Shut up and listen

It had been a thousand years since I last entered the Harlem Jazz Club, the legendary music bar on Comtessa de Sobradiel street that, with 35 years of uninterrupted music behind it, disputes the honor of being the oldest concert hall in Barcelona (there are illustrious rivals to consider: Jamboree opened in 1960, but went through a period of sonic aridity, and Zeleste, inaugurated in 1973, changed its name and location, to which we should add the insurmountable longevity of venues like the Liceu). But all this is fodder for music historians and, ultimately, it doesn't matter, because having sustained the muscle of a musical program for seven lustrums and continuing to do so in times of economic crisis (even more so in a city with an administration that does everything possible – and impossible – to create obstacles or directly send live music bars to their grave) is frankly titanic.

Barcelonians – and this extends to the tribe in general – boast a lot about our festival and music scene, but that same pride leads to an appalling laziness when it comes to digging into our pockets to support our programmers and artists; in this way, it's obvious to see how our concert halls are becoming more tourist-oriented every day (it must be said; some venues – especially public ones – make it difficult for locals, with first-world ticket prices to listen to second-rate operas). But for whatever reason, and taking advantage of a suggestion from my better half, last Thursday I finally returned to the Harlem; I smiled just by entering, rediscovering its grimy walls and the same uncomfortable chairs as always (music bars, says my teacher Àngel Juez, "must drip with character") which finally caused me a well-deserved pain in the buttocks for so many years of abandonment.  

In Harlem, the blues band Mr Shingles was playing. I must admit that the genre's static harmonizations and the rather topical lyrics of its singer-songwriters are not my preferred cup of tea. But that doesn't matter, because the trio formed by Brian O'Mahony (vocals and guitar), Dara Luskin (bass), and Brian Curtis (percussion) did everything very correctly and with enough enthusiasm, given the context. I say this because, from the first song, O'Mahony had to ironically address a table of fellow citizens who had their backs to the stage, dedicating themselves to chatting loudly and cheerfully during most of the songs. The matter was newsworthy because, at the beginning of the session and aware of the multinationality of the audience attending the concert, O'Mahony had done that very Pujol-esque – and effective – thing of asking about people's origins; there were people from Belgium, Denmark, France, Honduras, the United States...

But it turns out that the only imbeciles who were hindering the work of the performers (and the enjoyment of the people who had paid an entrance fee with the aim of listening to them) were of very Catalan blood. One must be careful when moving from anecdote to category, because surely there were other Barcelonians in the room who attended the concert without such rudeness. But I have been listening to live classical recitals for many years to certify that Catalan music lovers have the dubious honor of being one of the most disrespectful audiences towards musicians in Europe. In the world of symphonic and opera, the fact translates into an unprecedented accumulation of coughs per minute or intrusive mobile phones and the horrifying habit of applauding between movements or too soon (as a colossal imbecile did, whom I take the opportunity to greet, at the end of Beethoven's recent Missa Solemnis performed by the brilliant Herreweghe at the Palau). 

I don't know what the mental mechanism (or psychotropic state) is that leads someone to pay for a ticket with the aim of not listening to the concert in question and thus disturbing both the professionals performing it and the audience trying to listen to them. I understand that listening to a Jam doesn't require the same sepulchral silence as the interminable conclusion of Mahler's Ninth (in fact, we don't conceive of a jazz or rock concert without the added clinking of glasses or the popular chorus that rises from the stands), but there is a colossal distance between a murmur and such a nuisance. The rudeness is even more egregious if one considers that the trio of musicians in question played a nearly two-hour concert of songs for which, I would bet the meager patrimony I possess, they must have been paid little more than fifty euros (or a meager percentage of the profits obtained from drinks during the evening).

Catalan music lovers have the dubious honor of being one of the most disrespectful audiences in Europe towards musicians

In fact, let's take the opportunity to apply it to all possible areas of life. Let's be silent and listen, everything will be better for us. And may you all have Happy Holidays, adored and faithful readers of this our Punyalada.