The Philadelphia Orchestra Plays Symphony No. 9
Kimmel Cultural Center
300 S Broad St.
Philadelphia
Jan. 11, 2025
Queue the music: An online rendition of Mahler's 9th.
Faye Webster’s “Underdressed at the Symphony” played on loop in my mind as I watched couples documenting their opulent evening attire inside the Kimmel Cultural Center, where I had arrived to hear the Philadelphia Orchestra perform Mahler’s Symphony No. 9.
Unlike with Webster’s accessible bedroom music, I’ve always sensed a barrier between myself and the intellectual overplay — the prestige, the legacy, the formalities — of orchestral music.
The integration of contemporary poetry into the concert as an ostensible attempt to superimpose and elucidate more meaning from a nonverbal genre unfortunately only further distanced me from the experience.
The show opened with a modern piece meant to frame and contrast the classical works of Mahler. The work, titled “Songs for Murdered Sisters” and composed by Jake Heggie, was dedicated to soloist Joshua Hopkins’ late sister, who was murdered by her husband. The music was introduced as both a “call to action” and a “pure form of expression.”
Famed feminist writer Margaret Atwood wrote eight poems for the project to align with the eight different movements of the work. I circled stanzas of the poems I anticipated would be important and prepared to take notes — I couldn’t help but feel like I was preparing for an AP English pop quiz.
I followed along with the words in the program but could not connect the aspiration of the project with the music I was hearing. One couplet I had circled prior read, “When I am singing this song for you / You are not empty air.” Flutes and oboes trilled a light birdsong. The depth of feeling I was waiting for never arrived. The piece hit me as disjointed and confused.
The premise of the work had been made abundantly clear, and yet the weight of the subject matter was not felt.
I felt exhausted, straining to make sense of it all. By the time the orchestra was tuning up for Mahler, I had abandoned my notebook. I noticed my friend next to me inhale and exhale deeply as the lights dimmed for the second time. I decided to do the same, as though I was a wind instrumentalist.
Instantly, I was mesmerized. I lost track of how many movements had passed. Harpists pulled away from the strings of their instrument to make room for ensuing sound. Horns ushered in tragedy haunted by their typically triumphant tone. A cellist held a note until the silence left behind struck its own chord. The conductor urged the chorus of strings to land softly but with strength as they found their way to the end of the harrowing 90-minute marathon.
When the piece was over, the conductor held the silence. I could not say when the last note was played. Unlike the previous piece, where the audience coughed in anticipation of the next poem on the page, our silence teetered on the edge of sound. The concluding harmony of applause was a movement in and of itself.
