David Bruce: Audiences Anecdotes

• Hardcore group Black Flag sometimes played shows for very few people. In 1982, Black Flag played a show in Oklahoma City, OK, for two, or at most five people, who sat far away, in the back. Henry Rollins, lead singer, was mad, and he complained about the lack of audience just before Black Flag went on stage to perform. Fortunately, Black Flag bassist Chuck Dukowski talked to him, and in Mr. Rollins’ words, “straightened me out on a few things.” Mr. Dukowski taught him “that even though there were only a few people there, it didn’t matter. They were there to see us, and that was good enough.” Mr. Rollins adds, “He said that you never pull a bullsh*t attitude on stage, and you always play your *ss off or don’t play at all.” Mr. Rollins remembers the show that Black Flag played that night. He says, “I played my *ss off that night.” Mr. Rollins sings, performs spoken-word concerts, and writes. He says, “I am a guy who used to work at an ice cream store in Washington, D.C. I am of average intelligence. There’s nothing special about me. If I can get this far, I would be very surprised if you couldn’t get at least twice as far. F*ck them. Keep your blood clean, your body lean, and your mind sharp.”

• People sometimes cough during a performance of an opera or other music, although that is rude. A friend of conductor William Christie once attended a chamber-music recital at Carnegie, and in front of him was a cougher. At an appropriate moment, he asked her, “Couldn’t you be a bit quieter?” She replied, “Young man, I’ve been coughing here for 40 years.” Mr. Christie has himself told a person behind him, “Have you noticed that my orchestra—and there are 60 of them—don’t cough? Why do you cough?” Of course, some coughs are OK. Mr. Christie says, “When I stop playing music and hear this chorus of coughing, you realize that people have been making an effort” not to cough during the music. And a singer once told interviewer Joshua Jampol “that during lieder concerts, the audience coughed when he finished a song because they had been so concentrated that they’d forgotten to breathe or swallow.” By the way, Mr. Christie’s friend Simon Rattle once became so annoyed by the ringing of cell phones during a concert that he stopped the concert and walked off the stage. Then he returned to the stage and told the audience, “If that happens again, I’ll do it again.”

• Jim Peterik wrote “Vehicle,” the biggest hit of the rock group Ides of March. Mr. Peterik still performs the song, sometimes in unlikely places. In San Francisco, he saw a musician busking for spare change on the street. He listened to a song, gave the busker some spare change, and then said that he played guitar. The busker handed over his guitar, and Mr. Peterik played and sang “Vehicle.” Apparently, the busker enjoyed the song, because he gave back to Mr. Peterik the spare change that Mr. Peterik had given to him. Of course, Mr. Peterik has been around for many years, and he has known legends. When he was 20 years old, he opened for the Allman Brothers. While the Allmans were on stage, Duane Allman asked the audience for some coke, so Mr. Peterik ran on stage with a can of Coca-Cola. He did not understand why the audience laughed.

• William H. Crane, an actor of the early 20thcentury, told a story about long-haired playwright Al Travers, who put on a play in a theater in Savannah, Georgia. Unfortunately, the play failed—miserably. Mr. Travers sat in the front row listening to hisses from the audience. A woman behind him leaned forward and said to him, “Pardon me, sir, but knowing you to be the author of this play, I took the liberty, at the beginning of the performance, of snipping off a lock of your lock. Allow me to return it.”

• On February 4, 1901, Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines, starring Ethel Barrymore, opened at the Garrick Theatre in New York. Ms. Barrymore was nervous before stepping on stage, then magic took over and the next morning she was a star. Soon, she saw her name in lights above the name of the play. She thanked producer Charles Frohman for the honor, but he said, “I didn’t do it — they did it,” referring to the members of the general public who had acclaimed her.

• American dance pioneer Ted Shawn once was forced to lecture on the history of dance from 8:30 to 11 p.m. because his company’s baggage car was detained in a Maine blizzard. After the baggage car finally arrived, he and his dancers were able to perform. The Portland newspaper later stated that none of the 3,000 people in the audience had left the theater — either during the lecture or during the performance — although the performance did not end until after 1 a.m.

• Felix Mendelssohn wrote interesting letters as well as interesting music. He once wrote about an audience filled with ladies wearing brightly colored hats. While he played during the concert, he watched the audience and saw that the hat-wearing ladies were bobbing their heads in time with the music so that the scene looked like wind blowing over a bed of tulips.

