Composites

Saturday night in one of Europe’s big cities, and concertgoers pour out of underground stations and cabs, tickets and programs in hand, dressed to the nines—a star-spangled cavalcade of cultural exchange and high-brow entertainment. Some will trace what they hear with prepared anticipation, some might not know what will be played at all, but all will unite in the absolute circumstance of it all. A few hours later, usually in the post-industrial or warehouse districts, a different crowd flows in and out of underground clubs—cigarettes and beers in hand—usually a little younger on average, a little dirtier, a little more naked. The sounds here are more repetitive, harder, or more alien and experimental, almost certainly not the kind of thing you’d hear in the concert halls. It’s a tale of two cities that—on the surface—couldn’t seem further apart. Wider respect and recognition for the latter is often severely lacking—ask the government for a club licence in the UK for example, and you’d be lucky to get it, while Arts Council funding provides a lifeline for classical music institutions, albeit a thin one. It’s just one symptom of the ubiquitous and discussed-to-death conservatism that surrounds classical music, playing the same repertoire time and again to ensure ticket sales, or social and behavioral expectation—but despite appearances (and sounds), the apparent antithesis between these worlds has potential to be artistically productive.