Mahler is only a murmur from the second violin to the first balcony, outside the concert hall the evening air is cold, streetwise hooligans fevered for a free-for-all march to drum and trumpet in their uniforms prepared for future conquests, drinking without leitmotifs as a prelude to nowhere, away from a Jew's harp in a gorgeous cadenza, roses greet the young soloist hearing stunned applause, curtains raised elevator closed programs passed out, expecting history to be made on the next state, Mahler's arias enlighten the prodigy on the keyboard not knowing half the orchestra will soon disappear.