In the balcony, a lion roared. Power saws wailed, chains rattled, sirens shrieked, horns blared. A door squeaked shut on unseen hinges. Onstage, the members of the orchestra sat in slack-jawed silence. A woman's sepulchral voice boomed through the house. "Oh, God!" it moaned.
Twenty years agoor even tensuch disturbances might have incited an audience to riot. Last week, concertgoers at Manhattan's Town Hall did little more than wince, or cringe in their seats. When the last cataclysmic sound had died away, they gave a standing ovation to the sturdy, craggy-faced composer who made...
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