Concert Etiquette

On May 3, the Honors Chamber Music class put on a classical music concert. The concert consisted of small groups of musicians collaborating to perform a variety of pieces. Following the concert, the class fell into a robust discussion regarding some of the audience members' behaviors. Allegedly, a group of students came to the concert to watch a friend's performance and proceeded to leave immediately afterwards. This sparked some dismay among the musicians. Several members claimed that proper concert etiquette should be a requisite for students attending concerts - if the audience care enough for their friends to show up and support, they should be able to follow and understand concert etiquette. In this case, it's staying for the whole duration. Yet opposing voices arose, posing potential drawbacks of this plan: with the insufficient time that already haunts the average Deerfield student, there would be a minuscule chance the half-full Elizabeth Wachsman Concert Hall will be ever filled to the brim.

As lovers and performers of classical music, we understand the frustrations that arise when a performance is treated more like a pit-stop than a destination. But we also see a deeper issue lurking beneath the etiquette debate: classical music's shrinking audience and the rigid and obscure traditions that may be contributing to its isolation.

Historically, classical concerts were anything but solemn, serious affairs. In the 18th and early 19th centuries, music was never the main event. Audiences would hold conversations, eat, and walk in and out during performances. Music was oftentimes a social occasion, nothing ceremonious. Musicians performed amid the clatter and murmur of the crowd as one part of a larger entertainment experience.

It was only in the Romantic Era, particularly with the rise of pianist-composer Franz Liszt

(1811-1886), when concerts became a more formal gathering.

Liszt demanded silence during his performances-he spotlighted the performer and the music with unprecedented seriousness. His concerts transformed listening into a meditative, pious act, creating the quiet, formal concert etiquette we now associate and expect with concerts around the world.

But perhaps that very reverence, once so revolutionary etiquette had become a barrier. In trying to preserve the sanctity of the concert hall, have we made it feel more like a museum than a living, breathing space for art?

We don't fault our peers for showing up just to support one person, nor do we question their sincerity. If anything, we are grateful for anyone showing up to the Chamber Music Concert. The presence of an audience - even for a few pieces - adds an element of liveliness to a space that often echoes with emptiness. None of us are music connoisseurs, nor should we be expected to appreciate music in the same way that the foremost connoisseurs of music do. Almost all of us are high school students following a rigorous curriculum and only have a limited amount of free time allotted for us, which we use to watch performances out of genuine respect for our peers and their music.

Reforming concert etiquette doesn't mean abandoning respect, it means rethinking how we define it. Maybe we allow people to come and go quietly. Maybe we rethink our expectations of total silence and stillness. Maybe we start treating concerts not as tests of devotion for classical music, but as open invitations — come for the music, stay if you're moved, leave if you must, but feel welcome to return.

In a world competing for time and attention, clinging to old customs may be doing classical music more harm than good. If we want these traditions to survive, perhaps it's time to let them evolve.