From New York With Love: The New York Philharmonic
Dear Reader,
It was just after seven when I left my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen–the pavement still slick from a half-hearted March rain. Turning the corner onto Ninth Avenue, I was greeted by the usual bustle of my concrete city. Steam rose from the cracks beneath the street. Sirens echoed somewhere in the distance.
My twelve-block walk sloped steadily upward, and with every step, I felt I was nearing a grandiose summit. As I climbed toward Lincoln Center, the noise softened. The golden glow of The New York Philharmonic rose before me like the bow of a ship docked in midtown. Waiting at the helm was Gustavo Dudamel–and with him, Varèse, Ravel, and Gershwin.
The theater hummed with anticipation as we filtered through the entrance like passengers boarding a vessel bound for someplace far from New York. David Geffen Hall, recently redesigned, felt fresh and intimate. The stage sat closer now, more enveloped by the audience, with seating wrapped around it so that a lucky few could look the conductor in the eye. My fellow travelers were a mix of New York’s cultural faithful: students with tote bags, elegant older couples likely loyal to the Philharmonic since the ‘70s, and wide-eyed children who didn’t yet know how lucky they were.
As the lights dimmed, a hush swept over us. And then–the single note. That solitary, unwavering “A” from the principal oboist, hung in the air like a bell calling us to cast off. Our captain was about to take the wheel.
Amériques by Edgard Varèse was our first stop–an explosive, glorious departure. The piece erupted with booming percussion, wailing sirens, and ferocious modernism. This was no gentle ride. Our ship slashed through chaotic waters, forging ahead–only to land, delicately, in a whimsical fairy-tale: Maurice Ravel’s Ma Mère l’Oye.
Out from the storm bloomed Ravel’s magical suite. A solo from the first violin greeted us–its romantic timbre washing away the tension that had gripped the audience just moments before. Some closed their eyes. We softened. Dudamel, our steadfast navigator, steered us toward something tender, something more hopeful.
Then came Ravel’s Sémiramis: Prélude et Danse, receiving its premiere that night–a rarity shining like a newly unearthed jewel. Discovering a new work from a well-known composer felt almost mythical. We sailed through uncharted waters together, under Dudamel’s experienced hand.
And then–Daphnis et Chloé. The luscious opening notes of Lever du jour blossomed like the first warm spring day after a long winter. The audience held its breath as the vastness of the music filled every corner of the hall.
Leave it to Gershwin to bring us back to the metropolis. With An American in Paris, we returned to familiar shores–but now with a Parisian twist. It was Times Square at midnight and a Paris promenade all at once.
When we finally docked, we rose to our feet and clapped until our hands stung. Dudamel and the orchestra soaked it in, like sailors home from sea. We spilled back into the city, and I began my descent down Ninth Avenue. A gentle wind whipped at my neck. Sirens, steam, and the glow of the streetlights led me back home.
Spring hadn’t quite arrived yet here in New York–but Ravel was still blooming somewhere inside me.
Until our next voyage,
Olivia