I arrived at the tall the white building in Lincoln plaza that read “The New York Philharmonic” not knowing what to expect. I thought about the history of this particular symphony orchestra in order to reaffirm to myself why I was there. According to their company website, they are the oldest symphony in existence within the United States, and have held more than 15,000 concerts since the group’s establishment in 1842. I figured that if I was going to experience the symphony, why not go to the best place?

As I walked past the open doors I felt embarrassingly underdressed; wearing my yellow submarine Beatle’s t-shirt and dark blue jeans. Exquisitely attired men and women were conversing over what seemed to be expensive champagne in the lobby’s bar. I made my way to the ticket counter where an elderly man politely asked me for my identification and quipped, “You look shaken up. Everything alright?… Enjoy yourself; you’re at the symphony. Relax and listen to the stories behind the music.” I didn’t quite understand what he was getting at in regards to the story so I shrugged the thought off and ventured further into the building.

Aided by those warm words, I began to unwind a bit and familiarized myself with my surroundings. The scenery was beautiful: majestic paintings hung around the hall ways, colorful flowers were neatly scattered throughout the building, and the air smelled like a five star hotel (clean and freshly tidied up with a touch of lavender candle scent). As I made my way to the elevators, I was greeted with a sincere smile and welcomed onto the platform. The elevator attendant manually maneuvered the elevator to the 4th floor, which reminded me of an old fashion-ed movie.

As I walked through the tiny door marked section 4A into the theater, I gasped; the ceiling had to be at least 200 feet from the front row floor. I pondered how well of a workout I could attain by running the area top to bottom. The architecture on the ceiling was made out of carefully carved marble that produced garden like patterns accompanied with Romanesque arches. The pre-concert talk was moments away from commencing as I took my seat.

Attendees from diverse backgrounds crowded the theater as the composer, Victoria Bond, began to speak. I was particularly excited to hear her speak after reading her short bio in the Pre-Concert talk pamphlet. Apparently, she is the only woman composer/conductor to obtain recognition from major music establishments thus making her one of the most famous composers/conductors of her gender. She explained the storyline of a piece we’d be listening to, called “The Miraculous Mandarin,” by Bela Bartok. After the discussion, I fell further back into my seat waiting for the symphony to begin. The musicians playing a wide variety of instruments began to warm up together, reminding me of a sports team before a big game; they looked united as one body.

As the conductor walked out – the coach of the team in my eyes- a resounding applause broke out. He bowed, lifted his conductor’s baton, and waved it like a magic wand to signal the musicians to start playing. At first I didn’t know what to do with myself and fidgeted around my seat. People even began to shush me because of the ruckus I caused by flipping through the pages of the playbill. I then thought about what the old man had said to me earlier. I closed my eyes and relaxed every muscle in my body. I began to envision the tale of the Mandarin I had learned about during the pre-concert talk and prior reading of the playbill.

I was transformed into a new dimension. I wasn’t just hearing music; I was feeling a story. I could feel the city life as horns, drums, and fast paced violin combined. I literally felt like a car was beeping at me. I was then taken inside the apartment where three thugs and a prostitute named Mimi resided.

Violent music represented the thugs and a soft clarinet solo portrayed Mimi. When I heard the clarinets go off, I could visualize Mimi dancing erotically in front of the apartment window, luring the gaze of nearby pedestrians. Suddenly, I found myself aroused. I could get a feel for the personality of the victims through the instruments the symphony used. The trombone represented a corky old man, while a forceful piano played off- key represented the mysterious Mandarin (pre-concert talk).

The piece concluded with the death of the Mandarin which the playbill described wonderfully. The criminals struggle to kill the Mandarin, who can’t take his eyes off the girl. Fast-paced music accompanied by the sweet harmony of the clarinet hinted to these two simultaneous events. Finally Mimi sexually pleases the Mandarin who then peacefully dies. The clarinet alone faded the scene out. The audience clapped ferociously, and I was taken out of my trance; the drama had ended.

I had just seen a movie. Not an actual motion picture, nor a play, but a story in my mind which the sound of the orchestra guided me. Originally, I thought I was coming to hear music, but I left with an adventure full of characters and city scenery that only my personal thoughts could produce. No two people had seen this act in the same way. The music, unlike other genres I have heard, allowed me to actively participate with the music through imagination, instead of simply listening. As I exited the building, I nodded at the old man. He gestured back at me with a small smile, suggesting that I now had understood his advice.