Today at our rehearsal for Alban Berg's Lyric Suite, my stand partner Charles turned to me and said that his dad had had a terrific idea for a web page: Great Symphonic Disasters. That sounded like it could lead to a gold mine of wacky stories. OK, I'm in. And Mr. C., here you go!
The first, and probably weirdest disaster that I can remember, happened at the San Francisco Symphony back in 1989. It was All San Francisco Night, when SF neighborhoods buy groups of tickets and come to the Symphony the night after the opening Gala. I remember it was 1989 because it was right around the time of Tiananmen Square. We were playing the National Anthem, as we do for all the concerts during the first week. As we got to the middle section, I saw out of the corner of my left eye, two legs kicking wildly in the air. Our conductor, Herbert Blomstedt, must have noticed it as well, because I saw him look over his right shoulder to see what all the flailing was about. There, hanging by his two hands from the first balcony rail, was a male audience member. He could have fallen at any moment and been killed, and crushed the people below. What was even stranger was that no one around him appeared to be alarmed by this, nor did anyone try to help him up. On top of that, we just kept playing like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. While we finished the final chords of the anthem, the man somehow managed to crawl back up, and was gone by the time the next piece started. What the heck was that about? Perhaps it sounds racist, but because Tiananmen Square had just happened and the gentleman was Asian, plus the fact that no one was helping him back to his seat, I thought that this could have been some kind of planned protest against China. We played the rest of the first half and at intermission I asked the stage manager if he knew what had happened. "The guy got faint when he stood for the Star Spangle Banner and fell over the railing," Jim said. That did not sound right to those of us who had witnessed the stunt. Why were his surrounding seat-mates paying no attention? To this day it remains a musical mystery.
Another disaster occurred a few years later, during the actual Gala concert. The orchestra was well into the first piece when the stage door behind the third stand of basses opened and out stumbled a very inebriated man in a tuxedo. He pushed his way between the two bass players and their music stand, teetered to the edge of the stage, and jumped off into the audience. Word had it that he was a professional party crasher, but how did he get to the back stage area in the first place? Again, the Orchestra kept on playing during this episode of guerrilla theater like there was nothing amiss. To stop the music, it takes an act of God.
Or a fire drill. During yet another Gala concert, the fire alarm went off right after the first piece had started. Flashing lights, obnoxious beeping noises, and a voice over the loud speaker announced that everyone had to evacuate immediately. The Orchestra actually stopped playing. We were told not to take our instruments and leave the hall through the closest exit. Being good orchestra musicians, we did as we were told and headed out into the chilly night. Of course, the audience, dressed in designer gowns and tuxedos, had to leave as well. We were all milling about together on the sidewalk, chatting and hugging ourselves for warmth. Suddenly, Larry, a Symphony cellist, said to me "Hey, that's Ronnie Lotte over there!" We marched over and Larry introduced us. He was very excited to meet the former Forty-Niner free-safety. Mr. Lotte was quite gracious and introduced us to his lovely wife. We finally got the all clear, said our good byes, and returned to our previous activity of putting on a concert. Larry, who sadly has since passed away, was an avid football fan and very glad that that fire alarm went off.
Hmm.....I'm starting to see a pattern here. Are our Gala week concerts being hijacked by symphony insurgents? Is there a plot? Stay tuned for more Musical Mysteries and Disasters!
Love it!
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