“I love your verses” – Robert Browning‏ Saturday, Apr 28 2012

I am overwrought, a letter from Robert Browning to
Elizabeth Barrett Browning congratulating her on her
poetry, and essentially declaring his, ultimately
legendary, love, they hadn’t even met yet, no wonder
I love Robert Browning   

later she would write her“Sonnets from the Portuguese“

he would become, well, of course, him

 

 

“January 10th, 1845
  New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey  

  I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,–and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,–whatever else, no prompt matter-of- course recognition of your genius and there a graceful and natural end of the thing: since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to  remember how I have been turning again in my mind what I should be able to  tell you of their effect upon me–for in the first flush of delight I thought I would  this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration–perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of herafter!–but nothing comes of it all–so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this  great living poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew… oh, how different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat and prized highly and put in a book with a proper account at bottom, and shut up and put away… and the book called a ‘Flora’, besides! After all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time; because even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give reason for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought–but in this addressing myself to you, your own self, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogher. I do, as I say, love these Books with all my heart– and I love you too: do you know I was once seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to me one morning “would you like to see Miss Barrett?”–then he went to announce me,–then he returned… you were too unwell — and now it is years ago–and I feel as at some untorward passage in my travels–as if I had been close, so close, to some world’s-wonder in chapel on crypt,… only a screen to push and I might have entered — but there was some slight… so it now seems… slight and just-sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, and the sight was never to be! 

 

Well, these Poems were to be–and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself. Yours ever faithfully Robert Browning“ 

 

 

recently I saw a show, an opera cabaret they called it, the

Sonnets from the Portuguese” had been set to music, for

soprano, mezzo, tenor, and baritone, two men, two women,

music by a local composer, lyrics of course by Ms Barrett

Browning

 

except for the first piece, the prologue, the letter above  

 

can you even dig it, for me cerebral nirvana 

 

 

what the opera cabaret lacked in polish it made up for in

evident devotion, nor did the music disappoint, an esoteric

idea had been brought to heartfelt life enough to entertain

and indeed to inspire

 

I’m now reading the poems 

 

 

Richard

 

 

 

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“Pink Bunch” – Raoul Dufy Wednesday, Apr 25 2012

                                          “Pink Bunch“  (1940)
 
                                                 Raoul Dufy 

                                              _____________ 

 

the line between abstraction and representation, impressions of flowers becoming real flowers   in the imagination, with colour, texture, and nearly even dew

 

 

have a great day 

 

Richard

 

 

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Franz Lizst – Hungarian Rhapsody no 2‏ Wednesday, Apr 4 2012

any one of the following outstanding interpretations

of Lizst’s Hungarian Rhapsody no 2, even individually,

will make your day, I promise, together, they’ll have

you rocking for surely a week 

 

Hanna and Barbera’s “The Cat Concerto“, with Tom

and Jerry, won the Oscar in 1947, Best Short Subject,

Cartoons 

 

the “Rhapsody“ itself is of course not a concerto, it 

was written for piano only, it’s been proven to be 

incontrovertibly enough, but was given an orchestral

backdrop by the studio for the film, hence“The Cat

Concerto“, I’ll leave the portion about the cat in the

title undiscussed  

 

Liszt also rearranged himself, incidentally, his

immensely successful work for solo piano, adding

a superfluous, in my opinion, orchestra, any virtuoso

who could play this would leave his backup surely,

inexorably, in the dust

 

but I might be wrong

 

 

Victor Borge is an absolute comic genius in a

performance you’re not likely to soon forget 

 

 

Marc-André Hamelin, a French Canadian, is in my

estimation unmatched in the world today, he’ll

blow your socks off, you will be dazzled 

 

the unfamiliar part near the end of his interpretation, 

the part you’ve never heard before, is of Hamelin‘s 

own invention, a cadenza, an option fully granted in

bravura compositons by composers, allowing any

pianist to strut his, her, individual stuff, foreshadowing,

by the way, improvisation, jazz 

 

you’ll find Marc-André Hamelin in his extrapolation

to be nothing short of extraordinary 

 

 

Richard  

 

 

 

 

