Augmenting every symphonic mode, cadenza, and movement, from solo to solo to tutti, they gave frenetic evidence of something going on—in tempo though behind the baton. Now they snipped as scissors, straight and prim, precisely demure, in a trice became draperies in a frivolous breeze, now a whole week's laundry awash a capriccio, then slowly billowing on the line at the waist. All was performed between the orchestra (oblivious through four full suites) and the house (mute and divergently tuned), until tempered into harmony by the sotto shout of a child: Somebody's got to tell me, please, what are they so excited about?