How I gave a concert pianist the clap

 I like to think that I have a healthy appreciation for all kinds of music. From electronica to acoustic rock, from mushy love songs to angry hateful ones, from Broadway musicals to hardcore gangsta rap, my tastes are as varied as my similes are bad. I’ve even recently begun getting into the underground indie-folk-dubstep-skacapella scene. I can always find something to enjoy in every genre, so as long as it’s not country.

Still, my unabashed love for Ke$ha and Lady Gaga may throw my preferences in doubt for the more sophisticated music connoisseurs out there. To prove that I do not have an inclination to always listen to horrific pop music, I make it a point to always name-drop various bands that “you’ve probably never heard of,” that may or may not even exist.

That’s why when an Artist Series involves a musical act, I go out of my way to be in attendance. What better way to boost my rep than to mingle and discuss internationally-renowned artists in a snobby British accent? One such occasion came with the performance of pianist Jerome Rose this past week, which was attended by anyone who is anyone. (Oh, you didn’t go? Well, it’s probably because you’re lame. I’m actually glad you didn’t, in fact.)

It is common knowledge that for every Artist Series students are encouraged to dress up like little kids on Easter morning. Now, I have something to confess: I have a rather peculiar puttin’-on-the-ritz routine. First, I take a two-hour shower (or until I use up all of Trustees’s hot water, whichever comes first) and then slide down the hall in only my underwear, socks, and dress shirt, at least two of which have Spider-Man on them. The next step is to put on way too much cologne and pick out a tie that doesn’t match. Lastly, I blast “Sharp Dressed Man” and dance until covered in sweat. Repeat.

Once I finished the sacred ritual, I was off to listen to the musical stylings of Mr. Rose. Dressed in my favorite vest and a yellow tie with pigs on it, I was feeling suave as could be. And, though my seat was practically in the back of the sophomore section, it was a breath of fresh air compared to the cage in the balcony I’m normally constrained to for chapel. This time, I could at least make out what gender the performer was.

Before I had time to wonder exactly how they rolled in a second one-ton grand piano, the virtuoso launched into “Rhapsody No. 1” of Op. 79 by Brahms (my second favorite, only behind the Bohemian one). He performed the piece in B-minor, which I guess is all right if you’re into that kind of thing. After a few minutes of beautiful pianistmanship, he played the piece to a close with unparalleled skill. The final chord was punctuated with booming applause and much anticipation for what was to come.

Upon finishing the rhapsodies, Rose calmly bowed and strode offstage and through the doors, only to return mere moments later. I like to think that he was just pumping himself up for the five-part piece that would be coming next, or perhaps scolding himself for almost thinking about playing one of the measures forte instead of fortissimo. Either way, he returned to more applause and excited whispers.

The following sonata, composed of several very Italian-sounding words, was flawless. Rose once again ended the song in dramatic fashion, whipping his hands away from the last notes and letting the tones ring out for a moment. After a few seconds, I realized that there was no applause. “Yes, this is my chance,” I thought. “I can be the clap-starter, me!” A full three or four seconds passed again, and I brought my hands together with a loud, meaty slap. “I did it; this one is mine!” Encouraged by my victory, I clapped my hands together a few more times with vigor. Then I heard a cricket chirp and a tumbleweed rolled in front of me. I was the only one applauding. To make things worse, Rose subtly brought his hand up as if to say, “Please, do you not know how this works?” I sank into my seat faster than the Titanic.

From that moment onward, whenever a song came to its conclusion, I sat on my hands and gritted my teeth. No longer would I be tempted to be the first one to clap, and I definitely wasn’t going to start the standing ovation. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you never, under any circumstances, celebrate.