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Shostakovich’s String Quartet no 15, opus 144 (revisited) Wednesday, Mar 28 2012

on a day of commemoration, or at a moment even of

merely contemplation, perhaps it’s not a bad idea to

revisit Shostakovich’s String Quartet no 15, in E flat 

minor, opus 144, his flurry of mournful adagios, his

string of stately dirges, his penetrating meditation 

on mortality

 

complete this time around, on one only site, though 

just a short while ago indeed I said it wasn’t to be

found, March 28, 2012, again I was wrong 

 

today it stood, perhaps not coincidentally, directly

before me as I clicked onto my list of music,

unadulterated, intact, complete, apart from an

irrtating audience member coughing at one point,

unforgivably, for marring so sincere an expression

of fervent string sounds, though only momentarily 

 

by the “Filarmonica” Quartet, of Novosibirsk, Russia,

a city just north of Mongolia and Kazakhstan, the

players are not at all unimpressive 

 

accompanying images are apparently of Russian 

inspirational countryside nearby, and of

neighbouring Mongolia   

 

 

Richard 

 

 

 

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Dmitri Shostakovich – String Quartet no 15, opus 144 Friday, Mar 23 2012

several years ago when an angel I knew passed away
I read at his commemoration something I had written

for him, adagios, I said, always remind me of John

 

only a few days later, after I’d spoken, an adagio in

the distance was weaving its magic spell as I

abstractedly washed perennial dishes, a pivotal

spot, it would appear, for me, in my mystic

wanderings, my spiritual peregrinations

 

gradually I recognized the presence I’d apparently

inadvertently evoked with my unsuspecting but

thoughtful and caring script, opening a key, like

Ali Baba, it would transpire, to the very undiluted

infinite, something I’d wished for from my dad,

who’d died just a few months earlier, promising

me he’d speak to me if he could, though by then

I hadn’t yet heard from him

 

later when I was browsing for music to get into

to while away my pensive hours I happened upon

some Shostakovich in a nearby record store, I’d

recently been exploring his stuff, having reached

forward from the Romantics and even the

Impressionists, and looked to a relatively more 

recent touch, the early Twentieth Century

 

which is to say the atonalists, Schoenberg, Berg,

Stravinsky and so forth, of which Shostakovich,

I would argue, has proven to be the most

significant voice, his music being that of a

desperate, nearly broken people enduring

the atrocities under Stalin  

 

he is the most important composer of the

Twentieth Century, I think, along with Olivier

Messiaen, who survived a German prisoner of

war camp, two tough, even heroic, spirits 

 

and here were not one, not two, not even three,

but six adagios in his 15th string quartet, when

anything faster was too much for me to bear, 

otherwise it would have to have been silence,

I was elated

 

 

I was not let down, Shostakovich’s 15th String

Quartet, opus 144, is a masterpiece, and helped

me through my rigorous Calvary with compassion,

grace, and ultimately golden hope, to health and

resignation  

 

it is not an easy piece, you might find it

overwhelming, but it is the last word in adagios,

and for me it means the world, I couldn’t leave

it out 

 

 

I found the distribution awkward however, I

haven’t found the quartet complete anywhere

on the Internet, you’ll have to access the movements

separately, pee breaks are therefore allowed, there

are six movements, not usual but we’ve seen

Beethoven do five already for his Sixth Symphony, 

so not entirely unexpected 

 

the first movement, Elegy (Adagio), is played by the 

Rubio Quartet, but with only an image of war torn

Leningrad to inspire visually  

 

the second, Serenade (Adagio), by the Borodin String

Quartet, perhaps Shostakovich’s best interpreters, are

also presented visuals inert  

 

the third, fourth, and fifth – Intermezzo (Adagio), 

Nocturne (Adagio), and Funeral March (Adagio molto) –

in that order, are played live by the Shostakovich

Quartet, named of course in the composer’s honour 

 

and the sixth, Epilogue (Adagio), by the Petersburg

String Quartet, plays against a still again only

cityscape

 

 

may you be granted the poise and profound grace

of the adagio

 

Richard

 

 

 

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Sergei Prokofiev’s piano concerto no 3, opus 26‏ Monday, Oct 31 2011

Yuja Wang in many ways isn’t Martha Argerich, but in 
many ways she’s just as extraordinary
 
here she is with the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra
under Daniele Gatti in Amsterdam, October 3, 1910

disregard the written advice that you are watching

Strauss’ “Don Juan” at the beginning of the second

movement, this is Prokofiev’s piano concerto no 3, 

opus 26, throughout  

 