• Bill Maher remembers that after he had appeared on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carsonthe very first time, he appeared at a gig in the South. He told a joke that bombed, then said, “Johnny Carson loved that joke last night.” A deep Southern voice replied, “Well, Johnny ain’t here tonight.”

• Audiences are important. After Oscar Wilde had written The Importance of Being Earnestand before it had premiered, someone said to him, “Oscar, I hope the show is a success.” Mr. Wilde replied, “The show is already a success. I hope the audience is.”

• When Ida Rubinstein performed, she would say words on stage — words such as “Où suis-je?” (“Where am I?”) Of course, sometimes someone in the audience would answer, “À l’Opéra de Paris!

• “The audience is the best judge of anything. They cannot be lied to. Truth brings them closer. A moment that lags —they’e gonna cough.” — Barbra Streisand

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David Bruce: Audiences Anecdotes

At a schools’ matinee in 1974, actor Nicol Williamson gave an impressive performance in Macbeth. Unfortunately, he was annoyed by the chattering of the schoolchildren in the audience, so he stepped out of character and told them, “Shut up!” He then said that he could be making a fortune as a motion picture star in America, but that he had chosen to act in a great play by a great playwright in a great theater—so they could damn well be quiet while he acted. Furthermore, if the noise continued, he said he would start the play again from the beginning, and he would keep on starting the play from the beginning until he had gotten through it in absolute silence. The schoolchildren kept quiet after his outburst.

Adelina Patti and Etelka Gerster were rivals for the prima donna position in Colonel James H. Mapleson’s traveling opera company. In Chicago, both singers appeared in Meyerbeer’s Les Huguenots, with Ms. Patti singing the role of Valentine and Ms. Gerster the role of the Queen. At the end of Act 1, huge bouquets of flowers were brought to Ms. Patti, even though she had had little to do in the first act, with most of the singing being done by Ms. Gerster. Finally, a small basket of posies was presented to Ms. Gerster—and the crowd went wild with excitement and applause. That evening, Ms. Patti swore that she would never again sing with Ms. Gerster.

Theodore Thomas traveled throughout America popularizing classical music in the 19th century. Of course, many of the people who attended his concerts knew nothing about music—one man told him that he was very impressed because all the musicians turned the pages of their music at the same time. Among the music he introduced in America was Richard Wagner’s “Liebestod” from Tristan und Isolde. Unfortunately, it wasn’t popular and Mr. Thomas was advised to remove it from the repertory. Mr. Thomas declined to do so, saying, “We’ll keep on playing Wagner until they do like it.”

British comic actor Kenneth Williams once appeared in a review written by Bamber Gascoigne. In the review, the actors introduced themselves as they came on stage, saying in turn, “I am brown, “I am green,” and so on. When one actor introduced himself by saying, “I am pink,” a man in the audience began heckling, shouting, “How dreadfully effeminate.” Therefore, as each new actor introduced himself, the heckler kept shouting things like, “Oh dear, another pansy.” When Mr. Williams came on, the man heckled him, but Mr. Williams quieted him by saying, “Be quiet, Madam.”

Gabrielli was a bad tenor in 18th century Italy. At the Teatro Argentina in Rome, after he had sang a few notes, the audience began hissing and shouting for him to get off the stage. Mr. Gabrielli responded, “You fancy you are mortifying me, by hooting me; you are grossly deceived. On the contrary, I applaud your judgment, for I solemnly declare to you that I never appeared on any stage without receiving the same treatment, and sometimes much worse.” Mr. Gabrielli may have been too honest—he never sang there again.

The pianist Vladimir de Pachmann was once disappointed with the audience’s reaction to his performance at a concert, so he threatened not to finish the concert because he was not appreciated. His manager begged him to continue, pointing out that he always appreciated his playing. Therefore, Mr. de Pachmann seated his manager on the stage, and after performing each piece, he stood up, ignored the audience, turned to his manager, and bowed.

Ethel Barrymore was performing on stage with the slightly deaf and elderly character actor Charles Cherry, when some loud late arrivers came into the theater and took their seats while still talking noisily among themselves. She expressed her displeasure by telling them, “Excuse me, I can hear every word you’re saying, but Mr. Cherry is slightly hard of hearing. I wonder if you would speak up for him.”

