Do Not Open Until The Year 2100...

The night before my twenty-second birthday, Lincoln Center was brimming with hundreds of people, most of which were waiting to attend the performance of The Nutcracker by the New York City Ballet. I sat quietly by the fountain outside before the show began, nibbling on gummy bears that had been sold inside the hall. My mother and her friend rushed around hurriedly, searching for a late Christmas gift for a friend of theirs from law school. Indeed, the day after Christmas brought about an almost eerie air to those surrounding me. The trees and awnings were laced with beautiful lights, yet ripped giftwrap pushed its way through the wind, signaling another holiday dismissed for a year.

I began noting random conversations into my red journal, which I usually bring with me to each show I attend. It pained me to see so many people so horrified by the upcoming New Year. One middle aged woman even went so far as to put her cold hands over her little boy's ears as she casually mentioned to another woman that the world would indeed end. The other woman nodded solemnly as the boy attempted to wiggle his way out of his mother's strong grasp.

I was quickly taken from my observations as my own mother came to retrieve me. "It's time to go in," she said, pointing to the entrance. She then turned to her friend. "Erica and I haven't been here since she was small."

At times like those, I am whisked back into a harsh reality. I was to be twenty-two the next day. Not nine or ten. This, although there was nothing I could do about it, scared me to no avail. I glanced at the line that was forming. Young children, unable to stand real still, ran around aimlessly, while their mothers tried desperately to keep them in control. "We are in a theatre," one woman called out to a small child in a shrill voice, "and in a theatre we do not behave like that!" The girl stopped in her tracks, a look of pure fear on her face. I wondered how many of these children were there because they wanted to see The Nutcracker, and how many did not even have a choice. My attention then focused to the adults. I suppose the same scenario applied to them as well. How many were attending the show simply because it was a tradition, and not for pure enjoyment? How many were bringing their kids along in order to set some sort of good example? And how many, like me, had seen the very same show many times before, but yet did not quite remember it? Call it what you will, but I could not recall much of my past.

Our three seats were in a prime location: sixth row center. My mom sat between me and her friend, while I had a girl close to my age next to me. She glanced at me as she was taking off her heavy coat. "My son is really, really quiet," she said to me, "so please don't worry about anything. He won't disturb you." Slightly shocked, I glanced at the seat beside her. A boy of about six months sat there, playing with a stuffed zebra. I laughed nervously and gazed around the hall, which was filling up rather quickly. The picture-perfect audience was topped with a dull chill. My mother mused over leaving her husband at home. "He hates ballet," she snickered, and shook her head in amazement. "How can anyone dislike this?"

I could not dismiss the strange sensation running through my body even as the ballet began. The orchestra was indeed flawless, while the ballet dancers moved through the air with such ease. The balance was seemingly perfect. It was...innocent. A hot-pink backdrop suddenly encompassed the stage. Huge lollipops and candy canes bounced with the dancers. The children squealed and delight touched their faces. I glanced down at my shoes. "Do I not belong here anymore?" I thought to myself. I tried to shake that thought away. However, it haunted me so. A single tear made a small puddle on my leg as the opening notes to "the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies" rang through the room.

Possibly the most widely recognized song from The Nutcracker, "Sugar Plum" brought the entire audience together for a few moments. My eyes were suddenly wide with amazement. Toddlers tugged on their mothers' shoulders, one even went so far as to scream out loud with joy. Friends turned to friends with knowing smiles. And as quickly as that same smile made its way onto my face, my spirit returned to Irving Plaza, where I had seen the Disco Biscuits perform just a few weeks before.

Irving Plaza held a similar type of excitement the night of December 4, 1999. The Disco Biscuits had never played there, and the nervous energy was almost intoxicating. While the Biscuits played familiar songs with headblowing jams, audience members found themselves in stages of disarray. Some, like me, stood frozen in amazement, while others danced unbelievably hard and frantically. I recall putting my head in my hands, in desperate need of a break from the chaos. I could not believe that music was bringing such uncontrollable feelings upon me. I could not escape my surroundings, nor did I really feel that I should. But something was awry.

Breaking through the intensity came the most surprising gift of the evening: "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies". As the Biscuits played through this all-too-innocent tune from The Nutcracker, anyone enjoying the experience became surprised, wide-eyed little children. We greeted the familiar Christmastime song and reveled in its festivity. We looked towards the New Year with hope and excitement. We could do anything just then.

I was lost in this dream state for quite some time, awoken suddenly by the baby two seats down from me. It took me a few moments to regain the knowledge of my surroundings; I was, in fact, at Lincoln Center. Irving Plaza was all but a memory. It frightened me that a single melody could send me through such an unwarranted state of time travel. I was innocent and yet, full of experiences; some that I'd wish to remember for years to come, and some that I'd, of course, rather forget.

Tschaikovsky, upon his death, had no idea that The Nutcracker had such an impact on today's holiday season. Dennis Bartel writes in a biography of the troubled composer: "...all [Tschiakovsky] wanted was to be rid of [The Nutcracker]...he felt it was inferior to Sleeping Beauty," (1) which he had composed many years before. "When The Nutcracker premiered in December 1892, the critics agreed with its inferiority...Whereas Sleeping Beauty had soared to great heights, The Nutcracker floundered like a broken toy."

While "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies" happened to be the link between my approaching adulthood and the childhood of my distant past, I realized all too soon that like any piece of music, the moment would eventually end. I reached over and placed my hand on my mother's and held on for dear life. I wished to hold on to both moments- the memory of Irving Plaza as well as the ballet- for as long as I could.

"Had he lived another decade, Tschaikovsky would have seen audiences begin to make The Nutcracker what it is today: the holidays' piece d'occasion. And contrary to Tschaikovsky's thinking, The Nutcracker has proved to be rich in allegory." (ibid.)

One hundred years from now, today's music may be looked upon with similar innocence. Perhaps as communications and recording technology heightens and converges even more, people of all ages will find occasional hidden gems in the music of their distant pasts. The pieces will slowly come together, the puzzle being a simple musical unification theory, one which we all have the power to solve if we look in the right places.

(1) Dennis Bartel; Dark Genius: Peter Ilyitch Tschaikovsky; 1999; p. 52.

Erica Lynn Gruenberg ordered out for mindless dribble...