What it was like
The 1812 Overture was written to commemorate a war, and the only thing it has ever truly conquered is the distance between a person and the version of themselves that says yes to things. Cannons. Brass. The moment the whole orchestra stands and the sky detonates behind them. There is no intellectual distance on offer. You surrender or you leave.
The symphony closes out its summer on the bay with a full program: the exuberant Capriccio italien, the piano concerto with a Grammy-nominated soloist, the dark churn of Francesca da Rimini, and then the one that ends in real pyrotechnics timed to the score. Not metaphorical fireworks. The bay lights up while the last chord is still ringing.
Lawn if you want to spread out, tables if you want the full evening. The sky does not discriminate.
You walk in as the person who had a long week and walk out remembering that beauty operates on a scale your commute will never show you.