Chap­ter 15 — The Grand Opera Fad opens with a sharp yet play­ful reflec­tion on why peo­ple flock to oper­at­ic per­for­mances, espe­cial­ly those as sprawl­ing and intense as Wag­n­er’s. While the grandeur of the opera promis­es cul­tur­al ele­va­tion, not all who attend are moved by the music itself. This chap­ter turns its atten­tion to the con­trast­ing motives behind attend­ing the opera, reveal­ing a vivid tapes­try of van­i­ty, aspi­ra­tion, and sin­cere artis­tic love that shapes the opera house’s crowd.

Some indi­vid­u­als in the audi­ence are not there for the har­mo­ny of voic­es or the crescen­dos of orches­tra­tion. Their pres­ence serves a dif­fer­ent purpose—one tied to vis­i­bil­i­ty and pres­tige. Opera nights for them become styl­ish parades where fash­ion, con­ver­sa­tion, and con­nec­tions mat­ter more than the unfold­ing dra­ma on stage. They arrive halfway through acts, leave ear­ly, and com­ment more on attire than arias. The opera, in their world, is mere­ly a back­drop for elite social­iz­ing. Even applause becomes mechan­i­cal, guid­ed not by musi­cal mer­it but by social expec­ta­tions. Iron­i­cal­ly, the most elab­o­rate dress­es and tai­lored suits are often found in the least atten­tive rows.

Anoth­er lay­er of this grand illu­sion is pop­u­lat­ed by those eager to align them­selves with high cul­ture. They may not under­stand Ital­ian libret­tos or musi­cal motifs, but they appear engrossed—mirroring sophis­ti­ca­tion. Their goal is asso­ci­a­tion: to sit among the cul­tured and appear refined by prox­im­i­ty. They fre­quent the same soirées, read the same reviews, and repeat pop­u­lar praise with­out depth of engage­ment. This group, while less friv­o­lous than the socialites, still views opera more as a lifestyle acces­so­ry than a trans­for­ma­tive expe­ri­ence. Their loy­al­ty is not to music, but to the image it helps con­struct. Yet with­out them, the audi­ence might seem sparse, the finan­cial back­bone of grand opera weak­ened.

Far from the glit­ter­ing box­es, seat­ed in mod­est bal­conies or side rows, are the true devo­tees of the art. These atten­dees wait for every act, fol­low the libret­to with rev­er­ence, and know the nuances of each com­po­si­tion. Their appre­ci­a­tion doesn’t demand validation—it’s per­son­al, stud­ied, and deeply felt. When the sopra­no strikes a high note or the orches­tra swells with emo­tion, they respond not with mea­sured claps, but with vis­cer­al awe. Their seats may be less lux­u­ri­ous, but their con­nec­tion to the per­for­mance is inti­mate and pro­found. For them, the opera is nei­ther a sta­tus sym­bol nor a fash­ion­able outing—it is a spir­i­tu­al rit­u­al of sound and sto­ry.

The sin­cer­i­ty of these lis­ten­ers recalls musi­cal scenes from dis­tant lands where music, stripped of spec­ta­cle, moves audi­ences deeply. In Tang­iers, for instance, a street musi­cian can enrap­ture an entire crowd using only rhythm and tone. The emo­tion­al sway of melody is shown to tran­scend class, loca­tion, and lan­guage. This cross-cul­tur­al par­al­lel reveals that musi­cal depth doesn’t require chan­de­liers or vel­vet seats—it only asks for hon­est ears and open hearts. True artistry, when deliv­ered with soul, can res­onate through a dusty street as pow­er­ful­ly as from a pol­ished stage. Thus, the opera’s mean­ing isn’t con­fined to its venue, but lives in the listener’s response.

Beyond com­men­tary, the chap­ter invites read­ers to recon­sid­er how art is con­sumed in mod­ern soci­ety. Is atten­dance root­ed in pas­sion, or has per­for­mance become anoth­er prop in the the­atre of appear­ances? While lav­ish venues and ornate pro­grams may ele­vate the pres­tige, they do not guar­an­tee emo­tion­al con­nec­tion. Many who claim to love opera might strug­gle to name the com­pos­er or inter­pret the libret­to. Con­verse­ly, those with no for­mal train­ing may car­ry with­in them a deep­er under­stand­ing of tone, mood, and musi­cal pro­gres­sion. This dis­con­nect is not new, but it rais­es rel­e­vant ques­tions about authen­tic­i­ty in cul­tur­al expe­ri­ences. What defines appreciation—knowledge, pres­ence, or per­cep­tion?

His­tor­i­cal­ly, opera was once an expe­ri­ence for all lay­ers of soci­ety. From Mozart’s play­ful satires to Puccini’s heart­break­ing dra­mas, operas have been used to reflect the strug­gles and joys of the human spir­it. Yet with grow­ing exclu­siv­i­ty, the mod­ern opera scene risks alien­at­ing the very audi­ence that once gave it vital­i­ty. Tick­et prices, dress codes, and social expec­ta­tions can act as bar­ri­ers instead of bridges. Insti­tu­tions must ask: is the goal to impress or to inspire? To remain vibrant, opera must embrace inclu­siv­i­ty with­out dilut­ing its artis­tic integri­ty.

Today’s opera-goers are still caught in the dance between per­for­mance and per­cep­tion. But among them, the ones who arrive ear­ly, stay until the last bow, and walk home hum­ming a motif—they keep the heart of opera alive. Whether seat­ed in a roy­al box or a creaky bal­cony, it is the lis­ten­er’s open­ness that gives music its mag­ic. When a note stirs the soul or a scene brings a tear, no social class can claim monop­oly over that feel­ing. This chap­ter reminds us that art, in its truest form, belongs to all who gen­uine­ly feel it.