The helicopter actually flew over earlier, during some lesser Iberian
caprice. How I longed then for Andy Diller's decisive armamentarium to
blast the interloper out of the skies! But it flew away. My baby cried
once, many years ago, so I forgive all subsequent babies. I loved
sitting right next to the tot lot and watching the regular mob of young
parents and young children work out rhythmically as ever while the
Kimmel Center in Exile sawed away below us. No player on the basketball
court missed a shot either, as far as I could tell, just because all
that European music was blowing their concentration on their game.
I thought the acoustics were pretty good down in the Bowl, and the
/Bolero/ was a pretty good /Bolero/. For cutting edge, I would have
preferred Stinking Lizaveta. But not every summer evening needs to be
cutting edge.
I was up on the eastern rim, manning a table, for most of the concert,
where I couldn't hear so well. The Orchestra Police were all over us
too, with reams of Thou Shalt Nots. But they gave us free oranges and
bottled water; not as satisfying as Chris's sixpacks; still, I couldn't
beat the price for the refreshments, same as for the orchestra. If I
have to choose between $90 without helicopters and $0 with helicopters
... hey, remember that operatic scene in /Apocalypse Now? /Worked out
well enough, didn't it?
I counted 3,000 attendees at least. About half of those who stopped at
our table were out-of-neighborhood residents and several had plainly
never heard of Clark Park before. They seemed impressed. The other half
... they came streaming in from every side on foot, carrying their
folding chairs and their coolers. They seemed of all types. Most of them
you wouldn't bump into at the Kimmel, on any given night, anymore than
you would me, classicist though I am.
* * *
It was a flawless July day, one of the nicest in the entire season. For
me, the whole day was a composite sensory experience, a sort of
performance-art /Afternoon on the Ile de la Grande Jatte. /What life in
a big city should be, at its best: a round-the-clock confluence of
social and economic and artistic spectacles, all focused on a pretty
public space.
I started it off peddling t-shirts at the Farmers Market in the morning;
all locally grown, organic cotton, you betcha. The Market is really
starting to hit its stride by late July so it's a fun place to be.
At 11:00am, in rolled two busloads of International Dickens Fellowship
conventioneers, here to see the most crucial international sights of
Philadelphia, such as the Dickens Statue. Six local girls were dressed
up by the Arts League as 'Little Nell' and posed beside the statue. A
famous actress I didn't know performed Dickens readings BBCfully while
the Plain Folk hawked their heirloom tomatoes and shoofly pies 20 yards
away. Pleasant people, the Dickensians seemed; and if they weren't
really, well, they were soon enough gone, no? I strolled through their
throng, Little Nell mugs dangling from four fingers, crying, "Li'l Nell
Mugs! Getcher Li'l Nell Mugs roigh' here, Guvner!" They bought 39 mugs,
all proceeds going to Clark Park. Gor bless 'em, all them tourists. They
served lemonade and brownies.
Meanwhile, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, about 50 young people
on shiny new bikes were hanging around the Gettysburg Stone. I was told
later they were part of a Penn-affiliated group that works on farms. I
didn't notice any immediate advance in farming that day in Clark Park
itself, but who cares? They were having a good time, as were the Capture
the Flag players and the chess players and the volleyballers who showed
up after noon, each contingent to march back and forth across an
impromptu playing field set up in a park -- one to stalk across
green-and-white fields of inches, around the flagpole, with knights and
rooks; another to dash all around the greensward with foam swords and
axes; the last to bat a puffy prize fiercely back and forth over their
dedicated patch of dust.
All this time, the orchestra was building. Its stage had been set up
days before, and I had already crawled underneath it at night to admire
its immensity. It was so out of scale for our neighborhood -- something
fitter for Madonna, or /Close Encounters of a Third Kind /-- that it
created an irresistible urge to see what would land on it, regardless of
its utility. The Orchestra sound crew began to play canned symphonic
warmup music early in the day, to build tension; and it worked. By
nightfall, I was jonesing for a live string section.
* * *
It was University City District's 10th anniversary and UCD had arranged
for this appearance of the Orchestra as they had the first, six years
ago. I can understand and respect opposition to UCD for any number of
policies. For its urge to celebrate a birthday with a party in the park,
I cannot condemn it. If it insists on fixing up the park in the process,
I cannot condemn it. If it insists on sponsoring the Philadelphia
Orchestra, I cannot condemn it. I can only help, as I would help any
other group.
There was some fussing about the hasty planting of grass by UCD in the
Bowl prior to the concert. Come showtime, though, I didn't hear anybody,
especially not any artists, complain about the shape of the grass. I
specifically include neighborhood landscape artists -- people who
actually sow grass. What I heard was, it was good enough. There was no
anti-grass lobby.
Like Kyle, I noticed the Dickens Circle Drum Circle part in the
symphony. I'm a drum-circler myself, so I may be indulgent. But what I,
and at least one elder-crusty, noticed was that the drummers intuitively
faded down during the orchestra performance. We heard them during the
announcements; we heard them after /Bolero. /But we didn't notice them
during the concert. True musicians respect other true musicians.
After the concert, I dropped by Matt Wolfe's house for a jolly
afterparty. On my way home later, I walked through the Dickens Circle.
The drummers were going strong again, really performing well, with a
sophisticated West African choral line. And a dear friend of mine was
trance-dancing to the drummers. She, like I, had attended the Orchestra
concert, but the crowd was so large we never came across each other.
In the intimacy of the Dickens Circle, surrounded by jembes, we
connected. And that's what I treasure most about Clark Park: the
diversity of its intimacy. How easy it is for so many beautiful things
and people to coexist in it, provided they approach each other with
constant loving respect.
-- Tony West
Kyle Cassidy wrote:
Much of the performance was more of a "Symphony for Orchestra, Crying
Babies, and Drum Circle." One highlight of the evening was when the
general din was agumented by a helecopter circling overhead during
Bolero.
