So, this is the first in a series of one shots about music, musical events, and most of all, composers! If you have any ideas for what composer/music/musical event I should feature next, please drop a review with your suggestion.
May 29th. 1913. Of all days to see a ballet premiere, France had to choose that that one. He thoroughly enjoyed Mr. Stravinsky's previous works, and thought perhaps this new one…What was it called? Rite of Spring? Yes, that seemed to be about right. In any event, he expected nothing less than pure perfection.
Oh, how wonderful the ballet was, thought France to himself. Happy, attractive, dancing men doing gleeful pirouettes, gorgeous music, and feel good endings. What's not to love?
He waltzed into the Théåtre des Champs-Élyssées with a large grin on his face. The pit was tuning, the audience was filled with nervous chatter. France thought he might have heard some crying from the bassoon section, though maybe he was hearing things. Principal bassoonists never cry!
France made his way to his seat, and settled down. In front of him was an extremely pretty man. What luck! This night was going to be better than he thought.
Tapping the man on the shoulder, France asked: "Are you a dancer, mon ami?"
The man whipped around, facing France. He was even more beautiful from the front. "No…," the man blushed, obviously finding France quite the catch, "I—"
The lights dimmed, silencing the audience. The man turned back around. It was such a pity he wasn't on stage, France thought. Then he could stare at him the entire show.
It started off with an eerie solo, one that sent shivers down France's back. What was that? An English horn? An oboe? Whatever may have been, it was certainly creepy.
As the music went on, and more instruments entered, the chords grew more dissonant, the choreography grew more disturbing, and the audience (including France) grew more and more restless. What was this debauchery? France had expected a pleasant ballet with a pleasant storyline and pleasant choreography. Instead, he got this. What a mess! What a disaster! What a pile of money wasted on these expensive tickets.
Finally, a young man, dressed in a fine coat and tie, stood up, angry. "You call this ballet? This is a disgrace!"
A woman, wearing fur and pearls, joined him in the protest. "I have never heard such an ugly noise in my life! Boo, I say!"
The rest of the audience joined in a chorus of boos. People across the audience started standing up. An aura of irritation filled the room. More people started voicing their complaints.
"Nijinsky needs to just quit right now."
"What do you think they were thinking?"
"Mr. Stravinsky will never be able to show his face in a concert hall after this, mark my words."
It continued to escalate, until someone shouted: "Let's kill the principle oboe!" France couldn't agree more. It all started with that bastard's solo in the beginning. He had to die.
France followed the crazed mob into the orchestra pit. They surrounded the oboe section, and brandished their cummerbunds, preparing to strangle the principle. The musicians in the pit screamed.
"Get out, you crazed fiends!" shouted the conductor over the great riot in the audience. He was promptly knocked by an aristocrat with a monocle.
The mob closed in, grabbing mister principle and breaking his oboe.
"That was a thousand dollar oboe. An antique!" he cried. That pathetic man, France thought. He should have quit before he played such an ugly solo.
"We're going to string you up," growled someone in the mob,"Then, we'll display your body on the street corner."
"What…what did I do?"
"You played that creepy solo at the beginning, mon ami," France said, anger boiling in his voice.
"That wasn't me! It was…it was the bassoon!" protested the oboist, his eyes wild with fear.
"Likely story," France scoffed, and the mob proceeded to beat him to a pulp.
Forty minutes and a hundred assaulted performers later, the police arrived. That night, France spent in an uncomfortable jail cell along with thirty-nine others, waiting for bail. The floor was cold and the room dank. Most of all, France was upset that the lovely, attractive man he met, the non-dancer, wasn't there to keep him warm that night.
A/N: During the Paris premiere of Stravinsky's Right of Spring, there really was an actual riot. Nijinsky was the choreographer.
The solo at the beginning of the Rite of Spring is, in point of fact, a bassoon.