It’s a tradition to stand during the “Hallelujah Chorus” of Handel’s Messiah. The tradition started in March of 1743, when King George II liked the chorus so much that he impulsively stood up during the work’s London premiere. (Of course, when the King stands, everybody stands.) Since then, audiences everywhere have stood during the chorus.

Actress East Robertson once said in a play, “Oh, God, where will I be when my beauty fades!” A voice from the audience said, “In the gutter, love.” Ms. Robertson was well known for playing bitchy characters, and during another performance on stage, another voice came the audience, saying, “I bet you are a bitch off as well as on!”

Some music fans who have attended the New York Metropolitan Opera House in the past have not lacked in chutzpah. One woman requested that the Met perform the aria “Celeste Aïda” in the third act rather than the first because she was accustomed to arriving at the opera late.

In the Broadway hit The Streets of Paris, Lou Costello of Abbott and Costello fame occasionally stepped out of character. If a woman in the audience began to leave, Mr. Costello would yell at her, “Hey, lady, don’t leave; we ain’t finished yet.”

Alexander Woollcott and George S. Kaufman once collaborated on an unsuccessful play titled The Dark Tower. About this play, Mr. Woollcott said that “it was a tremendous success except for the minor detail that people wouldn’t come to see it.”

John Gielgud and Mrs. Patrick Campbell once played to nearly empty houses in Ibsen’s Ghosts, and so Mrs. Campbell occasionally remarked to Mr. Gielgud on stage, “The Marquis and Marchioness of Empty are in front again.”

Once, conductor Sir Thomas Beecham was annoyed by a noisy audience at a Covent Garden concert. In the middle of Fidelio, Sir Thomas suddenly whirled around, faced the audience, and shouted, “Stop talking!”

After the opening night performance of his play Home Chat, Noel Coward came forward to take a bow. A voice from the audience called out, “We expected better.” Mr. Coward replied, “So did I.”

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David Bruce: Audiences Anecdotes

Ben Hecht once went to see a talented fighter named Al Singer, whose opponent was a fighter of little talent named Kid McGirk. During the fight, Mr. Singer kept battering Kid McGirk, but never managed to knock him out. Kid McGirk was clearly outclassed, and the crowd knew it—they kept booing him throughout the fight. After the fight, the referee told the audience that Kid McGirk wanted to speak to them. Kid McGirk began, “Ladies and Gentlemen,” and the crowd booed. He continued: “I wanna tell you that I got an announcement to make. That tonight was my last fight.” The crowd kept on booing. Kid McGirk then said, “I’m glad you liked my fight tonight b’cuz it’s my last fight, see? I’ve had a wonderful time fighting for you people and I’ve always appreciated it.” As Kid McGirk spoke, the booing slowly diminished in intensity. He then said, “So I wish t’ take his occasion t’ t’ank you for having been such a fine public and having been so good to me.” At this point, the booing had completely stopped. Kid McGirk then ended with, “I have only the memories of the finest time to take back home with me and I want to thank the public for everything they done for me.” Now, cheering began. The entire audience began to applaud and cheer for this outclassed fighter whom they had been booing earlier. Al Singer had failed to knock Kid McGirk out, and so had the audience.

Theodore Thomas was not afraid of audiences. He once gave a concert during which the audience talked as Franz Liszt’s Mephisto Waltz—then a new piece—was performed. Therefore, Mr. Thomas stopped the concert, pulled out his watch, and told the audience that he would wait five minutes so that everyone who was antagonistic to new music could leave. At the end of five minutes, the audience listened quietly to the Mephisto Waltz. At another concert, a man in the audience made much noise as he struck matches to light his cigar. Mr. Thomas stopped the orchestra, turned to the man, and said, “Go on, sir—don’t mind us—we can wait until you are through.”

Joseph Haydn was a master of music and a practical joker. Mr. Haydn knew that audiences often fall asleep during concerts, so in the Surprise Symphony, he followed a long, soft passage with a loud chord to wake everybody up. In addition, Mr. Haydn wrote his E-flat major Quartet, Opus 33, Number 2 to trap the people in the audience who were talking to each other instead of listening to the music—he put a sudden pause in the music so that these people could be heard talking.

