the Boston Pops’ opening night of 2007, a scream was heard. Conductor Keith Lockhart gave the signal for the orchestra to stop. A scuffle had broken out in the balconies apparently after one man told another to be quiet. “House security and Boston police stopped the fight, and the audience members were escorted out of the hall,” the Boston Symphony Orchestra said in a statement. The concert resumed with cheers from the audience.

Ildebrando D’Arcangelo in Carmen © ROH/Catherine Ashmore, 2009

Opera patrons more often witness “fails.” One occurred during a performance with Sir Thomas Beecham who was known for his quick wit. In a 1930s production of Carmen at Covent Garden, live animals were part of the action. One of the horses proceeded to ‘do his business’ on the floor. “My God what a critic!” said Sir Thomas Beecham.

We try very hard to keep the show going on no matter what happens. The audience often is unaware of any mishaps onstage and they can enjoy the glorious music uninterrupted. But audiences do love the drama. Anything can happen at a concert hall!