 
Sergei Prokofiev is the mad boy of music, a Harlequin,

a Pinocchio, the fool in Shakespeare, the court jester,

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream”‘s Puck, unpredictable,

effevescent, mercurial, irrepressible

 
in art I would compare him to maybe Miró, fanciful
though much more electric, with a touch of, say, the

more impish, mischievous Hieronymus Bosch     
 
try not to be jolted, try not to be projected from your

seat, this is 1921, this is the Twentieth Century,

Prokofiev turns the heat on it right up  

 

 

Richard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mendelssohn Violin Concerto in E minor, Op. 64 Monday, Oct 10 2011

despite not having the stature of the other composers

already considered, Felix Mendelssohn, 1809 - 1847,

nevertheless squeezes right up the middle with his

violin concerto in E minor, opus 64, to deliver one of

the greatest violin concertos of all time, perhaps the

most tender of all in contrast to the mightier, more

imperious declamations of the other also more varied

and prolific masters, an archangel among the august

divinities, having earned a place of the very highest

order in their midst with even this one masterful

work, perhaps even of all the most beloved

 

he squeezed right up the middle chronologically as

well in fact, Beethoven wrote his violin concerto in

1806, while Tchaikowsky and Brahms theirs to my

astonishment each from his own little corner of the

world independently in the very same year, 1878,

a fabulous year, it would appear, for violin concertos 

 

Mendelssohn finished his violin concerto in E minor,  

opus 64 in 1844

  

 

when I began a few decades ago to explore violin

concertos, my essential resource was the set I had

on disc of all the great ones played, indeed definitively

executed, by Kyung-Wha Chung, who bested then to

my mind all, without exception, even the most

celebrated virtuosos, whom I need not therefore 

here recall   

 

until now I had never seen her perform 

 

in this outing she recovers in spades my early adulation, 

utterly, she lives and breathes her enchanted instrument,

she is the Mitsuko Uchida of the violin, I can think of no

higher honour, she is meteoric 

 

André Previn and the London Symphony Orchestra, who

accompany her, though accomplished, pale beside her

fire, which is throughout riveting   

 

André Previn was married famously to Mia Farrow way

back when, later married our very own Anne-Sophie

Mutter, though they divorced in 2006, he was a pop,

to my mind, conductor, made of serviceable and

always dependable stuff, but never shining, you’ll

have to leave that to his featured brilliant light here,

who will not, I assure you, fail to deliver searing

heat along with the stated incandescence 

 

 

Richard

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Brahms violin concerto in D major, Op.77 Sunday, Oct 9 2011

though I’d've preferred to consider violin concertos for a while

after the Tchaikowsky, the Beethoven, a break from the usual,

though always eminently magisterial, piano, I was unable to

quickly find a performance of the work I had in mind that would

suit my needs, nothing primarily that was complete, that had all 

its unabridged movements

 

and what’s a concerto without its movements, a meal without

an appetizer, without its main course maybe, without even 

dessert, that’s making do, that’s subsisting, that’s got nothing

to do with appreciating a meal, not to mention our pending

Thanksgiving

 

then the Chopin struck, a very revelation, and I couldn’t, even

temporarily, put it aside 

 

I hope you enjoyed it   

 

 

because the Brahms in D major, opus 77, is after the first

two violin concertos I listed the third most revered and 

respected major string work, it cannot but be duly and

with great honour represented in any Classical music 

survey

 

the first movement, the allegro non troppo, or, jauntily but

not too much, in English, is played by David Oistrakh and 

conducted by the legendary Kirill Kondrashin, who conducted

Van Cliburn, famously, in both his Tchaikowsky One and

Rachmaninoff Three concertos in Moscow, 1958, when Cliburn 

won first prize, is he the best, Khrushchev asked when

nervous judges questioned awarding an American, give it

to him then, he most judiciously replied, in the very face

of Cold War bile and cynicism 

 

Kondrashin defected to the West in 1978 

 

David Oistrakh never left his homeland, Russia, though he

toured extensively enough in the West, surely dazzling

everywhere rapt audiences

 

 

the next two movements, the adagio, slow, the allegro 

giocoso, ma non troppo vivace – poco più presto, jauntily 

but not too lively – little by little go faster, have the

glorious Leonard Bernstein jumping up and down even 

with exhilaration at the thrilling sounds they are making,

while the equally glorious Gidon Kremer struts inimitable,

incendiary stuff, a Tchaikowsky competition winner also

he, in 1970, who ‘s since dominated and championed an

impressively extensive and eclectic, even modern, 

repertoire  

 

note in passing that their accompanying Vienna Philharmonic

doesn’t have a single woman, which nevertheless doesn’t 

of course disqualify a superior sound, it is merely an archaic,

intransigeant, aristocratic institution, it would appear, with

a counterintuitively melodious and undeniably winning soul

 

