The minor fall, the major lift

Annabel, Julie and I went to the Toronto Symphony’s rendition of “The Messiah” (the best parts, that is) on Sunday at Roy Thompson Hall. It’s meant to be a Christmassy-type-thing, and I had heard that lots of families attend and some even make it an annual thing.

It was very nice and all, and few things are more musically impressive than a 130-member choir gi’in’ it laldy over top of belting brass and full strings playing like the clappers.

Annabel, who’s six, held up well and only fidget-kicked the old dear in front of her a few times. Just one glare from the hard-core symphony-files, at least that I noticed. She kept busy counting choir-members and eating mints by the handful.

But I also noticed how old the audience was, even for this performance that’s supposed to cater to the masses. I scanned the audience at one point in one of the mournful bits (it’s not that pleasant a tale, of course), and I could have sworn I was back at Eden Court Theatre listening to the Clasp. Every other auldyin seemed to be dozing off, mouth agape, while the music – exquisite as it was – droned on.

It was comforting, though, that MacCrimmon and Handel seem to touch people in similar ways and attract an exceedingly, um, mature audience.

“Classical music” of the pipes, indeed.