Who's that sitting in the front row of the Elder Hall at the Lunch Hour Concert this afternoon?
Why, it's Chopin! And who's that sitting beside him? Why, it's Robert Schumann! I didn't know they were friends. Let's crane forward and listen to what they're saying.
Frederic Chopin: So it's your two hundredth birthday this week. Congratulations!
Robert Schumann: Hold on Frederic. It's not my two hundredth birthday until June.
Frederic Chopin: Tell me about it. It was mine last week, according to them.
Robert Schumann: What do you mean, them?
Frederic Chopin: The program notes. Here have a look at 'em.
Robert Schumann: ( reads ) Da de da de da ........ hey, this is all about you! I thought they were playing my Fantasiestucke!
Frederic Chopin: They are. Don't get your trousers in a twist! Read on.
Robert Schumann: ( reads) Da de da.... Hey this is all about Brahms!
Frederic Chopin: Keep going keep going! This bit at the bottom is about you.
Robert Schumann; ( reads ) It is poignant to recall that during his last years, spent in the confinement of a private asylum, Clara was unable to visit him until he had been there for two and a half years. Her visit, when it came was only two days before his death. By a curious twist of fate, Clara was not actually present at the moment of her husband's death, for the simple reason that she had left the asylum to meet and greet an old friend. Oh! Oh! How sad and lonely was my passing!
Frederic Chopin: Dear friend! Had you forgotten?
Robert Schumann: Dear friend! What sort of friend are you? I had forgotten!
Frederic Chopin: ( laughing and coughing into his handkerchief ) : Ha ha! Cough! cough !
Showing posts with label Brahms. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brahms. Show all posts
Friday, March 19, 2010
Friday, June 26, 2009
Brahms Loses His Composure
The final Lunch Hour concert for the semester. The Elder Trio. Pliny should be here, he'd like them. I'm listening to Haydn's Piano Trio in A. It starts with three jabs from a pointy compass.
Then I lose interest.
Now I'm listening to Brahms' Piano Trio No 2 in C. It's about losing something from a small bag inside a big one. Then finding it later at the bottom. Loss, rummaging, sadness, resignation, joy. This is exactly what happened to me earlier. Once I get the idea, I lose interest.
At twenty minutes past three, Brahms is walking along King William Street in the direction of the Central Market, where he plans to meet up with Nostradamus. He is not quite level with the Post Office. He looks up. He sees a network of branches covering the dark white sky. The plane trees are nearly bare and a few leaves hang in the air like musical notes. But for some reason he isn't inspired to compose anything.
Then I lose interest.
Now I'm listening to Brahms' Piano Trio No 2 in C. It's about losing something from a small bag inside a big one. Then finding it later at the bottom. Loss, rummaging, sadness, resignation, joy. This is exactly what happened to me earlier. Once I get the idea, I lose interest.
At twenty minutes past three, Brahms is walking along King William Street in the direction of the Central Market, where he plans to meet up with Nostradamus. He is not quite level with the Post Office. He looks up. He sees a network of branches covering the dark white sky. The plane trees are nearly bare and a few leaves hang in the air like musical notes. But for some reason he isn't inspired to compose anything.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Proles
Another Lunch Hour Concert yesterday. I make a habit of choosing an inappropriate seat.
My mother's friend was there. I led us forward to three seats on the second row.
The concert was performed by Stefan Ammer on the piano and Rachel Johnson on the cello. First they played Brahms. I was very happy listening to the Brahms. Usually I don't like Brahms all that much. I always think of that Warren Mitchell film where Brahms eats sardines straight out of the can, wearing mittens.
But this was far from sardiney. I like the cello. If I were a musical instrument, I would be a cello. However, at the end of the piece my mother whispered, "That was so loud! I'll have to take my hearing aids out." I turned to her friend. "It's nice to be so near the stage, isn't it." "Yes," she nodded. " You hardly have to crick your neck at all." I'd forgotten that she only came up to my shoulder, sitting down.
Next it was the Shostakovitch. I like Shostakovich. But I began to wonder if we should have been sitting further back. I decided, since I was the only one enjoying being in the second row I would concentrate all the harder. Shostakovitch's Sonata for Cello and Piano in D minor. It was the one which pokes fun at the Prolekult, in the finale. I was waiting for that bit.
Waiting, waiting. Suddenly I realised that, far from listening to the largo, I was trying to multiply 15 by 15 in my head. This was to see whether I had cheated my mother earlier by asking for $2.80 for 15 photographs at a cost of 15 cents each. You fool, I said to myself. You can calculate 15 x 15 any time, while the music is but fleeting. So I paid attention until the end. Yes, it was very plinky-plonky. But I wondered whether I would have picked up the vitriolic sarcasm of Shostakovitch's dig at the Proles, if I hadn't read the program notes.
