When Am I Supposed To Clap?

And how to NOT clap in the wrong place.

Believe it or not, I’m actually charmed when the ending of, say, a concerto’s first movement is met with a roar of enthusiastic applause—or even a standing ovation! Yes, despite the fact that it’s not the most correct place to clap (as we’ll learn), it warms my artist heart to be unexpectedly recognized for making something so beautiful and meaningful (or at least to be sitting stupidly behind the famed soloist who just created something so beautiful and meaningful). On the other hand, most works don’t necessarily inspire that kind of whole-hearted response after each movement, and, while a forgivable faux pas, it becomes somewhat disruptive when we’re ready to move on but must wait out a smattering of confused claps.

The encouraging part is that ill-placed applause is wholly avoidable with a small amount of instruction. The general rule on applause is to wait for the end of each piece or musical work. An entire symphony is considered a piece, but it is often made up of 3-4 (although sometimes more) movements. The printed program can help you know how many of these movements to watch out for. Here’s Beethoven Symphony 5 as an example: 

1. Allegro con brio (*don’t clap)

2. Andante con moto (*don’t clap)

3. Scherzo: Allegro (*don’t clap)

4. Allegro – Presto (*CLAP!)

In practice it’s not always so simple. Sometimes the space between movements is labeled attaca in the sheet music (meaning attack at once) and it becomes virtually impossible for the audience to tell that we’ve ended one movement and started another. It can also be tricky when the second to last movement has a whiz-bang finish and it really seems like the piece ought to just end there. It’s tempting for me to tell you to simply play it safe, wait a half second, and only begin clapping after your neighbor does. Unfortunately, this probably means that when the piece ends no one will clap, commencing an awkwardly long game of chicken. Or, worse, you’ll just find yourself clapping at the wrong time because of an oblivious neighbor and now you look like one of those people my father warned me about who would gladly follow their friends off a cliff in a giant conga line. The real trick is not to rely on other audience members at all for your cue. There are more reliable sources of truth and knowledge out there! 

A great start is to know the music. It’s free and relatively easy to find a recording on YouTube. You can even skip to the last minute and listen to it ten times until you have it memorized. This is only a start, however, because it can’t fully prepare you for the spontaneity of a live performance. 

Take the opportunity to think of yourself as a performer. The thing about attending live music is that you (and every clap, cough, or errant cell phone ring) are, in fact, part of the performance. As performers, we look at the body language of the conductor and the other musicians on stage to gather information about when and how to play. At the end of a movement you sense some relaxation from the stage, but perhaps it doesn’t have finality. The string players might still have their bows on the strings or the conductor might have one arm partially raised - what could this mean? If it’s the end of the whole piece you will see the musicians collapse a bit and sit back in their chairs. The conductor’s arms drop completely and they might make a short bow to the orchestra. Just like a baton, these motions tell you when to make your entrance. 

Right at the end of Bernstein’s Symphonic Dances From West Side Story, the final two notes form this poignant little rising motif that sounds like a morning horn call from the distance. After a piece fraught with tension and war, this ray of sun breaking through the purple dawn is as beautiful as it is thought provoking. So imagine how in our first concert a SINGLE person loudly began clapping not one millisecond after the note ended. “Bravo!” they yelled into the near-silent hall. A few audience members tentatively joined the clapping and then, in slow motion, the applause gained momentum like a freight train pulling out of the station. The conductor, Bill Eddins, still had his arms outstretched trying desperately to hold on to the slippery moment of silence as it dissipated before our eyes. In a humorously good-natured—but not completely pretended—display of disappointment and mock grief, Bill slouched, dropped his forehead into one hand and shook his head. 

To me it was a tragedy. Experiencing the overwhelming magnitude of silence as a final note reverberates in the hall is a rare moment in the world and something I crave in every concert. You play a part in this. You’re a performer now. Nothing about playing in the orchestra, or being in the audience, should be a solo act. Learn the music, read the program, watch the body language of the conductor and musicians, and read the room! I think you’ll be surprised how many clues you are able to pick up on.