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I was maybe eight, maybe younger. It was Greeley, Colorado, sometime in the 1980s, and the whole family was out on the grass. There was a low stage in the distance, an amphitheater on the University of Northern Colorado campus. And from it came the sounds of something that felt bigger than all of us—John Williams’ greatest hits: Jaws, Indiana Jones, Star Wars. We kids played tag between the blankets and snacks, occasionally crashing into one another, completely oblivious to the fact that we were getting our first taste of classical music.
And here’s the thing—I didn’t even realize it was classical music. I just thought it was epic. Thrilling. Bigger than cartoons or comic books. That night cracked something open in me, the same way it does when you first hear Bach and realize you’ve been hearing echoes of him your whole life—in everything from Metallica to Led Zeppelin.
That’s the thing about symphonic music. It doesn’t sit in a corner waiting to be admired. It charges toward you if you let it. Over the decades, I’ve drifted in and out of playlists that swing from Nirvana to Debussy, from Eminem to Glenn Gould. I never saw it as contradictory. In fact, that’s the point. Great work—real work—has rhythm and guts. And when Watson was brought in to help the Oregon Symphony connect with a new generation of listeners, that memory from Greeley came rushing back: kids running wild while horns swelled in the distance.
The Oregon Symphony is no small operation. It’s the oldest orchestra west of the Mississippi and the largest arts organization in the state. Their legacy spans over a century. They’ve performed in concert halls, community centers, and stadiums, always with the intent to move people. But like orchestras across the country, they’ve faced a sobering question: How do we grow an audience that reflects the next generation—without becoming something we’re not?
When they brought us in, it wasn’t about slick packaging or a viral moment. It was about staying true to the Symphony’s mission while making it accessible, resonant, and—most importantly—human. We weren’t there to “fix” anything. We were there to connect dots between tradition and curiosity. Between Mahler and motivation. Between music and meaning.
Our campaign was called My Source. And it wasn’t built around the Symphony. It was built around people.
We started with influencers—not the buzzword kind, but real humans with built-in followings and authentic stories. People whose lives were already touched by classical music, even if they didn’t lead with that fact.
Dennis Dixon, a former NFL quarterback turned fitness entrepreneur, talked about listening to Mahler to get his head in the game. Katie Poppe, founder of Blue Star Donuts, saw parallels between Debussy’s dismissal of convention and the risk of launching something bold in a crowded food scene. And Glenda Goldwater, a gallery owner with a history in arts patronage, reminded us that relevance has nothing to do with age .
These weren’t profiles in performance—they were reflections of what the Symphony could mean outside the concert hall. Each became the face of our omni-channel campaign, appearing across digital, print, and out-of-home placements. We wrapped MAX trains in Portland, ran full-window takeovers at downtown Target, and designed a toolkit the Symphony could scale for years to come.
No sheet music. No grandiose monologues. Just honest reasons people keep coming back to the classics—and why new audiences might start.
