Ingrida
Alonderė

The Sound of Music. A musical. For children. For parents. For grandparents. For everyone who still believes that Sunday noon is the perfect time for education, aesthetics, and the distribution of candy. This time, I was not a critic, not a director, not a reviewer—but simply an observer, a listener, and a mother. Almost not working, and completely not interfering with creative ambitions. Because here, as it should be, worked people who have been doing this their entire lives.

And so—an inventory of impressions.

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Children — my long-forgotten inner audience

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Throughout the concert, I watched the children and tried to understand what they feel when they enter the Philharmonic: some—serious, like future conductors, others—radiant, others—proudly waving to their parents as if they had just received the title “Little Maestro.” I remember myself at their age—I already felt like an incredibly important part of the collective. Today, those children probably feel the same. Or… maybe not.

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My son’s review (4.5 years old)

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After the concert, I asked:

— So, what did you like the most?
He said:
— Nothing.

And that final blow to the heart was the most honest evaluation of all. Children do not speak in metaphors. They simply state their reality.

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Visuals, film, and candy — the Jedi toolkit of audience control

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Before the concert, children were given candy. Some got too little, some too much. There were tears. There was triumph.

Above the stage—a grotesquely oversized film projected onto the vault.

My inner critic whispered quietly: “Perhaps this is to keep the children from getting bored?” And you know what—the concept actually worked. At least as long as blood sugar levels held.

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The organ — a mystery I will carry to the grave

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In the first minutes, it felt as if the organ was still getting acquainted with its part. Or with itself. Or with the acoustics. Or perhaps I simply had a particularly sensitive, critically tuned ear that day. My hearing can sometimes be overly ambitious.

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Choir “Viva Voce” and the young ensemble — enthusiasm that saves the genre

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The children’s choir was gentle, alive, and sincere. Those moments when they looked at the conductor with complete trust—those were the purest aesthetic moments of the day. Sometimes music is simply a training ground for trust.

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Ensemble MUSICA HUMANA — professional

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In this colourful, candy-fuelled universe, they were a rock of stability. Maintaining balance, tempo, and dramaturgy—even when the audience existed in its own parallel bubble of sugar-driven expressionism. Conductor Robertas Beinaris—as always, solid, precise, and resistant to the chaos of a children’s audience.

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“Edelweiss” — a diplomatic compromise between notes and reality

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The famous song arrives. Everyone waits. I wait too—for tenderness, light, softness. And… well. Let me put it delicately: the song sounded as if Edelweiss were still trying to push its way through the snow. Hesitantly. With a strong winter wind. And slightly exhausted. But you know—sometimes even flowers need time.

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A strange event for children

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(or perhaps I am the one who does not understand)

A musical is a celebration. This was more contemplation. More darkness. More film. More attempts to regulate the audience through visual means. I missed light. The children missed it even more. Still—the idea itself was ambitious. And ambition in children’s culture is a rare thing.

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Epilogue — what I took with me

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As the children left the hall, some were glowing, others disappointed, others counting their candy. I was counting thoughts.

It was not perfect.
It was real.
Childlike, chaotic, human.

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And sometimes that is better than a perfectly sterile concert. And you know what? Maybe my son didn’t like anything— but I liked watching how the world of young listeners unfolds. And how music, even when it is not liked, still leaves something behind.

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P.S. How good it was to hear Aušra Liutkutė again—thank you.