Doodle Deedle, Doodle Deedle. Music Like This Could Give Repetition a Bad Name. : A SHATTERING NIGHT WITH PHILIP GLASS

Tuesday, 8:30 p.m. There are lots of people inside the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Young people. Eager people. Casually dressed people. Not your ordinary Music Center concert crowd.

Outside, a humongous line of would-be ticket buyers still mobs the box office. The house, they tell me, is hopelessly sold out.

Gadzooks. It is hopelessly sold out for an evening of new music, sponsored by the New Music Group of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Repeat: new music.

This isn’t going to be an evening of your ordinary Philharmonic-type new music, however. This is going to be the mod, with-it, beat-beat-beat-of-the-synthesizer music of Philip Glass.

This is a delirious cult-orgy type event. This is music for the deaf generation. This is a program by the Philip Glass Ensemble.

The ensemble consists of Glass himself--the noble veteran of “CIVIL warS” both fought and unfought--at one electronic keyboard, with six accomplices manning other keyboards and wind instruments. A seventh accomplice womans something called the emulator. A high-decibeled Jezibel in a snazzy backless gown, she also serves as an echo-chambered vocal distortionist.

A stack of loudspeakers--very, very loud loudspeakers--looms at each side of the proscenium arch. Call them towers of babble.

8:40. The concert begins with excerpts from the Cologne section of the Olympian operatic opus that wasn’t. It sounds like so much simplistic musical-water treading. Call it a rhythmic flood of sonic eau de Cologne.

Some listeners surrender instantly, bob up and down in their seats, blissfully indulge in mental breast-stroking. Others fear imminent drowning.

Doodle deedle, doodle deedle, doodle deedle, doodle deedle, doodle deedle, doodle deedle. Music like this could give repetition a bad name. When it is well past the time for a change of pattern or the surprising introduction of an illuminating nuance, Glass gives us doodle deedle DEEDLE, doodle deedle DEEDLE, doodle deedle DEEDLE , thump.

Whoopee.

Next comes “The City/Dance” from “Akhnaten.” Another essay on the evolution of the primitive twitch. Mechanical rumbling in excelsis or ad nauseam, depending on your tolerance levels and aesthetic perspective. Hicky ticky, hicky ticky, hicky ticky, hicky ticky, hicky ticky, HICKYTICK TICKY, HICKYTICK TICKY, thump.

Wow.

Next, for no change in pace or dynamic or texture, comes “The Grid” from the film “Koyaanisqatsi.” Oo wah, oo wah, oo wah, oo wah, oo wah, oo wah, WAH WAH, WAH WAH.

Ooh.

Next comes intermission, and not a hemidemisemiquaver too soon. These ancient, without-it ears are throbbing. This feeble, superannuated mind is boggling.

The quaint Chandler chimes summon the audience back to the bludgeoning chamber. The chimes themselves--with what now sounds like gentle melodic caresses and intricate structural outlines--have never sounded sweeter. The auditorium has seldom seemed so forbidding.

The music resumes. It resembles what we had endured before. The pounding, pounding, pounding blast-network created for the opening and closing ceremonies of the Olympics loses something in translation from Coliseum to concert hall. The first dance from “Einstein on the Beach” stomps relentlessly on the overamplified threshold of bang-bang dementia. Oh aay, oh aay, oh aay, oh aay, oh aay, oh aay, oh aay.

Oy vey.

This is music that assaults the gut and ignores the brain. One man’s good vibes turn out to be another’s bad vibrations.

10 p.m. The concert is nearly over. The only remaining hurdle involves three “Glass Pieces” cranked out for Jerome Robbins. Your faithful scribe wants to stay. Really he does. It is his duty. It is a matter of honor. It is a matter of intellectual curiosity. It is a matter of journalistic integrity.

But no. Your faithful but cowardly scribe does not succumb to aural masochism.

Not tonight, dears. I have a headache.