It’s the bustle of it that’s so invigorating, the thrill of heading directly into the lights and crowds and of a downtown theatre in order to have a shared experience with strangers. It’s the giddy novelty of taking public transit, the voyeuristic voyage through the heart of the city where the people-watching is supreme. En route you might spot a poster—a billboard, even—of the show you’re about to see. It’s the exclusivity of being a ticket holder, being one of a lucky few who get to see something fleeting and special that, once it’s done, won’t live forever on the internet.
It’s the fashion shows in the lobby, the high heels meant for a night spent seated, the fascinators threatening to block views, the shawls, stoles, scarves and capes that adorn those in night-out finery. It’s discerning the hardcore theatre folks—the ones actually reading the house programme—from the performative fans.
For me, it was always the music. The chaotic sounds of an orchestra warming up in the orchestra pit are like comfort food, an unmistakable friendly drone peppered with snippets; as a kid it used to feel like I was hearing secrets about the show, a tricky part that I’d notice later, possibly in Act II.
