What kind of clapping behaviour is acceptable at a classical music concert?

Published on Tuesday 2 March 2010 18:03

WITHOUT audiences, the performing arts world would simply not exist. The equation is one based on spiritual presence as well as the plain reality that "bums-on-seats > financial survival". So we, the audiences, have more than one role to play in the survival of the species. The warmth and timeliness of our applause, particularly in classical music, is as valuable as the contents of our wallets.

Let's leave aside the obvious financial considerations, for, despite the recession, our main orchestras – especially the Royal Scottish National Orchestra – are currently reporting buoyant box office sales.

Instead, let's turn to the more subliminal role of the classical music audience. Does the way it conducts itself, does its very presence or the way it reacts to the musical performance, make any difference to the collective musical experience of a concert? Can it have a proactive bearing on the musical outcome? The answer is a categorical yes.

Ask any orchestral musician – I'm married to one – and they will tell you the mere physical presence, the actual size of an audience, will set the tone of a concert for the musicians on stage. We've all experienced it: that sudden hush as the tuning dies down; the swell of applause as the conductor makes his entrance; the virtual collective intake of up to 2,000 breaths as he lifts his baton for the first note. It charges the atmosphere with a positive energy, and provides the musicians with a rush of adrenaline and irresistible will to perform.

So far, so good. But here's a more interesting question. Is the collective conduct and reaction of a large and disparate group of individuals, coming together to witness a musical event, instinctive or conditioned? Is there an expected code of conduct, or should those who have paid good money for their seats have the right to express their reactions freely and impulsively?

While reacting appreciatively to something is undoubtedly a human instinct, the way we do so is surely conditioned. An extreme example might be the occasion ten years ago when the Shanghai Festival, in advance of the BBC SSO's ground-breaking visit (Western-style concerts were still an unfamiliar concept in China), organised tutorial sessions for locals on "how to applaud". SSO players still recall the "uneasy politeness" of the audience reaction, compared to the greater self-expression they experienced on their 2008 return tour to a more Westernised China.

The SSO also played in Beijing's Great Hall of the People to a massive audience of 7,000. The rub was, the Chinese had no qualms about getting out of their seats and talking on their mobile phones.

Compare that to the regular "tut-tutting" of British concert-goers irritated by the slightest rustle of a sweetie wrapper or the irritating ring of a mobile phone. These are avoidable distractions, and deserve the look of contempt they invariably attract, and in the most extreme cases – think of the famous platform outbursts in Glasgow and Edinburgh of Andrs Schiff and Alfred Brendel in recent years – chastisement by the performer.

But there are greyer areas of audience etiquette. What about the occasional clapping between movements that so angers those who believe a multi-movement symphony, sonata or concerto should be – with some justification – an uninterrupted sequence of musical argument? In truth, it's just an example of how accepted practices have changed.

In Beethoven's day, it would have been wholly acceptable for audiences to clap between movements. Even Mozart reported that single movements of his own symphonies had to be encored immediately as a result of unending applause.

It wasn't until the 20th century that the custom changed. The onset of live recordings for broadcast and creating albums are thought to have been a practical reason – after all, clapping impaired clarity and thus cost time and money. There were some eccentric attempts by the likes of Leopold Stokowski to abolish applause altogether at some of his Philadelphia Orchestra concerts, but natural inclinations put paid to that crazy notion.

We've seen examples closer to home where individual performers have been angered by audience behaviour. On his valedictory tour two years ago, Alfred Brendel single-handedly alienated Scottish audiences by verbally berating those who clapped mid-sonata. His reaction was ill-judged, for it not only killed the appreciative atmosphere, but his own performance went down the tubes as his temper took hold.

Personally, I have no issue with spontaneous mid-term applause, so long as it suits the moment. Opera is a case in point – primarily Italian opera – where it is almost an unwritten part of the score.

But there is one aspect of audience behaviour that is crass, uncalled for, and can completely kill the most moving performance. It is the clapper who is determined to get in first, as if bent on proving his superior knowledge that a work has actually reached its conclusion.

Any of the capacity crowd who attended the RSNO's recent Faur Requiem in the Usher Hall will know exactly what I mean. At the end of one of the most expansive and thoughtful accounts I have heard of this work, and as the final In Paradisum floated heavenwards, Stphane Denve held his baton stalk still in the air, signalling a moment of hushed reflection, a moment for the magic to settle.

Instead, one or two indelicate philistines let out a thwack of applause, almost before the music had stopped, killing the magic for 2,000 other people. Human herd-like instinct gave in, and everyone joined in. It was unforgivable, and even the RSNO's chief executive collared me to say "make sure you mention that in your review".

I didn't at the time. But here is my belated plea: if the music ends on a triumphant high, by all means let rip, shout and cheer and sustain the excitement. But if it is soft and reflective, sense the mood and acknowledge it with a moment of considered reflection. We all have a part to play in heightening the musical experience.