throughout the third movement of Mahler 5, I imagine empires: grand castles, inlaid marble, the thundering footsteps of elephants. At the same time, I think about the ruins of empires; the fort near Jalori Pass, rough stones jammed into walls, a ditch that was perhaps a moat, on an outcrop, no treasures left, although perhaps there had been once. Empires and power fade, and they can be remade anew. I was aware as I did of the effort of concentration on the music, harder to focus on than guitar music that comes with words. The novelty of watching a coat-swishing blonde woman conduct Mahler 5 (very Tár) only lasts so long — and Gemma New seemed much friendlier than Cate Blanchett’s Lydia Tár, increasingly withdrawn, austere, deranged.

I read a tweet a few weeks ago – how embarrassing that it is 2024 and I can still barely get through a conversation without referencing tweets! – that was a screenshot of some orchestra’s programme notes, emphasising the obscurity and impenetrability of some performance. The person was commenting that classical music did itself a disservice by pretending that it was inaccessible to anyone who wasn’t elite. Someone replied describing their near-illiterate grandmother whose one solid joy in a hard life had been four symphony performances a year, or something to that effect. I booked to see the symphony with Shreyas a few days later, and only a little because of the Tár thing. I have felt bored at classical music concerts before – including while playing them in my high school orchestra (being a viola does come with some very dull sections). But that didn’t have to be my fate forever, and ‘classical music bores’ me is a pretty sel limiting way to understand an incredibly diverse range of human musical endeavour – especially for people who have spent thousands of dollars in the last 5 years on music lessons, i.e. me.

There was an elitism to it, all those grey heads in the audience. The structure of the instruments, the lingering knowledge that the instruments alone represented maybe a hundred thousand dollars and change, not to mention the looming lines of the organ. The government gives the NZSO more than $16 million dollars a year, not to mention ticket prices — or their charitable foundation. I have complete funding for the people who say that Te Matatini should be funded at the same level, but at the same time, isn’t there something wonderful in the fact that we as a society have decided that this exploration of ideas through the architecture of music is worthwhile enough that we can spend so much to allow it to exist, and much more accessibly despite the prices than when it was merely the purvey of European nobles? (I do also appreciate that all the musicians are in the union!). I felt myself resisting the European-ness of it by trying to imagine the elephants and the inlaid marble. And for the wonderful percussion concerto Losing Earth, I allowed myself to be led by the programme notes/reading The Ministry for the Future: imagining a new earth, because climate change doesn’t have to be the reality we live in, and I truly believe it won’t always be.

It was quite a different sort of event, although almost the same price point, the evening before, going to see Clap Clap Riot with Naomii. I listened to about 30 seconds on Spotify then decided to go: less architectural music, sure, and the floor of Whammy is stickier than the Town Hall, and it has more pinball machines (although both are good locations for browsing Auckland Libraries online catalogue… if one has a weakness for such an endeavour, which one does). The passion for the music in the audience around me was less prim. But just like the symphony starts with a few lesser-known pieces by contemporary composers, the opening band cracks the ice.

There’s a dimensionality to live music in either case, even though in only one did I need to figure out how to cram the melting dregs of a gin and tonic in my jeans pocket. Like, you can actually hear which side the sound is coming from, rather than the unidirectionality of speakers. (Yes I know about ‘surround sound’ but when you can see people’s actual fingers moving, hear them breathing as they introduce the music, it’s different). The cornocopia of music on YouTube and Spotify I have supped on for the last eight years makes it hard to remember that people make music, music comes out of people and their ingenious tools, not out of flat things with batteries and right angles. An electric guitar is just as beautiful as a harp – and why weren’t the orchestra goers swaying and twisting, allowing the music to move their bodies like the trio of women who curled passed me when Clap Clap Riot started playing Sweet Patricia, screaming ‘she’s Patricia’ and pointing to their friend.

I’ve been feeling kind of anxious all week, sand in my shoes, rubber bands around my fingers, every cloud dimming with a louring sense. I could give you an dozen explanations as to why, but I spent my weekend hearing music come from different directions with people I love beside me, and there are rocket seeds in the garden that will maybe not be eaten by slugs this time. There is work to do, but I am also sure that next week can be better.