Ballerina Natalia Makarova worried about the audience at the Reggio Theatre in Turin where she was to dance The Rite of Spring. Before she danced, Placido Domingo, one of the world’s greatest tenors, sang in Un Ballo in Maschera—and the La Scala audience ripped him to pieces, booing, whistling, and even throwing apples at him during his performance. Fortunately, when Ms. Makarova danced, there were no boos, no whistles, and no apples.

When Cissie Cooper, the sister of famous actress Gladys Cooper, first acted on stage after being her sister’s dresser for several years, she was annoyed by what she took to be hissing from the audience. The House Manager sat in the audience to find out why the audience was hissing her, and when Cissie first appeared on stage, he heard members of the audience whispering to each other, “It’s Cissie Cooper, Gladys Cooper’s sister. … It’s Cissie Cooper, Gladys Cooper’s sister.”

At the 1976 International Ballet Competition held in Varna, Bulgaria, Patrick Dupond won the gold medal in the junior division and also won a special citation for technical excellence. Back in his native France, Mr. Dupond danced the usual test for promotion at the Paris Opera. Although the audience had been instructed to remain silent, it burst into applause—and Mr. Dupond was awarded the rank of coryphée.

Anna Pavlova danced “The Dying Swan” thousands of times, but occasionally she was not pleased with the audience’s always thunderous applause. After one performance that did not reach her own high standard, she was very angry about the applause and complained, “How dare they applaud like that. I know I danced badly. It is no compliment to an artist. I shall lose all my standards, if people aren’t more discriminating.”

Press agents used to do wild things to get their clients’ names in the newspapers. Operatic tenor Leo Slezak once read in a newspaper that he always sang in public in bare feet. One audience that had read the same newspaper article became angry because he sang before them while wearing patent leather shoes.

Julia Neilson (1868-1957) enjoyed playing Rosalind in Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Once, after she spoke these lines from the Epilogue—“If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not”—a voice came from the balcony, “Me first, please, Miss!”

Whenever Fred Astaire was ready to shoot a big dance number for one of his films, word would go out across the studio, and lots of people would come around to watch the dancing. Anthony Perkins was doing a Western while Mr. Astaire was filming Funny Face with Audrey Hepburn, and he remembers lots of gunslingers watching the filming of “Clap Yo’ Hands.”

Audiences frequently come late to concerts. This bad habit made conductor Leopold Stokowski so angry that during a performance of Lekeu’s Fantaisie he had several of his musicians come in one by one and take their seats noisily while the piece was being played.

Voltaire was reading one of his plays out loud to a group of friends when he noticed that Montesquieu had fallen asleep. “Wake him up,” Voltaire ordered. “He seems to imagine that he is in the audience.”

The Russian ballet lover Konstantin Skalkovsky once made this complaint about a St. Petersburg audience: “They look at the most brilliant adagio as a cow looks at a passing train.”

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Langford

Frances Langford sang with a big-band style, and she was popular on the radio, in movies, and on USO tours with Bob Hope. While performing with Mr. Hope in Salerno, Italy, Ms. Langford found the accommodations very primitive indeed. For example, her dressing room was constructed out in the open. A fence enclosed the dressing area, although it lacked a roof. However, while Ms. Langford was in the dressing room, she happened to look up, and she saw a hill on which were some trees; in every tree were guys. Ms. Langford says, “I think that the biggest audience I ever had.”

In 2007, author Christopher Hitchens had some interesting experiences as he toured to publicize his best-selling book God Is Not Great. In New York, he saw this sign put up by the Second Presbyterian Church: “Christopher Hitchens doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” In Raleigh, North Carolina, he appeared before a huge crowd at a Unitarian church, whose rector whispered to him, “I ought not to say this, but the church has never been this full before.” And in Austin, Texas, an audience member asked him if he knew the works of Friedrich Nietzsche, another anti-Christian author. Mr. Hitchens replied that he did, although he did not always agree with Nietzsche. The audience then asked if Mr. Hitchens was aware that Nietzsche was suffering from terminal syphilis while writing his anti-Christian works. Mr. Hitchens replied that he had heard that, but that he didn’t know whether it was true. Finally, the audience member asked if the same explanation accounted for Mr. Hitchens’ own anti-Christian works. Mr. Hitchens immediately thought, “Should have seen that coming.”

