Guidelines for Attending (and Winning) the Opera

So, you’re in possession of an opera ticket! Whether you found it nestled between the pages of Yachts Quarterly or it was placed in your hand by a mysterious patron in a black velvet mask, you’re clutching the key to a kingdom of clandestine musical delights.

Now, you may think that the opera is a place only for people who wear monocles and say things like “Capital!” Surely, someone will sense that you enjoy Transformers and eating shredded cheese out of the bag and bar your entry.

Fear not. Here’s how to blend in like a pro.

Proper attire is essential.

You may be familiar with the grand tradition of opera gloves, opera capes, and opera glasses. But, due to incremental shifts in the opera’s microclimate, today you’ll also need an opera hat, opera scarf, opera parka, and opera mukluks. (The opera can be a treacherous place for the underdressed.)

Be prepared to read along.

To follow the opera’s story, you don’t need to be fluent in Italian, German, or hieroglyphics. Simply press the button on the back of the seat in front of you to display digital supertitles. If you get tired of reading along in your native language, press and hold both buttons until it lets you play Snake.

Do not fear the dark.

Once the lights go down, you’ll hear quite a commotion from the orchestra pit. Tremble not: the sides are far too sheer for the musicians to climb out. It is customary for the theater to hire a ringmaster—or conductor—to keep the orchestra in line by brandishing his stick.

Know your warblers.

Soon, the stage will be packed with people in wigs making all kinds of loud, beautiful sounds. Be not afraid. Attending the opera is like birdwatching: if you peer at the singers through your little binoculars and learn their calls, you’ll understand their arcane behaviors:

The soprano is the highest female voice. Everyone is in love with her. Sometimes, the soprano will swoon or cough profusely into an embroidered handkerchief. Fret not! This is part of the opera.

The mezzo-soprano is the middle female voice. She’s either playing the most seductive woman in the world, an adolescent boy, or your mother. Try not to think about that too hard.

The contralto is the lowest female voice. Her kind is nearly extinct. If you spot a contralto during the opera, please report the sighting to an usher at intermission, so her name can be added to the national registry.

The tenor has the highest male voice. He’s a simple boy with immense lung capacity.

The baritone is the middle male voice. If he’s not the tenor’s grounded best friend, he’s almost certainly evil. Tragically, this is the most common male voice type.

The bass is the lowest male voice. He is your king, your father, or both.

Embrace intermission small talk.

In the unlikely event that a fancy person attempts to chat with you about the performance, simply shake your head, stare into the middle distance, and sigh, “She was far better in Prague.”

Embrace your limits.

Let the music flow through you. Let it flow over you. Let it whistle in one ear and out the other. By Act II, you are already 50% full of music, and you don’t want to inflate like a windsock.

Embrace death.

Don’t get upset when everyone dies at once. This is also part of the opera.

At the end, clap.

When, after many hours of theatrical and sonic ecstasy, the curtain falls, the singers will return for an encore. Now you can applaud! Clap your hands together like a joyous seal. Throw roses, confetti, or your bank cards at their feet.

If you’d like to show appreciation for the orchestra, carefully approach the pit and hand a raw steak to the conductor. DO NOT throw the steak into the pit yourself! This violates the orchestra’s union contract.

Keep clapping.

Your hands may be growing tired. Don’t stop. Clap until your palms bleed. Clap until you’re the only one left clapping. This is how you win the opera.

Attend the coronation.

At this point, the other patrons will hoist you atop their shoulders and, cheering wildly, carry you to the throne room. You are their King now. After receiving your ceremonial crown, monocle, and black velvet mask, you’ll be presented with a delicate lacquered box containing your season tickets.

Capital!

Pay it forward.

Tuck a ticket in a back issue of Yachts Quarterly. Leave it on a deli counter or a bench in the park. Someone will thank you someday.