Culture Exchange: At the Proms, there'll always be an England

— The world's biggest classical music festival opened its 116th season last month at the Royal Albert Hall. Presented by the BBC, the Proms is an annual celebration of music that draws 6,000 people each night for eight weeks. The range of music is vast and the enthusiasm of the Prommers, the festival's most ardent patrons, limitless.

The Proms was started in 1895 by London impresario Robert Newman with the intention of using low ticket prices and an informal atmosphere to encourage people to get into classical music. (Originally, the concerts were outside and people could promenade while listening.)

The budget tradition continues today in the form of the 1,400 unreservable standing places either on the floor (the arena) or at the very top of the hall (in the gallery) costing 5 pounds ($8.50) available on the day of the concert for anyone who wishes to queue for them. Gallery Prommers have a rail to lean on in case of aching hamstrings, but the Arena Prommers, generally thought to be the more hardy of the two groups, happily trade physical comfort for the privilege of being five yards from the conductor.

As with any long-established subculture, a whole raft of very British customs and traditions have been codified for those who choose to queue for a standing place. I had seen them lining up on previous Proms visits and was always curious about the superfans, that core group of 100 or so Prommers who attend more than 40 of the 75 concerts offered during each season. (Attending every single concert, called a Grand Slam, is dreamed about but rarely achieved.)

On the second day of the season, these superfans were huddled under the awning near the stage door. You wouldn't have guessed it was drizzling and unseasonably cold and with more than three hours to go till the start of the evening's concert. The wine was flowing, the chatter easy and the ribbing good-natured as old friends caught up on the last 10 months of each others' lives. The liveried ushers stopped to greet the regulars with a hug.

Karen and Lee McLernon, in their mid-30s, have been coming to between 40 and 50 proms each season since 2000. "For less than a top-price ticket at Covent Garden you can have eight weeks of concerts," Karen said. "Because we've been promming for some time, we've made loads of friends and it's quite nice to come and hear great music with like-minded people."

It become clear that it wouldn't matter if the other audience members with whom they share the hall showed up or not. As a group, they feel a strong sense of ownership over the festival — Prommers have been characterized in the British press as musical trainspotters, clinging desperately to their traditions and howling when the BBC tries to modernize things.

This year, the fountain that has been in the middle of the arena since the very first Proms season was removed. "It's actually quite sad," Karen said, "because it's a traditional element. We have some inflatable animals we usually put in. I was looking forward to buying some swans for the Swan Lake Prom."

This summer's programs are filled with variety: Gustavo Dudamel and the Simon Bolivar Orchestra were scheduled last week; there's a Steve Reich 75th-birthday concert this week; then pianist Helene Grimaud, tenor Joseph Calleja and the Philadelphia Orchestra.

The bulk of the playing is by the BBC Symphony Orchestra.

While in the queue, the Prommers chat, drink and argue just like any other group that shares a common interest. Michael Langton, a seasoned queuer, proudly cops to the Prommers' reputation for pedantry. "We split hairs a lot in this queue. There's a lot of banter and repartee. We feed off one another."

Julian and Sheila Cohen from North London are among several couples who met in line. As is usual for a long-married couple, telling a story is a joint affair. Sheila starts: "We'd known each other for a while but I was with someone else at the time." "I seem to catch them on the rebound," continues Julian. "I had the score…" Sheila interjects, giggling like a schoolgirl: "and he asked me if I would like to follow along with him. That was in 1972, and the rest is history."

While they love to make jokes, the Prommers' sense of humor is an acquired taste — every time the stagehand opens the piano lid, the Arena shouts "heave!" followed immediately by the Gallery's "ho!"

Another one of the Arena's trademark shouts is announcing at the beginning of each intermission how much money has been raised for charity by their after-concert collection. Last year, nearly $150,000 was given to three pre-selected charities, including CLIC Sargent, a charity founded by former Proms chief conductor and patron saint of Prommers, Sir Malcolm Sargent. Known as Flash Harry, Sargent was famous for his impeccable dress sense and for talking to the Prommers from the podium. Each year on the Last Night, the Prommers club gets together to buy carnation buttonholes for the orchestra and choir in his honor. (He died in 1967.)

It is the Last Night that comes immediately to mind for most people when the Proms are mentioned. The traditional music and blatant flag waving are as close as Britain gets to having a national day. The liberal press often denounces the Last Night as a jingoistic celebration of an England that no longer exists and the right-leaning papers embrace it as a representation of all that is good about Britain. But for Prommers, the Last Night is like the last day of school. "It's a chance to let down your hair," Lee McLernon said, "and do some silly things."

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