 

one course at one restaurant then, the next two at another,

you’ll need to adjust to atmosphere, menu variations,

service, but expect in either case only the very best, you

will not be disappointed 

 

 

Brahms violin concerto in D major, opus 77

 

              1 – allegro non troppo, Oistrakh, Kondrashin,

                                                          the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra

              2 – adagio, Gidon Kremer, Leonard Bernstein, the Vienna Philharmonic

              3 – allegro giocoso, ma non troppo vivace – poco più presto, 

                                                              Kremer, Bernstein,  

                                                    the Vienna Philharmonic again

 

 

Richard 

 

psst: here is an alternate third movement by to me unknowns,

         an exquisite partial repast, perhaps the most impressive

         morsel here    

 

 

 

 

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Tchaikowsky piano concerto no 1 in B flat minor, opus 23‏ Tuesday, Sep 20 2011

the piano concerto no 3 of Rachmaninoff was written in 1909,

a hundred years after Beethoven’s piano concerto no 5, the

“Emperor”, 1811, to the attentive ear the intervening years

are present in the evolution of the music  

 

the most evident structural alteration, sensed now rather

than consciously heard, though this change would’ve been

glaring during that period, is the often elastic rhythm, the

hesitation, the reserve, the recapitulation of forces before

a surging onslaught, before a turbulent apotheosis, as a

movement returns to its fundamental tempo 

 

the beat ever essentially reigns 

 

this will change 

 

let me point out here that this rallentando wouldn’t've been

even conceivable before the invention of the piano, which

happened around the time of Mozart, the harpsichord before

that couldn’t do that, it was condemned, you might say, only

to rallentandon’t, the harpsichord didn’t provide the

possibility of resounding a note, neither of moderating of

course its volume, which the piano, by very definition, did,

“piano” means “soft”, “pianoforte” “soft loud”, the very

foundational elements of the instrument, the elaboration

of beat would thus perforce henceforward play a major role

 

 

between Rachmaninoff and Beethoven, these two pillars of

our musical Trinity, there is the mighty, the third supreme

immortal, Tchaikowsky, a Late Romantic, of all composers

perhaps to us the most familiar, his piano concerto no 1 in 

B flat minor, opus 23, written in 1875, is the concerto most

associated with my generation, Van Cliburn was a rock star

then, after winning the Tchaikowsky Piano Competition in

Moscow, 1958, an achievement of the very highest order

for an American in that historical context

 

and his performance of it was spectacular 

 

 

the most salient aspect of Tchaikowsky‘s music to my mind 

is the charged dramatics, which is not surprising when you

consider that he wrote the music for “The Nutcracker”,

“Swan Lake”, musical story-telling, you’ll note he evokes

this dramatic tension by sustaining, withholding, then

unleashing the beat before a prestidigitatorial storm   

 

Tchaikowsky tells grandiose stories, Rachmaninoff opens

an anguished heart, Beethoven speaks with God, they are

our foundational musical poets, our sonic oracles

 

 

the formidable Emil Gilels, 1916 – 1985, plays Tchaikowsky,  

he is electric, he is epic, he is extraordinary

 

Alfred Wallenstein conducts  

 

 

Richard

 

 

 

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“Trouble” – Matthew Dickman‏ Thursday, Apr 29 2010

                                                                                                                                                                              after the great hiatus of the Middle Ages Descartes declared “I think, therefore I am“, and set the modern world in motion, the Age of Reason, the Era of Human Rights 
 
but even Shakespeare some seventy years earlier had given voice already to the consequent existential dilemma, by way of Hamlet in his “To be, or not to be“, the moral dilemma of the individual before existence – “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” – and the abyss of eternity, a question up to that point forbidden on dire pain of heresy  
  
                                                                                                                                                                         Emily Dickinson touches on the subject famously, others also of equal authority, but here is something I thought true, touching, beautiful, and ultimately inspiring for anyone who’s delved that deep  
 
                                                                                                                                                                   Richard 
  
  
                       ______________________
  
 
Trouble   
 
                                                                                                                                                                        Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.
Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.
 

                                                     Matthew Dickman 

             

                        ____________________________________

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