Al Jolson was a huge entertainer in vaudeville, but his fame declined and then was resurrected when the 1946 movie The Jolson Story, which starred Bert Parks and won an Oscar for Best Score, came out. How forgotten was Mr. Jolson? He watched the movie in a theater, feeling very proud. At the end of the movie, which was a huge hit, people cheered, and Mr. Jolson overheard a woman say, “It’s too bad Jolson couldn’t be alive to see this.” When Mr. Jolson was big in show biz, he was huge. He often starred in musicals on Broadway, and when he felt like it, 20 minutes into the musical, he would tell the other members of the cast, “Go home.” Then he would sing and entertain solo for two hours. The audience never complained; after all, they had not come to see and hear the musical—they had come to see and hear Mr. Jolson.

Stand-up comedian Kristen Schaal used to practice her act in front of an unusual audience: the cows on the Colorado farm where she grew up. She says, “I had time on my hands. I would perform in front of the cows. They never mooed. They never heckled. They were very polite. That’s how I learned to not expect anything from an audience.” Despite its being unusual, this kind of audience is good practice for real audiences; as Ms. Schaal points out, “I went back home recently, and I looked at the cows again and thought, ‘God, they have the same expression as audiences.’ Just expectant—they want something but they’re just, like, waiting. And they have no idea what they’re waiting for. After that training, I was set.”

Audience members will applaud vigorously if they know that a big-name vocalist is singing, but if they do not know that a big-name vocalist is singing, they will remain quiet. Albert Reiss was a competent tenor, but he lacked a big name although one evening he did not lack laryngitis. Enrico Caruso, who had perhaps the biggest name among tenors, offered to sing Arlecchino’s arietta for him while he mouthed the words, and Mr. Caruso also bet Mr. Reiss that no one in the audience would know that he was doing so. Mr. Caruso sang for Mr. Reiss and no one went wild, but the next time Mr. Caruso sang and the audience knew that he was singing, the audience went wild.

Anita Berber, known mainly as a controversial dancer in Weimar’s Berlin, performed in many countries. In Fiume, a city now in Croatia, she performed in a very small club where she could hear the comments members of the audience made about her. She overheard one insulting comment and memorized where it had come from. After her dance was over, she walked over to that spot and slapped the man sitting there. Unfortunately, Ms. Berber was nearsighted and did not know that the man who had insulted her had gone and that a man who appreciated her talent had taken his place.

Comedian Larry Storch was doing stand-up comedy in Detroit at a time when Soupy Sales was doing a Detroit children’s show that was widely watched by adults. Mr. Storch heard that a local TV celebrity was in the audience, and he thought that the audience would like to know that, so he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a guy named Soupy Sales in the audience who you might know and he’s sitting right over there. Let’s say hello.” Big mistake. The audience mobbed Soupy Sales, leaving nobody to listen to Mr. Storch’s act. Mr. Storch says, “It was embarrassing. They left the joint empty.”

Not every dance affects the audience the way the dancer/choreographer wants it to. Paul Sanasardo choreographed three solos about death titled collectively Three Dances of Death (1956). The third solo was “The Sentimentalist,” and when he danced it, he was surprised by the audience’s reaction: They laughed. When he finished the solo, the great choreographer Paul Taylor, who was also dancing on the program, told him, “That’s a really funny dance.” Not surprisingly, that was the last time Mr. Sanasardo danced the solo.

George Balanchine choreographed Liebeslieder Walzer in such a way that some members of the audience regarded it as a series of “love-song waltzes,” and some members of early audiences would leave the theater between acts. Lincoln Kirstein once watched the audience between acts, and he moaned to Mr. Balanchine, “Look how many people are leaving.” Unperturbed, Mr. Balanchine replied, “Ah, but look how many are staying!”

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David Bruce: Audiences Anecdotes

Leontyne_Price_(color)_by_Jack_Mitchell

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After a performance, Leontyne Price greatly enjoyed hearing praise from members of the audience and she greatly disliked hearing criticism from members of the audience. After one performance, she was speaking to a line of members of the audience and one man near the end of the line started waving at her. Ms. Price thought that here was one man who had greatly enjoyed the performance and was going to tell her how great she was, but when the man finally spoke to her, he asked, “Miss Price, did I detect a slight strain on your B-flat in the aria?” Ms. Price smiled at him and said, “Would you do me a small favor and get quietly out of the line so the other people can tell me beautiful things about my B-flat?” (Actually, she admits that she was “rougher than that” on the man. She told an interviewer, “I’ll never tell what I said to him. It was bad—straight to the jugular vein.”)

