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On October 3rd, 2018 I attended the National Arts Centre’s annual fund-raising Gala for the first time, and I can tell you, it was an evening full of surprises.
The first surprise was that I sprung for a ticket in the first place. The headliner was Diana Ross – making her first stop in Ottawa in almost thirty years – performing with the NAC Orchestra, and there was just no way I was going to find anyone willing to shell out over two hundred dollars to join me. But somehow my adolescent love of disco (especially female artists like Diana Ross and Donna Summer) aligned magically with a rare burst of carefree financial leaning and I clicked “purchase” the moment tickets went on sale.
The next surprise came the day before the concert when a friend asked if I would be wearing a tuxedo. “Why the heck would I wear a tuxedo to a concert?” I wondered. So I googled the word “gala.”
Surprise!
That was a little unnerving – there’s no bloody way I was going to rent a tux to attend an event that I had already paid way too much money for (clearly my financial settings had reverted back to their standard ‘frugal’). I checked my closet and pulled out three suits, all still in the plastic-wrap since their last visits to the dry cleaners. I was set.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to discover just an hour before showtime that all my good, dry-cleaned clothes harkened back to a time when I weighed sixty pounds heavier, but I sure was. Every single thing I tried on made me look like I was auditioning for an old Talking Heads video. My stomach clenched in a clichéd I-have-nothing-to-wear panic, a feeling I am wholly unfamiliar with, but instantly recognized.
In the end I cobbled something together and walked to the show, checking at least a dozen times to make sure my fly was done up properly.
The next trio of surprises were simultaneous: walking into the foyer I was pleased to discover that a) most people were dressed to my calibre or below, b) the pre-show band – a happenin’ retro outfit from Montreal called Discothèque – was actually quite excellent, seamlessly blending one disco hit into another and supplying a full hour of nonstop nostalgia and c) there was limitless free wine and canapés on offer. I bellied up and got my fill, pounding a final pair of glasses once the house lights started flickering in earnest.
Taking my seat in the second balcony, I wasn’t at all surprised to see the new fancy-pants wooden bandshell behind the orchestra. It was part of the extensive (and by then nearly-finished) renovations that had been going on at the National Arts Centre for the previous two years, and I knew it was coming. When the concert started I was very, very surprised to instantly hear that while the new baffles definitely seemed to even out the sound emanating from the stage, it also dramatically reduced the volume, though my seat was back far enough as to have the top balcony just above me, and having a roof so low over my head could very well have affected the sound.
That said, the sound for the whole evening was depressingly poor. Another huge surprise.
Wow, this missive is getting long and the show hasn’t even started yet. I’ll revert to point form and maybe we can get through this thing without much more trouble.
Surprise: The concert began with conductor Alexander Shelley leading the musicians through a rousing version of O Canada. I had never seen them do that before.
Surprise: Canadian First Lady Sophie Grégoire Trudeau was on hand to introduce the concert. She seemed pretty darned classy (which was no surprise).
Surprise: The opening set did not involve Diana Ross at all, but it was fantastic. Shelley pulled a remarkable performance out of his musicians for Glinka’s Overture to Ruslan and Ludmilla, and the soloist for the next piece (Blake Pouliot) was simply astounding, executing perfect pull-offs while simultaneously running furious lines up and down his shimmering violin. Gosh, he was good. Finally, they dished out the crowd pleasing and ever-familiar Bizet romp, Suite No. 1 from Carmen. Youtube it, you’ll love it.
Surprise: During the first piece the audience just would not shut up. People were blabbing and going on like they were waiting for a bus, and I was appalled. Eventually the conductor turned to the crowd and, with his baton hand waving at the musicians behind him, held up a finger to the crowd imploring them for a little silence and respect. Pretty redneck crowd for a gala if you ask me.
Surprise: More free wine at setbreak!
Surprise: The second set started with an instrumental medley of Diana Ross songs, most of which we were about to hear. Like, that just never happens. Oddly, it felt very normal, which made it that much stranger.
Surprise: How terribly loud the drums were (not the NAC percussionists, Ross’s drummer), and how bad his tone was. An added surprise was how blatantly squelchy Diana’s vocal mix sounded throughout the show, not to mention the several loud hums that emanated from the newly (un)tweaked speaker system over the course of the evening.
Surprise: A thirty-person gospel choir stood behind the orchestra and augmented the show exponentially. Cool!
Diana finally came out as the orchestra started into her seminal disco hit I’m Coming Out, which was pretty appropriate. She looked resplendent, doffing a huge, puffy cape (I’m sure there’s a correcter word for her massive poof of satin than “cape” but it escapes me) and revealing a glittering green dress underneath. After thanking the crowd she went into a string of Motown hits that was just fantastic. Baby Love, Stop! In The Name Of Love, You Can’t Hurry Love and several others, all of which probably also had the word “love” featured prominently in their titles.
What a treat it was to hear a true Motown legend performing very near the top of her game. The entire popular legacy of Motown is just so culturally pervasive…it’s like reggae music and how can anyone not like reggae music? Like Motown, it’s basically impossible, regardless of one’s age or cultural background.
Ah, her run of Motown hits was just so great. I was sitting in my seat just a-boppin’.
Which reminds me of the next surprise: getting punched in the middle of You Can’t Hurry Love. During the first set I had been sitting next to a girl who had been unaware of the NAC’s this-side-is-even-numbers, that-side-is-odd-numbers seating arrangement (which you’ll find in most theatres). Hence, she (and her mother) was surprised to discover that Seat 24 in Row E was actually quite far from Seat 23 in Row E. I offered to switch with her mum after the first set.
So there I was, rocking away in Seat 23 when all of a sudden the lady sitting next to me punched me in the arm and said “Stop it!” I mean she punched me hard; this wasn’t some small tap.
“What?!?!” I blurted out, totally shocked. “Stop what?”
“Your foot!” she said. I had been keeping pretty steady time on the off-beat with my shiny, brand new pair of Clarks down there. “Was I kicking you?” I asked, mortified.
“Yes, over and over,” she lied. I knew she was lying. Who gets kicked on the off-beat at 132BPM for a full two minutes without moving her own foot? “Got kicked over and over…” my butt.
Anyway, I apologized swiftly and profusely to the ignorant bitch and glued my left foot to the floor for the rest of the concert. I also spent the next four songs analyzing the situation and imaging all the names this woman deserved to be called , which kept me fully distracted from the show. Luckily it was all during a four-song lull of adult-contemporary yawners that led Ms. Ross through at least two more costume changes so I didn’t miss much. Man, she had a lot of dresses.
By the time the show got good again I was over Mrs. Punchy-face to my left (ain’t nobody gonna steal my joy) and I dug in to enjoy the final half of the show.
Which was really good (My Endless Love, Theme From Mahogany (Do You Know Where You’re Going To), Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, etcetera), but never quite caught the awesomeness of that string of Motown gold from the early part of the performance. That had been worth the price of admission right there.
(Well, not really – it was a pretty pricey ticket after all – but you know what I mean.)
It’s no surprise that I walked out of the show very pleased that I had walked in to it. If you know anything about me by now you must know how much I strive to see every last musical hero left on the planet do their thing live, and I am generally over the moon when I find one is still doing it well.
Also no surprise (not to me, anyway): I’m very, very glad that I saw Diana Ross perform live.
Todd Man Out 