When The Barber of Seville opened at Sarasota Opera this past February 22, there were no armed guards at the doors or sentries in the aisles. There were no melees in the atrium or brouhahas on the balconies, nor a kerfuffle at the curtain or hurly-burlies of any sort. Quite to the contrary, reports from the evening indicate not a single disturbance and nary a rumpus in sight throughout the entire affair. In short, a complete and total absence of all hooliganism and general buffoonery.

Indeed and by all accounts, Sarasota’s production of Rossini’s comic masterpiece was right bang up to the elephant, the audience captivated by a classic tale of young men in disguise, women on balconies, courtship over class lines and a surprisingly resourceful barber, like Sweeney Todd meets Romeo & Juliet but with a lot less blood, a bit more humor and from a time when deception could be romantic—as long as it’s sung in Italian. But this now-beloved staple of opera repertoires around the globe almost died at its debut, suffering an opening night so disastrous that Rossini himself refused to conduct the next night’s performance, lest he be taken by the rumbumptious mob and soon find himself grinning at the daisy roots from an eternity box.

According to Maestro Victor DeRenzi, Sarasota Opera’s Artistic Director and Principal Conductor, the stories are just that—balderdash and evening wheezes. “The stories about opening night appeared years after the premiere,” he says, “and were probably made up.”

But the scuttlebutt says different.

When Rossini’s The Barber of Seville premiered in 1816, it was under a different name, Almaviva. This is because a famous opera called The Barber of Seville already existed. It was written by Giovanni Paisiello more than 30 years prior and audiences still loved it. They loved it so much that when they heard some upstart gullyfluff named Rossini had the audacity to write his own version, they thought him right off his chump and readied themselves for a damned good swine up.

Here, it becomes important to understand what a claque is, and that operatic rivalries of the Victorian Age are not entirely dissimilar from an early-2000s white guy rap beef. (In this case, Eminem is both Paisiello and Rossini.) Charitably speaking, a claque is a passionate community of like minded enthusiasts who are, vocally and otherwise, visibly invested in the local arts scene. More accurately speaking, they were small mobs of instigators and extortionists who heckled artists they didn’t like or those who wouldn’t pay them not to. In Rossini’s case, it was the former.

Accounts vary on the exactitudes of that night in Rome, but some details remain constant. A loud claque of Paisiello supporters began disrupting the performance near as soon as the curtain rose. It didn’t help matters that the performer playing Count Almaviva broke a string on his guitar in the very first scene, after insisting that he be allowed to tune it himself. Then the production’s Don Basilio tripped and broke his nose moments before his grand aria, La Calunnia, and a stray cat wandered onstage during the Act 1 finale and refused to leave, eventually being unceremoniously and parabolically removed by a singer who would never hear of PETA.

To top it all off, just about everyone ridiculed Rossini for conducting the night’s performance in a brand-new too-tight coat with big gold buttons and made of vicuna, a wild camelid found in the Andes mountains. But scholars agree that may have been fair game. The next night, Rossini feigned sickness and refused to conduct the second performance. If he had, he might have heard the audience calling his name in the streets and begging for an encore. But when the mafficking crowd arrived at his lodgings, according to one account, the composer hid in fear. According to another, he essentially told them in not uncertain terms to go away.

In discussion with Maestro DeRenzi about the current state of opera and its audience, suggesting the possibility that opera has outstayed its welcome, that 400 years is a jolly good run and perhaps the popular stereotype of the form as something staid and stuffy—tedium set to a soundtrack—has taken too great a hold of the popular imagination, it’s nice to see that same Rossini-esque passion still runs hot like blood in the heart of the thing. “If you have a problem with opera,” the maestro says, “get over yourself.” And he’s only half-joking, if that. “People overcomplicate what opera is,” DeRenzi continues. “It’s just storytelling.” Yet, as leader of a modern-day opera company—a celebrated one at that—the maestro finds himself at the front lines fighting an unending uphill battle against the weight of a pop culture that treats opera like a punching bag and a collective imagination that really has no idea what a night at the opera is. You don’t need to wear a top hat and tails, you don’t need to research the show before attending, a little violence could be said to be traditional and a ticket costs less than most popular concerts. What’s not to love?

“People create issues that aren’t issues,” the maestro says. “But if you haven’t seen opera, you don’t know what the experience of opera is.” He shrugs. What more is there to say? “And it’s not even a foreign language, if you’re Italian.”