Riccardo Martin was hailed as a “second Caruso,” but he adored Enrico Caruso so much that he disliked the comparison. One night at the Metropolitan Opera, Mr. Martin was ill and could not sing, so Mr. Caruso took his place. Of course, the audience was delighted with their good luck in being able to hear the great tenor—all except one person, who demanded his money back because the singer who was scheduled to sing was not able to sing that night. When the ticket agent pointed out that he was able to hear the great Caruso instead, he insisted, “I paid my money to hear what you people said I was going to hear, and if I can’t hear what I paid for, I want my money back!” Mr. Caruso took great delight in telling the story of the man who wanted his money back because he was going to sing.

At the 1974 World Championships in Munich, West Germany, Dorothy Hamill was on the ice warming up when the results of another figure skater were announced. The audience members thought that the scores were low, and they booed, making Ms. Hamill cry and skate over to her coach for reassurance because she thought that the boos were meant for her. The audience members realized what had happened and gave her a wondrous ovation when she went back out on the ice, and Ms. Hamill responded by winning a World Championship in Ladies figure skating.

Whenever Enrico Caruso performed, ovations greeted him. Therefore, he decided to perform an experiment to see if the audience would applaud him if they were unaware he was singing. He went to Albert Reiss, who was scheduled to sing an aria offstage in Pagliacci, and he arranged to sing the aria in Mr. Reiss’ place. Unfortunately, Mr. Caruso received no applause, and no music critic noticed that Mr. Reiss had suddenly acquired a glorious voice. Mr. Caruso sadly noted, “It is not Caruso they want—it is only the knowledge that they are hearing Caruso!”

Marie Taglioni was a well-loved ballet dancer. In Russia, her carriage was stopped by robbers who recognized her and told her that she could keep her jewels and money if she danced for them. So on rugs spread over the muddy ground, Ms. Taglioni danced for them. Later, she said, “I never had such an appreciative audience either before or afterwards.” In Paris, after she had danced, the curtain could not be brought down because her adoring fans had thrown such a thick layer of flowers on the stage.

Subscribers to the Metropolitan Opera really do support the Met. On one occasion, an opera had many problems with many cancellations and many substitutions, and the lead soprano who ended up singing on a certain night—at the last minute—gave a very bad performance. Critic Patrick J. Smith was sure that the subscribers would protest, but instead he discovered that they understood the problems that that particular opera faced and so they rallied around the Met and did not complain.

Baritone Antonio Tamburini was a versatile singer. During the carnival season in Palermo in 1822, the audience came armed with noise-makers such as drums and trumpets. The prima donna was frightened by the loudness and rowdiness of the crowd, so Tamburini performed and sang both his part and her part—for the duets, he sang his part with his normal baritone and he sang her part with a falsetto. The audience loved it.

Walter Damrosch once conducted the New York Philharmonic in his own Cyrano de Bergerac. Unfortunately, some audience members started leaving early. Noticing this, Mr. Damrosch addressed the members of the audience after the end of Act 2: “Please don’t go home yet—the best part of the opera is coming.” The audience stayed in their seats, and at the end of the opera applauded vigorously.

In the old opera house, members of the Metropolitan Opera Guild gathered in a box. A rule of silence was imposed in the box during performances, but the rule was ignored in the case of Guild member and retired Met tenor Giovanni Martinelli. While attending the opera, Mr. Martinelli was accustomed to hum throughout the performance—and occasionally to criticize it.

As a young student in Italy, soprano Joan Hammond ran into a problem while attending operas. She could not afford the better seats, so she sat in the gallery. Often, while sitting there, she would feel a pinch from a man behind her. A reprimand worked, but only for a while, then she would feel another pinch. Moving didn’t help, either, for a different man would pinch her.

George Antheil composed an avant-garde musical piece featuring sirens, airplane propellers, automobile horns, etc. When the piece was played in 1927 at Carnegie Hall, a man in the audience, bewildered by the noise, raised his cane. At the cane’s end was tied a white handkerchief, signifying surrender.

Entertainers use different methods to get themselves up for a performance. Comedian Jay Sankey once saw a magician jumping up and down in a bathroom, saying, “I love my audience! I love my audience!”

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