[img]9|left||remove link|no_popup[/img]The distressing scene last night was enough to make the hypercritical Mr. Blackwell — is he still breathing? — blanch.
On the regal occasion of Opening Night of the Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra season — marking the return of the gloriously talented Conductor Jeffrey Kahane to smart Royce Hall on the UCLA campus — hundreds of low-brow women arrived attired in the most unappetizing outfits they could cobble together.
Call ‘em dames, not ladies because they have forfeited the respectful title.
Ladies of the Sidewalk
Judging by their trashy choice of clothes, these aging dames should have been walking Main Street in downtown Los Angeles, not associating with cultural connoisseurs.
Otherwise elegant-appearing ladies, well-coiffed weekday regulars at upper-story salons in Westwood and Brentwood, obviously threw themselves together. They looked as if they changed clothes lying down. They were decked out as if they were going slumming at the nearest Farmers Market.
The “ladies” — if true women of the night will forgive my ill-advised locutional detour — reported for the first Chamber Orchestra concert of the autumn season in pants.
Chubby Exceptions — It’s the Bulge Rule
It is understandable that Hillary Clinton wears pants-suits. Masking her fat ankles is a legitimate justification. (By that reasoning, though, she could put pants on both ends of her body.)
Good thing I wasn’t the ticket taker last night at Royce. I would not have allowed the pantsified women to disgrace the auditorium that was intended to host serious adults.
I have seen better-dressed fat girls at bonfire rallies the night before big football games.
If They Were Younger, Okay
If this were a hop-hip or a roll ‘n rock forum, you could understand feminine aficionados of the genre arriving dressed as if they were auto mechanics who just climbed up from the oil pit.
Based on their low-flying taste in entertainment, you would not expect them to undergo a sudden fashion conversion when draping their bodies.
Our seats for the magnificent program of Rossini-Schubert, starring the enormously gifted mezzo-soprano Jennifer Larmore, were Orchestra-Center.
Necessarily, and regrettably, this placed Diane and me directly in the path of not only the oldest dames on the Westside but the scruffiest-dressed old geezers. For two hours and 15 minutes last night, the hard-breathing artifact at my right emitted every sound known to humankind.
Tough Old Broad
Choosing discretion over daring, I declined to correct her constant interruptions. She was wielding a cane. Besides, I heard somebody address her as “Rocky,” and she was shlepping an odd-shaped piece that could have been a spittoon
To complete her rummage sale ensemble, the shabby broad who must have been flirting with 80, probably rolled around on a hardwood floor throughout the afternoon in order to huff, shove and squeeze her baked potato-shaped body into pants.
A Mind Traveling South
Having been born during the administration of either the late Mr. Harding or the even later Mr. Coolidge, surely she learned during her more alert days that even low-class dames, in their dotage, are obliged to wear dresses to hear Rossini and Schubert.
On a glittering evening of brilliant musical mellifluity, it was embarrassing to sit among down-dressed women — and men. It felt like a Santa Monica Pier gathering.
Of Taste Tests and Iowa
Men, too, failed the test of tattered taste. A clear majority dressed like grownups. But there were actually old men in polo shirts. Were they kidding? For a chamber music concert?
Taking one last swing at stylishness, a few geezers slouched in wearing designer jeans. And then there was the tourist from Iowa — I hope he was — with dusty jeans straight off the rack at J.C. Penney’s. Maybe they don’t offer chamber music in the Middle West.
