I’m going to write about my dad’s CD collection. Really, I’m a total idiot for not having thought of it sooner. Continue reading
Humor me in stretching for a silver lining. One good thing about the entirely dystopic, almost (I reserve the right to delete the word almost without notice from this sentence should it become necessary) apocalyptically bad, rise of Donald Trump and the fake news neo-Nazi brigade is that it makes me want to live. It makes me want to drink all the delicious wine I was saving for old age right now, just in case the seas swallow my old age. (Or my wine! Pathetic seas! Terrible!) It makes me want to go for bike rides in a park before Exxon starts fracking there. It makes me realize how much I like my life. And it has rejuvenated music for me from wilted shades of pale pastel to bright fucking red.
Here, then, a short list of my favorite music of 2016, with a heavy focus on protest music as I head off to the Women’s March. Am I listening to this music with 20-20 regrets, or is it prophetic? Continue reading
Bartok. Concerto for Orchestra. Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta. Hungarian Sketches. Fritz Reiner. Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
At some point in the last month, horrified by the destabilization of Eastern Europe and, I don’t know, the continuing idiocy of mankind, I began casting around for a Ukrainian composer in dad’s collection to write about. This proved easier said than done, as the closest I could get was Prokofiev, who was born to Muscovite parents in Donetsk, which at that time was part of the Russian empire and as of this writing remains a fitful part of Ukraine. So is he Ukrainian? Um…It’s complicated, just like Ukraine itself.
But then I realized that in fact I had already landed, in my slow letter-by-letter progress through dad’s collection, on the perfect composer to express some of what I’ve been feeling: Bela Bartok. Continue reading
Barber. Violin Concerto. Shostakovich. Violin Concerto No. 1 in A Minor, Op. 99. London Symphony Orchestra. Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg on violin. EMI Classics. 1992.
So when I set out to write this post uhhhhhhhhhh like months ago? Yeah months, the plan was to detail a sad/gallant tale of capitalism versus communism, of how strife produces beauty, to perhaps begin understanding why there are relatively few well-known American composers. And I guess it’s still about that, but after my customary bit of internet research, it also morphed into a little bit of a “trust, but verify” story, no matter how solid you may think your knowledge is.
The liner notes here detail how the Barber and Shostakovich works on this CD share the commonality of a “difficult birth, though the difficulties were as different in nature as the works themselves.” That bit about different difficulties has got to be one of the great liner note understatements of our time. Continue reading
I made my first trek ever to the New York Public Library to research that last blog post, as Rimsky-Korsakov’s memoirs mostly aren’t available online.
I mentioned my library-visiting intent at a gathering earlier in the week, and was intrigued by a) the extreme level of horror my friends expressed that I had never been and b) the fact that their horror was primarily related to my lack of visiting the main branch to see its beauty. As opposed to say, being mortified that I don’t read enough, or that I still buy books, or that my reading tends towards teen-level dystopic fantasy. I also haven’t been to the Brooklyn Public Library, although, as I assured one snarky friend, I HAVE been to the public library in my hometown – admittedly, probably most recently in the ‘80s. Also, nobody asked, but I could have navigated the libraries at the University of Chicago in my nightmare-filled sleep. Continue reading
Hoo, boy, the new wordpress media player sure doesn’t do all the things the old yahoo player did. Dear technology: sometimes, change for change’s sake isn’t good. Anyhow. I will try and go through all my old posts and update them, groan, when there is time. Meantime…
Here are some random facts about Mily Balakirev. “Who?” you may ask. Bear with me. Continue reading
On Friday, when I learned that Chechens were suspected in the Boston marathon bombing, I found my thoughts turning to composer Sofia Gubaidulina.
I mis-remembered many things about the one Gubaidulina CD in my collection, which my father gave me sometime in college, I think, after both the bassoon and Russia were well developed themes in my life.
I remembered that Gubaidulina was Armenian; in fact she is Russian and Tatar. I remembered this CD, which consists of the “Concerto for Bassoon and Low Strings” and a couple of other chamber works, as primarily a soothing soundscape, except for one shocking moment. In fact, much of the work – no, all of it – seethes cloudily, an ocean simmering.
I did, however, remember that one moment correctly. A little more than halfway through the fourth of five movements, the bassoonist, set upon by the low strings in the title, lets out a most unexpected scream – a scream of anger, of not-belonging, of inability to deal. Of rage against the machine. As I recall, I was doing homework, not really paying attention to the music in the background the first time I listened to this, when this scream came out of nowhere, and freaked the crap out of me. Continue reading
Granville Bantock, who has three CDs in dad’s collection, proves a number of adages for me: stick to what you know; don’t lose your head in the clouds; and stop well shy of overkill.
Bantock, a British composer around the turn of the 20th century, was well traveled, and probably super smart. Before he took an appointment with the Tower Orchestra in New Brighton, he toured around the world conducting musical comedies. He was enthusiastic about the Middle East, “launched into learning Persian and certainly owned Arabic books all his life,” according to liner notes. He sounds a fun sort: “Bantock was noted for his liberal views and is reputed to have been the first British academic to have attended a faculty meeting dressed in corduroys!” the liner notes further say. Continue reading
I am more than a year late to this, but it is so great that I am going to post it anyway.
This is a guy from Memphis named Lil Buck. He dances a style called Jookin’. The producer of a film about him described his style as per the headline of this post. Lil Buck himself says in the film that he gets inspiration from watching water, and that Jookin’ deserves to be in the same category as ballet and jazz. Yo-Yo Ma saw a video of him dancing, and then this happened.
There is only this one CD of Robert Baksa’s in dad’s collection. After Bach and sons, this seems strange to me. “What do you mean, there aren’t 20 other copies of the Nonet to listen to?” Continue reading