"That was lovely," said my mother at the end. "It was so much better with my hearing aids out."
"Wouldn't it be marvellous to play a musical instrument," said her friend.
As for me, I forgot all about 15 x 15 until now. I've just worked it out on a slip of paper. It appears to be a lot less than I thought.
My mother's friend was there. I led us forward to three seats on the second row.
The concert was performed by Stefan Ammer on the piano and Rachel Johnson on the cello. First they played Brahms. I was very happy listening to the Brahms. Usually I don't like Brahms all that much. I always think of that Warren Mitchell film where Brahms eats sardines straight out of the can, wearing mittens.
But this was far from sardiney. I like the cello. If I were a musical instrument, I would be a cello. However, at the end of the piece my mother whispered, "That was so loud! I'll have to take my hearing aids out." I turned to her friend. "It's nice to be so near the stage, isn't it." "Yes," she nodded. " You hardly have to crick your neck at all." I'd forgotten that she only came up to my shoulder, sitting down.
Next it was the Shostakovitch. I like Shostakovich. But I began to wonder if we should have been sitting further back. I decided, since I was the only one enjoying being in the second row I would concentrate all the harder. Shostakovitch's Sonata for Cello and Piano in D minor. It was the one which pokes fun at the Prolekult, in the finale. I was waiting for that bit.
Waiting, waiting. Suddenly I realised that, far from listening to the largo, I was trying to multiply 15 by 15 in my head. This was to see whether I had cheated my mother earlier by asking for $2.80 for 15 photographs at a cost of 15 cents each. You fool, I said to myself. You can calculate 15 x 15 any time, while the music is but fleeting. So I paid attention until the end. Yes, it was very plinky-plonky. But I wondered whether I would have picked up the vitriolic sarcasm of Shostakovitch's dig at the Proles, if I hadn't read the program notes.
"That was lovely," said my mother at the end. "It was so much better with my hearing aids out."
"Wouldn't it be marvellous to play a musical instrument," said her friend.
As for me, I forgot all about 15 x 15 until now. I've just worked it out on a slip of paper. It appears to be a lot less than I thought.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Variations
It is the first Lunch Hour Concert of the year, in the Elder Hall. Pliny is there with her mum. Kristian Chong will be playing variations by Brahms and Rachmaninov, and a modern piece called Toccata DNA, on the piano.
Pliny looks up. She sees the old familiar backs of heads from previous years. The man who once had a 3 inch long hair sticking horizontally out of his right ear; the man who always looks as though he is sitting in a stiff breeze; the bald man with the pitted skull; the woman who might be Mrs Bull if only she would turn around; the man in the red jumper; the mermaid with thin ginger hair.
The Brahms begins. Pliny likes variations. You know where you are with variations, she thinks. There is a theme, and then there are the variations. They are like the theme, but different. You don't need to worry that you're missing something, or wonder if it's meant to be about joy, or despair, or the properties of water.
Some people have gone to sleep already. They know where they are with variations.
Now Kristian is up to the Toccata DNA. This is a modern take on variations. It is about DNA replication and the consequences of slight changes in the double helix. What a clever piece of programming. Everyone is awake again now.
The Rachmaninov starts off with a waltz. Pliny has forgotten this too is going to be a set of variations. She tries hard not to miss anything. She tries to determine whether or not it is about water. She does not remember until much later, when she is walking home, and gets the programme out to read while she is waiting at the lights.
Pliny looks up. She sees the old familiar backs of heads from previous years. The man who once had a 3 inch long hair sticking horizontally out of his right ear; the man who always looks as though he is sitting in a stiff breeze; the bald man with the pitted skull; the woman who might be Mrs Bull if only she would turn around; the man in the red jumper; the mermaid with thin ginger hair.
The Brahms begins. Pliny likes variations. You know where you are with variations, she thinks. There is a theme, and then there are the variations. They are like the theme, but different. You don't need to worry that you're missing something, or wonder if it's meant to be about joy, or despair, or the properties of water.
Some people have gone to sleep already. They know where they are with variations.
Now Kristian is up to the Toccata DNA. This is a modern take on variations. It is about DNA replication and the consequences of slight changes in the double helix. What a clever piece of programming. Everyone is awake again now.
The Rachmaninov starts off with a waltz. Pliny has forgotten this too is going to be a set of variations. She tries hard not to miss anything. She tries to determine whether or not it is about water. She does not remember until much later, when she is walking home, and gets the programme out to read while she is waiting at the lights.
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