I have a very specific memory of sitting in Row G of the Concert Hall back in 2019, right before the world ended and they shut the place down for the big renovation. I was wearing these leather boots that squeaked every time I shifted my weight. During a particularly quiet stretch of Sibelius, I tried to cross my legs and the sound was so loud, so piercingly intrusive, that the woman in front of me turned around and gave me a look that I can only describe as ‘spiritual eviction.’ I felt like a peasant who had accidentally wandered into a cathedral with muddy feet. I spent the rest of the second movement frozen, my hip cramping, sweating through my shirt because I was too scared to move. It was miserable.
That’s the thing about the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. It’s an exercise in high-stakes sitting. You pay a small fortune—usually about $140 for a decent spot that isn’t behind a pillar or behind the choir—just to participate in a collective silence that is constantly being ruined by the guy three rows back who sounds like he’s dying of consumption.
The $150 million acoustic lie
They spent two years and $150 million fixing the acoustics in the Concert Hall. They put in these massive petal-shaped reflectors above the stage and replaced the wall panels. The official line was that the old hall was ‘too dry’ and the sound didn’t bloom. I’ve been back four times since the reopening in 2022. I might be wrong about this, and I know the audiophiles will want to crucify me, but I actually think it’s almost too loud now.
What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. The clarity is terrifying. I was there for Mahler’s 2nd earlier this year. When the brass section really leans into it, the sound hits you like a physical weight. It’s less like a performance and more like being interrogated by a very talented wall of noise. I tracked the decibel levels on my watch (which I know is tacky, sue me) and it peaked at 98dB during the finale. That is loud. That is ‘chainsaw in your living room’ loud. I used to think the old muffled sound was a defect. I was completely wrong. I miss the softness. Now, every mistake is magnified. Every accidental clink of a flute key sounds like a gunshot.
Anyway, I went on a deep dive last week looking at the wood they used for the new panels. It’s all brushbox, which is native, but it feels sterile. It lacks the grime of history. But I digress.
The puffer jacket problem
I have a genuinely unfair opinion that I need to get off my chest: if you wear a Kathmandu puffer jacket to the Sydney Symphony, you should be banned for life. I don’t care if it’s cold outside. I don’t care if you’re a tourist. The rustle of that synthetic fabric is the natural enemy of a violin solo. I sat next to a guy in a black North Face jacket during a Brahms set and every time he breathed, it sounded like someone was crushing a bag of chips next to my ear. It’s disrespectful to the musicians who have spent 30 years mastering an instrument to have their work accompanied by the sound of cheap polyester.
The Sydney Symphony isn’t just about the music; it’s about the silent war between the performers and the audience’s respiratory systems.
I’ve actually started timing the coughs. In a standard 90-minute performance, you get an average of 4.2 coughs per minute during the quiet movements. It’s a physiological phenomenon. As soon as the conductor lowers the baton for a ppp section, everyone’s throat suddenly closes up. It’s a form of mass hysteria. I hate it. I hate all of you for it. Stop coughing. Just stop.
The part where I admit I’m a hypocrite
Despite the squeaky boots and the puffer jackets and the fact that a gin and tonic at the Bennelong bar costs $24, I keep going back. There is this one specific moment that happens in almost every SSO show. It usually happens about forty minutes in. Your brain stops scanning the room for exits or checking the time, and you just… sink.
I remember a performance of Debussy’s La Mer where I actually forgot I was in Sydney. The renovated hall looks like the inside of a very expensive, very dry cigar box, and for a second, the light hitting the wood and the swell of the harps made the whole world feel incredibly fragile. It’s the only time in my week where I’m not looking at a screen. I’m just a person in a room with 2,000 other people, listening to 100 people play wooden boxes and metal tubes. It’s absurd when you think about it.
I refuse to recommend the ‘cheap seats’ behind the stage, even though everyone says the view of the conductor is ‘intimate.’ It’s not. You’re just looking at the percussionist’s sweat and hearing a version of the music that’s 40% cymbals. Don’t do it. Save your money and sit in the stalls, even if it means you can’t afford rent that week.
Is the Sydney Symphony the best in the world? Probably not. The strings can get a bit thin when they’re pushed, and Simone Young (who is a legend, don’t get me wrong) sometimes takes tempos that feel like she’s trying to catch a bus. But it’s ours. It’s messy and loud and the audience is mostly retirees who forgot to turn off their iPhones, but it’s the only thing in this city that feels like it has a soul left.
I still haven’t figured out how to stop my boots from squeaking, though. I might just start going in socks. Would they kick me out? I honestly don’t know.
Go see the Mahler cycle next year. Bring tissues so you don’t cough. Leave the puffer jacket at home.