How we came to love Roy Thomson Hall
Problems with location, technically tricky design and how to pay for it all paled compared to furor over name of new venue
Over its 35-year history, Roy Thomson Hall has hit some pretty sour notes. But little rivalled the discord that greeted the announcement of its name eight months before the opening in 1982.
“My God! You’ve got to be kidding!” writer Pierre Berton cried. “It seems that if they were going to open a major music hall, they’d name it after someone who knew something about music.”
Roy Thomson, a wealthy media baron who at that point had been dead almost six years, once said the most beautiful music to his ears “was a (radio) spot commercial at 10 bucks a whack.”
The patron of vaudeville theatre had no use for Ludwig, Wolfgang or Johannes.
But Thomson’s family put their money where the music was, to the tune of a $4.5-million donation. And for that, Roy Thomson’s name moved to the front of the house.
The early years of the King St. W. venue — described as an overturned glass fruit bowl — were similarly cacophonous. Long before Lt.-Gov. Pauline McGibbon climbed into an excavator for the ceremonial start of construction in1978, there were delays and disagreements over the site.
The Toronto Symphony and Toronto Mendelssohn Choir needed a new home to replace the aging and deficient “Old Lady of Shuter St.” The board of governors was mostly in harmony on that point after orchestra president Edward Pickering had advocated a “New Massey Hall” for years.
Various locations were considered and rejected before decision-makers settled on the former rail yards opposite the Royal Alexandra Theatre.
While the controversial land deal — stickhandled by then-mayor David Crombie — peeved some at city hall, it pleased Pickering, who envisioned the renaissance of a historic and once fashionable area of the city.
The premier concert hall would “give a sense of drama and occasion” to King and Simcoe Sts., he later told the Toronto Star.
It would be a hall for all people, he insisted, pointing out to music critic William Littler that “there are more subscribers to the Toronto Symphony Orchestra than there are to the Toronto Maple Leafs.”
General manager Bill Armstrong elaborated on programming: “We’re determined to have good music of all kinds. And that means jazz, pop, country as well as classical.”
But first, the place had to be built and that’s when design difficulties took centre stage.
Modernist architect Arthur Erickson proposed a round “crystal pavilion” topped with a huge net of different-sized glass pieces. But his hopes were shattered by local technology that “couldn’t handle it,” he said.
Erickson viewed the modified final design as a “rather clumsy” dish shape, according to architecture critic Leon Whiteson.
Despite his disappointment, Erickson felt he had achieved “something truly special,” the architect wrote in the Star.
The final price rang in at $39 million — $5 million over budget. But one of the high notes of the project was the success of the biggest cultural fundraising campaign in Canada. All three levels of government chipped in but it was left to the corporate community and general public to raise $10 million.
Cue Judy Simmonds, a passionate volunteer behind a program in which people paid $1,000 to endow a seat in perpetuity. Singing a self-written song and playing a ukulele, Simmonds made the rounds of schools, boardrooms and service clubs to promote the plan.
She and her team sold $2 million worth of name plaques that included an entire row of seats dedicated to the memory of American singer and civil rights activist Paul Robeson.
As excitement over the nearly completed building hit a crescendo in 1981, the Star published an action-packed 12-page preview.
“It is our Sphinx, our Taj Mahal, our Colosseum,” the newspaper crowed.
Among the highlights was the magnificent $650,000 organ built by London, Ont., craftsman Gabriel Kney with more than 5,000 pipes ranging from a few centimetres to almost 10 metres long.
Pundits, however, expressed concern over the cavernous auditorium’s controversial sound design, created in collaboration with a top U.S. acoustician.
Two months later, the Thomson name was announced as the official moniker, setting off a chorus of disapproval over the perceived snub of more deserving individuals. Marathon runner Terry Fox and composer and choral director Healey Willan were among the 3,402 suggestions in an unofficial naming contest held by the Star. (“Windex” was also put forth.)
With months of fine-tuning and the building’s interior finished, all that remained was to cut the ribbon — inscribed with the “ta-ta-ta-ta-a-a-a” of Beethoven’s Fifth — launch 1,000 silver balloons and plant posteriors in the 2,812 seats for the opening gala on Sept. 13, 1982.
King St.’s curvilinear honeycombed glass spectacle represented “a triumph of the doers over the naysayers,” declared mayor Art Eggleton before a black-tie crowd took their $500 places for a visual and auditory feast.
“I hope nobody puts the knock on this place,” remarked veteran broadcaster Gordon Sinclair. “We need it. And there’s no mortgage.”
But behind the glittering facade, rumblings of discontent soon surfaced as the orchestra and critics complained about the grey concrete’s cold esthetics and acoustics.
It was a blow to Pickering, who during construction, had insisted nothing would take a back seat “to getting superlatively good sound.”
The imperfect audio continued through years of performances of world music, rock, jazz, festivals and even the closing session of the 1988 Economic Summit attended by such world leaders as Margaret Thatcher, Ronald Reagan and Canadian prime minister Brian Mulroney.
In the mid-1990s, the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) added Roy Thomson to its screening venues, amping up the glitter factor as celebrities rubbed glamorous shoulders with stargazers.
“They couldn’t have gotten any more people in with a cattle prod,” wrote social-scene scribe Rita Zekas at a gala in 1995. “What chaos. Pushing and shoving and cursing.”
In November 2000, officials announced a two-year, $20-million acoustical “enhancement project,” prompting urban issues reporter Christopher Hume to sound off: “When Erickson designed Roy Thomson Hall, he set out to create a contemporary architectural jewel as well as a great hall,” he wrote. “The truth, however, is that he failed. Roy Thomson Hall may be spectacular, but it’s also deeply flawed . . .”
Renovations, which required a 22-week closure, included replacing acrylic sound reflectors, stage and auditorium flooring with resonant Canadian maple. Wooden bulkheads were added in the upper chamber to make the hall more shoebox-shaped and further improve acoustics. But alarm bells rang for Erickson. “The building is being destroyed,” the architect grumbled about alterations to his poured-concrete interior.
Twenty years after its initial opening, however, a better-sounding, though slightly smaller space, was reintroduced to audience and critical acclaim.
It proved both its versatility and value when the nation paid tribute to beloved politician Jack Layton at his state funeral on Aug. 27, 2011.
With mourners filling the 2,630 seats and thousands more outside, Layton’s softly lit, flag-draped casket rested on centre stage for a final farewell.
Beside it, Steven Page sang “Hallelujah” in what had clearly become a hallowed hall.
“They couldn’t have gotten any more people in with a cattle prod. What chaos. Pushing and shoving and cursing.” RITA ZEKAS SOCIAL-SCENE SCRIBE, AT A FILM FESTIVAL GALA IN 1995