With in-home concerts, people are partying like it’s 1899

On a balmy afternoon in June, a few dozen people of varying ages waited quietly as Hope Wechkin raised her hands over the keys of a grand piano. The audience sat on rows of foldout chairs that filled the first floor of Wechkin’s home in Seattle. A few moments into playing, Wechkin began singing an original piece from a musical she’s working on, about a doctor who lost her mother.

As one of the spectators, I was nearly moved to tears; it was a sad song, sure, but there is also something disarmingly intimate about hearing live music in such close quarters. Wechkin, 56, was one of more than a dozen musicians and poets who performed that day, including her husband Christopher Shainin and their child Phoenix, 14, who had organized the multimedia event.

It was not the family’s first time hosting live music in their home. In fact, the house was designed for it. They bought the old home in 2008 from Wechkin’s voice teacher, who had devoted the entire first floor to teaching music and hosting recitals. The kitchen, living room and bedrooms are all on the second floor. When Wechkin and Shainin moved in, there was no question of whether they’d keep the layout intact.

“Part of what we signed up for was being stewards of this space,” Wechkin says. “There is a sense of it being a little bit more than a house. It’s something that we inherited, that we are trying to keep alive.”

There’s a long history of people hosting small concerts at home. In the 19th century, Americans often gathered in parlors to play popular and classical music. Piano was common, as were inexpensive instruments such as ukuleles and recorders. The parlor was “egalitarian, open, and joyful,” according to one musicologist, but the popularity of home concerts dwindled when radios entered the scene.

There’s no comparison, though, between piping music through a speaker and sitting close enough to a singer to feel their breath. And the shows are about more than a good time: They’re a way to center life, family and community around music. That’s why in-home concerts have never fully died out. DIY punk shows, for example, have long been popular with young people in New Jersey, California, the Pacific Northwest and many other places. But for some older people and families, having space for performances — and an audience to appreciate them — is as essential as a sofa and television. Those interested in hosting or seeing live music in homes can use tools such as Groupmuse, a cooperative and online platform where hosts and musicians organize concerts in nontraditional spaces.

Wechkin and Shainin say they have hosted free performances of classical music, folk, klezmer, “all different styles.” Sometimes, they’re very involved in the performance. Other times, they mainly act as hosts. Either way, they produce the shows in their spare time. Both Wechkin and Shainin have demanding careers: She is a hospice and palliative care physician, and he is a composer and arts administrator who works as a data scientist.

Their living quarters are upstairs, and when their first floor is not being used for shows, it’s a multipurpose space for rehearsing, working from home and storing sports equipment. “An hour of prep, and we can turn it over from a partial office and practice room with soccer balls and bicycles (in it) to a performance space,” Wechkin says.

Hosting as healing

Some people have made hosting music a weekly routine. Marjorie Eliot, 87, began holding jazz shows in her Harlem apartment in 1993 with her son, Rudel Drears, 57, who lives with her. It started as a way to cope with the loss of one of her adult sons.

“Because the music is so vital to our healing, we started doing it every Sunday, and we haven’t stopped,” Eliot says.

The setting may be humble — the apartment is cozy, the seats are metal folding chairs and the concessions are small, free snacks — but the room overflows with energy during the performances that regularly draw about 50 people. Eliot and Drears sing and play piano, and they invite a rotating cast of bassists, saxophonists, trumpeters and other musicians to perform every week.

Over the years, word spread about the shows (the only charge is an optional donation), which now attract a steady stream of both regulars and tourists (recently, Eliot hosted a crowd from Finland). Meanwhile, three more of Eliot’s five sons passed away — in 2006, 2018 and 2023. Amid these tragedies, music continued to be a source of solace. And because she has shared the story of her losses in interviews, people often feel compelled to open up to her.

“A woman was here two weeks ago … her son had passed away,” Eliot says. “She wanted to tell me. We had a private talk. I let her cry, we said a prayer, that kind of thing.”

To help cope with their grief last year, Eliot and Drears expanded the shows to Fridays and Saturdays. She is pouring herself into completing a suite that her late son had left unfinished.

“It keeps me sane,” she says. “I have to do it. When you’re working on something, it takes you out of sorrow and gives a purpose to it. These audiences allow me to go there. I can tell them things. I told them they’re my family. That’s what the audience is. My family.”

What will it feel like to finally play the suite for others? “I’ll have my sunglasses on,” Eliot says. “Because … you know.”

A lifetime pursuit

Jonathan Cavendish, a 76-year-old operatic baritone who works in real estate, has been hosting concerts for the public in his house in Charleston, W.Va., for nearly three decades. His ex-wife, a fellow singer, first spotted the home while riding her bike through the neighborhood. The couple had been looking for a venue where their 30-person choir could practice, and the former church seemed a perfect fit.

They renovated the building so they could live on the first floor and use the entire second floor, formerly the church’s sanctuary, for concerts. They held their first concert in 1995, borrowing 110 chairs from a nearby church and bringing in two grand pianos — one of which was so large it had to be eased in by crane through a doorway. That one, which belongs to Cavendish, is still in the home today. “It was a fabulous concert,” Cavendish says. “I just thought, ‘This is the start of something big.’”

A few years later, Cavendish and his wife separated, but he wanted to carry on with the concerts. He felt alone in the big house and sought a romantic partner who would be as enthusiastic about live music as he was. In 1998, he posted an ad in The Washington Post: “Operatic baritone seeks virtuoso pianist or accompanist for a lifetime of music.” Vicki Cavendish responded within hours. Not long after, they married.

To date, there have been more than 200 performances in “Cavendish Hall,” ranging from intimate gatherings to large shows. The only charge is a suggested donation. Often, the performers are highly skilled orchestral musicians who otherwise might not have an opportunity to perform a solo or with a smaller group.

“We’ve had string quartets, we’ve had pianists, we’ve had operatic sopranos, altos and bassists,” Cavendish says. “The crowds absolutely adore them. They might be second violin in the local symphony or something like that but still have terrific chops.”

It’s also a way to build community. People often stay for hours after the early afternoon shows because “they’re just having so much fun talking and drinking wine and eating cheese.”

Cavendish concedes the shows are a lot of work, from promoting them beforehand, to tuning the pianos, to setting up the reception and cleaning up afterward. “We’ve done it so many times, it is second nature,” he says. Still, it’s all worth it. He says he and his wife have made hundreds of friends through hosting the concerts.

“I am a people person,” Cavendish says. “I am at my happiest when there are people upstairs milling around and listening to music.”

As a singer, Cavendish says he is no longer able to hit some notes. Providing this space keeps him connected to the craft. “It gives me a sense that my musical career is over in one phase and just getting underway in the other,” he says. “I want the younger generation to come in. I love to hear a young baritone come in and sing better than I did at one time.”

- - -

Annie Midori Atherton is a writer in Seattle who covers culture, lifestyle, business and parenting.