Throughout the night, though, the same camera crew, directed by someone with the scores in hand, flitted from orchestra section to section every bar or so – not understanding that the only one, other than Hampson or Vidal, who can bring enlightenment to the music’s locus of energy – its thrust and sweep, its change of character and size – is the conductor, especially this conductor. Not a row of oboists.
But the are oboists, doggone it! How can you go wrong with a “row of oboists”? (Hmmm. A row?! Just how many were there?)
