where the people are

“Music is only a universal language when access [to music] and our community are the priority” -Ariel Horowitz

This is a story long overdue but let’s set the scene; it was late summer 2022 and I was still extremely puffy and moving slowly after an emergency surgery the week before. I was scheduled to perform a week of free outdoor hour-long performances at the Boston Common, which I was optimistically excited about, all things considered, until I showed up at the designated concert area

The first day of my performances was definitely a bit nerve racking. The piano was set up next to a gorgeous fountain, but many of the displaced folks who frequented that fountain every day were clearly annoyed by my presence. Every time I started playing they would turn on their own music and blast it as loudly as possible while stalking up and down their side of the fountain. It felt like an invisible line had been drawn on the plaza. I worried I was unintentionally pushing folks out of their space so I asked the park manager to just let us all co-exist with our own music options on either side without any interventions. I continued with my normal program with a heavy rotation of classical pieces with a few contemporary pop and Disney favorites scattered in.

As the performances continued through the week, a core group of recurring visitors emerged from the tapestry of hurried tourists. An elderly lady who came each day for the full hour, a non-verbal child who would sit in her wheelchair right next to me for her favorite, twinkle twinkle little star. I began to realize I had the privilege of playing for an actual audience and not just as background filler for passing tourists.

But what truly surprised me was watching a slow migration of those same displaced people crossing to the other side of the fountain, next to the piano. It began with a few people quietly sitting on the grass far behind the piano to listen, (pictured above). I was surprised that they continued to distance themselves from the main performance area despite their obvious interest and the open seating, so I started approaching them to ask what they’d like to hear. I expected they’d ask for something similar to what they had been listening to—perhaps a current pop song or a throwback. But no, they kept asking for classical pieces I had already been playing throughout the previous week. Eventually, one or two would come up to the piano while I was mid-piece to ask me what I was playing, and that trickle quickly increased. “That Satie guy” was a constant request for Gymnopédie, as was a certain Bach Prelude, or “that Elise chick” for Beethoven’s Für Elise. Most of them requested the songs by simply humming the melody of something they had already heard me play. By the end of the week, the entire group of people who had started on the opposite side of the fountain had moved to the side of the piano. I now had an audience who vocally supported me with applause and shouts of encouragement, which meant more to me than they probably knew, especially since I was still struggling post-surgery.

I learned that most of my new listeners had studied music in a K-12 classroom; many had played instruments at one point, and one regularly listened to classical recordings on YouTube. But none of them had been able to attend a live classical concert recently.

I’ve often thought accessibility in concert programming meant including a popular or familiar work or providing an appropriately crafted “easy guide” to help listeners follow or “understand” the lengthy sonata I was playing. I remember so many earnest conversations in undergrad: “if we could just educate the audience on what to listen for- they would enjoy it and appreciate this art form! Then they’d come to our concerts!!” But these folks at this concert series weren’t there to “be educated;” they were there as people first, who assigned their own meaning and value to music. It’s a lesson I’m still learning as I try and unpack my own sets of biases around concert programming. Accessibility doesn’t mean saccharine simplicity, educational lectures, or even free open air venues; it means an ongoing conversation where the performer becomes a listener.