When I was in my early teens I went to my first live rock concert and was astonished and captivated by the difference between a live concert and a studio recording.  Where the record was creamy, seamless and perfectly balanced, the concert was gritty, exciting, and (in the words of writer Bob Greene) full of an “intensely stirring immediacy.”

The same feeling hit me many years later at an undergraduate orchestra performance (at Lawrence University) of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.  Months before, I had heard it performed by a major full-time orchestra, the Milwaukee Symphony, where I was working at the time.  While the MSO’s was the more mature, polished rendering, the young musicians turned in a vibrant performance that had me on the edge of my seat from start to finish.

A few years later, I left my PR job at the MSO and took the executive director position at the Traverse Symphony Orchestra in northern Michigan – a community orchestra that was making the transition to a part-time professional ensemble under the leadership of a dynamic new music director.  Every concert was permeated with a palpable excitement that put the audience on the edge of their seats.  Sometimes the performances were rough and uneven.  It didn’t matter.   This was the way music should be experienced – freshly created, still hot to the touch.

It reminds me of sailing.  I started out on a tiny little Sailfish – basically a board with a sail.  You’re literally sitting on the water:  it’s wet, wild and if you lose your grip you might end up overboard.  Later I graduated to 20-foot Ensigns, bigger but still connected to the lake.  You held a tiller in one hand and kept another hand on the sheet, and you could literally feel the lake flowing around the keel just beneath your feet.  Eventually I moved on to a 25-footer, and later owned a 33-foot sloop with a wheel and autohelm.  I loved all these experiences but at each step my sense of connection with the water became a little more removed.  (I no longer own the cabin cruiser – but I still have the Sailfish!)

This is why I object to the orchestra world’s obsession with size and rank as a measure of quality.  Read a few orchestra strategic plans and see how often the phrase “world class” pops up.  I despise the term; it’s pompous and meaningless.  It’s not that we shouldn’t aspire to great performances.  On the contrary, the most exciting concerts are the ones where every musician is straining beyond their limits to turn in their best.  This has nothing to do with size.

Henry Fogel, retired president of the League of American Orchestras, remarked several years ago, “I think what anyone should be interested in is whether the orchestra in their community gives musically satisfying, thrilling performances--not where that orchestra stands in some mythical ranking.”   And he knew what he was talking about.  While president of the League, Henry visited orchestras in all 50 states. “I heard concerts of real quality,” he reported – “concerts that provided me with artistic satisfaction without the need to apologize for the locale (‘oh well, considering the size of the town, I suppose it was pretty good...’). Nope, these concerts were satisfying listening experiences for someone who has been listening to classical music for half a century.”

This has nothing to do with size.  On the contrary, sometimes the polished precision of big orchestras has left me relatively unmoved.  If I want that kind of perfection, there are plenty of antiseptic CDs that deliver it, and I can experience it along with a glass of red wine and a cat in my lap – in the comfort of my living room. 

When I go to a concert, I want to leave feeling as if I’ve touched the grain of the music, felt its grit, gotten burned by its rawness.  I want that “intensely stirring immediacy” that leaves me soaked and breathless and threatens to knock me overboard.    

The orchestra that delivers that consistently will never lack for audiences – and it has nothing to do with size.