Tucked in a laneway off Angel Place, the City Recital Hall is almost invisible in the dark. I wandered for half an hour before stumbling upon it, cursing my sense of direction while quietly marvelling at how subdued the venue looked from the outside. But stepping through its doors, I was struck by the contrast — the interior spacious, elegant, and softly lit. Guests sat, usually in small groups, sipping drinks and chatting over a backdrop of gentle violin and piano recordings (which we were to later find out during the night, were the very same pieces that were performed on stage). Still, I felt like an interloper. Most of the audience was older, whiter (I am of South Asian descent), usually better dressed — a demographic gap I hadn’t anticipated, and one that made me retreat into myself, despite my usual openness.
That changed slightly during the pre-show talk. Held in a room of warm reds and browns — like a winter lodge for wandering minds — it drew us in closer. Ronan Apcar, collaborative musician and the speaker for the talk, radiated joy and accessibility, and offered narrative windows into each piece. His passion was contagious. His lecture was as much an invitation as it was informative. It was an inspired addition to the program, especially for a newcomer like me with no chamber music background. These intimate moments, where the unfamiliar becomes just a little more knowable, are what draw new audiences in. Imagine if talks like these were given on the main stage, or shared as short-form video content before shows. The barrier to entry could begin to dissolve.
And then: the music. The first piece by Beethoven was euphoric, commanding. The second by Tchaikovsky — almost nauseating in its intensity, piercing into registers I didn’t know violins could reach. At one point I wondered if Tchaikovsky had intended madness. The performed duet of Tzigane between Dalene and Marten-Smith felt like a psychic battle, chaotic yet precise. One piece by Grieg at times played like a march turned sparring match, piano and violin duelling until reconciliation. The final piece, Notturno by Rautavaara, was gentle and wistful and sent us off with a tenderness that belied the sheer physicality of what came before.
There were no visuals. No pyrotechnics. No lights cued to a drop. And yet, this stripped down performance gripped me almost as much as a packed, stadium-scale Hans Zimmer show I’d recently seen. It was about proximity, the intimate exchange of breath, effort, and risk between performer and audience. Attention, once lost, was here reclaimed. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t once again notice the generational divide. Aside from a handful of younger couples and one very well-behaved family, the room was a sea of grey. It made me wonder about the longevity of chamber music. How many more seasons like this are left if new listeners don’t arrive? Musica Viva’s education efforts in schools are crucial — planting seeds where it matters most. But equally urgent is their presence in the cultural feeds where young people live. Facebook isn’t going to cut it. Reels, TikToks, curated artist intros, perhaps spontaneous crowd performances that can go viral — these are the pathways forward.
