Lincoln Center is a safe place to spend St. Patrick's Day in NYC, right?

New Yorkers have a knack for infusing everything with an overdose of cynicism. We convolute Valentine’s Day into a greeting card company scam; we twist Thanksgiving into an all-you-can-eat buffet. And we take no greater jaded creative license than in the case of Saint Patrick’s Day. The yearly spectacle takes New York City by a storm: half-asleep subway riders wear sequined shamrock headbands; slurred, muddled song lyrics become the sidewalk soundtrack; crowds of tipsy folks shout obscenities in broad daylight, leaning on one another to keep from toppling over. Amid the neon-green lit taverns and shamrock-sporting restaurant signs, Avery Fisher Hall stands strong, classy, and composed. What better place to sit out the Saint Patrick’s Day festivities than in the Upper West Side’s sleek classical music giant?

On any other night, the renowned concert hall would offer an impeccable, streamlined experience. Whether the stars were misaligned or luck struck the wrong way, this night’s New York Philharmonic performance didn’t settle in the senses. The three selected concertos covered all extremes of the classical music sound spectrum, from the majestic and grandiose to the whimsical, sparse, and flowery. Every musician admirably flowed through Ligeti’s Concert Românesc, Haydn’s Le Midi, and Bartók’s Concerto (BB 123, Sz 116) with utmost fluency, harmony, and ambient fluidity.  But more audible than the group’s expertise was the steady stream of audience interruptions throughout the two-hour program. Ringing cell phones, absurdly excessive coughing, a restless youngster (and his equally restless father)—the night had it all. By far, the most bizarre moment: the orchestra was sailing through Ligeti’s Concert Românesc with a graceful ease, weaving in and out of the work’s temperamental phases. Fluttery, chirping flutes and whistles gave way to a lone, somber trumpet, then another. A violin crescendo came in, and just as the piece stormed into distressed, Mahler-esque territory, from tier two came a grand snippet from a bickering couple: “Why don’t you get out! Letting you f@!%ing in here!”

Everyone quieted down to stare at the loud offender, and the orchestra at last shone in its rightful spotlight—but only for mere seconds. A wave of violins dove into the fast-paced, regal opening of Haydn’s Li Midi, interrupted once more by the rusty coughs of the audience’s inconsiderate concerto.