Stephen W.
Yelp
The last time I went to Town Hall, it was to see Piffaro perform Renaissance music on instruments that are more or less faithful reproductions of the ones originally used to perform this music.
Objectively, Town Hall is a sublime venue. I can think of no place in the city where I'd prefer to hear classical music.
Still, even though I was getting a much-needed break from round-the-clock work, I was vaguely unhappy. And as I thought about it, I realized that with a single exception -- The Messiah performance that I attended last year -- I am always vaguely unhappy at Town Hall. Despite an earnest appreciation of classical music that becomes more informed by the year.
Sorting through my neurons, I've boiled it down to this.
The overpowering sexlessness of the performers. The men are so non-descript I can't even describe them. The women have the undusted dowdiness of Ph.D. candidates I knew, people who have molded monkishly among the stacks in the basements of libraries until they cease to telegraph any specifically gendered quality whatsoever.
There is also the fact that to go to Town Hall for an early-Renaissance concert is to sit among very old, overeducated white people who keep their coats and mufflers on for the duration of the performance, a dispiriting reminder of just how fucking cold it's going to be thirty years from now. What path must I chart, I ask myself, to arrive upon a sandbar where this represents the best Saturday night out available? And from a purely statistical perspective, just how many times will I visit this hall before one of my fragile pew-mates is hustled out under a sheet before my very eyes?
I spend most of the time -- since you have to look at something -- just looking at that sea of sallow heads that bob in time with the ancient strains reproduced by crazily committed musicians who may be, for all I know, conducting the nastiest, most torrid affairs, backstage. Now that I think of it, I bet they are, because when I was a graduate student, the only answer to the tedium was sensual indulgence, and none of these people were obese.
Oh, and heaven help us. How to say this? Artistically, ours is a city of considerable attainments and sometimes comic pretensions. One tortoise-shell-glasses-wearing popinjay was decked out in a scarf, a bow-tie, and hauteur, his nose pointed so steadily toward the dome of the hall that I was surprised he could register the reactions of the universe he was looking down upon to his Highbrow Man of Culture schtik. I wanted to pull his nose, smile puckishly, and remind him that there's simply no substitute for being a man.
Don't get me wrong. I'll go here again, for all the reasons mentioned in the other reviews, and for one more: going to Town Hall reminds you of how lucky you are to have the option to stay home, drink wine, and fuck.