Intricate tapestry
Soooo....I was right about being wrong about Shostakovich.
On second hearing the fifth symphony lit up in all it's fall and winter colors.
An intricate tapestry, a millefiori window into the psyche of the repressed Stalin era musical genius.
A portrait as complex as James Joyce's portrayal of L. or M. Bloom
But without the lilting and insouciant Irish humor.
Each of the four movements a virtual symphony of it's own.
So there you have it, first impressions are not to be trusted.
Same thing happened to me with Sam Jones' tuba concerto.
Second hearing even with the harassment from SSO thugs was a revelation.
Comparisons may or may not be odious, but they are a very good way to define and understand.
F'r instance, after the concert yesterday, Keth and I went to Maya's for take out and on the trip back the anticipatory opening punches of Beethoven's seventh symphony leaked out of the Prius's speakers.
Listening to that during the consumption of my arroz con pollo seemed to shed some new light on both the B'oven and the D-Shosh.
One cannot truly know God until one becomes an atheist.
It's a negative space thing.
Artists understand.
Meredith is once again doing important work for the Dow Constantine campaign.
Dow Constantine
and is gone for the day.
So I can make noise trying to learn to play my clarinet.
Maybe I should try out my flute too...and the oboe.
Ooh! Ooh! The bassoon, M don't like my bassoon, doesn't think it a wise purchase.
...all the string instruments...the t-bone and the trumpets.
Yaaah! I'm goin' back to bed.
I'll just get back to the computer and work on the bass concerto.
I could try out some of the parts on my bass, I suppose...are the double stops playable?
I wonder what's on the T.V.?
Anyway, here's a pint to yer health.
And to Ophelia, where(or who or what)ever she may be.
And stain for the mandora.
What has Ophelia done for me lately?
On second hearing the fifth symphony lit up in all it's fall and winter colors.
An intricate tapestry, a millefiori window into the psyche of the repressed Stalin era musical genius.
A portrait as complex as James Joyce's portrayal of L. or M. Bloom
But without the lilting and insouciant Irish humor.
Each of the four movements a virtual symphony of it's own.
So there you have it, first impressions are not to be trusted.
Same thing happened to me with Sam Jones' tuba concerto.
Second hearing even with the harassment from SSO thugs was a revelation.
Comparisons may or may not be odious, but they are a very good way to define and understand.
F'r instance, after the concert yesterday, Keth and I went to Maya's for take out and on the trip back the anticipatory opening punches of Beethoven's seventh symphony leaked out of the Prius's speakers.
Listening to that during the consumption of my arroz con pollo seemed to shed some new light on both the B'oven and the D-Shosh.
One cannot truly know God until one becomes an atheist.
It's a negative space thing.
Artists understand.
Meredith is once again doing important work for the Dow Constantine campaign.
and is gone for the day.
So I can make noise trying to learn to play my clarinet.
Maybe I should try out my flute too...and the oboe.
Ooh! Ooh! The bassoon, M don't like my bassoon, doesn't think it a wise purchase.
...all the string instruments...the t-bone and the trumpets.
Yaaah! I'm goin' back to bed.
I'll just get back to the computer and work on the bass concerto.
I could try out some of the parts on my bass, I suppose...are the double stops playable?
I wonder what's on the T.V.?
Anyway, here's a pint to yer health.
And to Ophelia, where(or who or what)ever she may be.
And stain for the mandora.
What has Ophelia done for me lately?
posted by Lane Savant at 11:00 AM
4 Comments:
Intricate tapestry indeed,
yes, you have put your huge
bony digit right on the pulse
of things, sir.
Good wordsmithing on the
review of the Shostakovich,
and on the merits of a second
hearing, meeting, or viewing
of anything meaningful in life.
First impression can be hard
to shake, or so they tell me.
Most folks do not get a good
impression of me upon first
meeting; feel that my ego
pulls way out front, that
I, perhaps, am too intense,
to abrasive, too competitive.
Then after they get to know
me for the teddy bear sentimentalist that I truly
am, their view shifts; or
so they tell me.
I know, it is not all about
me, it is all about you;
or so they imply, cajole,
lecture, and manipulate.
Your comments on God, negative
space, and Art really sent
me to another place. More
terrific prose that morphed
into a short poetic, and got
posted over on FFTR, entitled
FAITH. Empty space, negative
space--there are those
physics folks who believe that
most reality is created by
our perceptions; things have
weight, density, color, shape,
because we want them to, we
decide that those properties
are real. Yet when you study
the atom, any atom, under the
electron microscope, mostly
what we see is empty space. The
electrons, neutrons, and nucleus
are like fruit flies buzzing
around in a football stadium,
and they only seem to appear
when we are looking for them,
upon our command as it were;
giving more credibility to
those theories that as spiritual
entities we are much more
powerful and capable than we
give ourselves credit for--
that aliens walk through
walls and pull abductees
through solid mass by simply
disrupting the electro-magnetic
forces, and separating them,
and stepping between them;
like the transporters we have
envision on Star Trek; real
molecular separation and
reconstitution. In some
bizarre way artists, most of
them, do that creatively
within the confines of reality.
So you said a lot in those
few lines, and really split
my tail over it.
When you add to the metaphysical
stew that God is insular, within,
and then without, it illuminates
the sham of organized religion,
and promotes the notion that the
problems of the universe can be
dealt with as an inside job.
You profess to being an atheist,
yet you believe in so very much,
and are wounded by the barbs
of disappointment and rejection
just like the rest of us; hope
leading the way through the
miasma of your next creation.
Nice to throw James Joyce into
the mix as well. Over all a
masterful posting, sir.
Glenn
Hallo, Glenn!
Thanks for one of the VERY few of yoúr comments in this blogsite that I have actually read through to the end!! I agree with much of what you write, though some is a bit too esoteric for someone like me to understand. Re: Athiests (and I am one), you do not seem to realize (from your comment re Lane as one) that we are also human beings with emotions and other feelings.
Tschüß,
Anonomann
Hallo, Lane!
I completely agree with your conclusion that one must hear works by post-19th century composers (like one D. Palmer) more than once to even partially comprehend them; several hearings even leads me often to liking, then loving them, like much of the music of Alban Berg (for me). I also got to listen to S. Jones' Concerto for Tuba on CD with the score in front of me several times, and that added to my appreciation of it. Unfortunately, I no longer have the score, which Sam gave me to give to a conductor over here, but who has not yet (after having the score for >2 years) scheduled it for performance. How were you able to hear it in spite of the best efforts of the Rottweilers hired by an infamous Hall on 3rd Ave. to prevent this??? Bravo, Lane!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tschüß,
Anonomann
i am enjooying yor sad pinao song, i lieks yor musiks, now i goes an lissen sum mor.
ofeelya wuz my frend in the woodes. i missing her todae wit sad piano songs.
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