09. February 2005 · Comments Off · Categories: Announcements, imported

I have put up a few more poems on the Poetry page in case anyone is interested. (And if you’re wondering, Poetry is now placed in The Library. They are, after all, music poems, and belong on a bookshelf or some such thing.)

Well … it made sense when I did it, anyway.
—–

09. February 2005 · Comments Off · Categories: imported, Ramble

I received the latest issue of Paste Magazine. It’s a magazine that features “pop” music (Hmmm. They’d probably disagree; I think they think of it as something other than that. Maybe I should just call it “non-classical” music — I don’t know!). Anyway, they have always included a CD of things they like and recommend, and now they are also including a DVD as well. On the DVD are movie trailers and music videos, among other things.

I’ve decided I don’t “get” music videos.

If the song is a story of sorts, I want my own images to appear, not someone else’s. So I’m watching this DVD and these creative sorts of images are appearing. Sometimes it seems that whoever is doing it is trying to be clever. Sometimes extremely creative. But it all says to me “Look how artistic we are!” or some such thing.

If the song isn’t a story, but is about ideas, I just want to listen.

I don’t mind the videos where you just see the performers. Those are okay by me.

I know I’m in the minority about music videos. But there you go.

I just like the music to be able to stand on its own. I don’t need images. I don’t need anything additional. I certainly don’t need distractions.

But here’s the thing; the classical world is trying to figure out how to appeal to the younger set, and one thing that has been attempted is adding images.

I think we’ve all forgotten how to “simply” (not implying its easy, mind you) listen.

Real listening isn’t easy. It takes time. It takes effort. I tend to lose concentration. my mind strays.

But listening can be a very good thing.

At least I think so.
—–

09. February 2005 · Comments Off · Categories: imported

Only Playing

A musician’s life is curious.
To play for money, what a life–
They must be quite delirious.
A musician’s life is curious,
But makes some people furious
to think they never suffer strife.
A musician’s life is curious
to play for money – what a life!

PEM August, 2003
—–

09. February 2005 · Comments Off · Categories: imported



Dancing to
waltzes can
seem rather
frightening, the
steps move pre-
cisely, you
can’t lose the
rhythm. So
constant, it
1 – 2 – 3’s
over, tri-
angular,
not until
finished will
feet stop their
moving. This
helps me to
understand
why it is
scary, but
then something
magical
seems to take
over. You’re
feeling the
pulse as it
enters the
bloodstream, it
runs through your
body, and
flows with a
rushing, you
twirl with a
flourish. You
think it is
fanciful,
then, in the
swirling, you
reach the un-
reachable,
halt, take a
bow and you
find that you’re
done.

—–

09. February 2005 · Comments Off · Categories: imported, Quotes

Every theater is an asylum, but an opera theatre is the ward for incurables.

-Franz Schalk (Viennese conductor)

—–

09. February 2005 · Comments Off · Categories: imported

In heaven peace will reign: in orchestras
we’ll get along. Conductors won’t abuse
the players, griping won’t occur because
there won’t be any strife. No on will use
excuses; oboists won’t scream about

a rotten reed, the catty players won’t
exist, and string players won’t ever shout
about the other musicians who don’t
play quite as many notes yet make the same
amount of money (no more salary
will save us from that old complaint). The fame
we often seek in this life will not be
important. Even trumpeters will change;
no longer will the competition be
the loudest, fastest, or the highest range–
their goal to simply play quite beautifully.

In many ways I cannot wait. I’m sure
that this will be a peaceful, wondrous time.
And yet I worry, wanting to ensure
there’s leniency for when I want to whine.
—–

09. February 2005 · Comments Off · Categories: imported

December punishment arrives

costumed and dancing
as a patch-eyed man, guns and magic.

Insistent celeste and harp mingle
with piccolo trills, trumpets
and one sharp cannon blast.

Shrinking girl’s dream of candy and prince
blend to sweet nightmare. Soldiers
battle mice under towering tree.

Anorexic bodies lifted, dive. Tiaras twirl.
Flighty hand gestures linked to polished
smiles blend with yards of frothy fabric.

Thick-thighed men work against gravity,
leap and flit feet, elevate women,
wear strong grins and extra socks for size.

Plastic snow falls under hot light.
Dry-ice inhalation ends an act; break brings
dancers’ nicotine addiction smoke.

Shouts, applause and whistles
briefly diminish complaints

while children’s joy mixes pleasure with tedium.

Staged journey accentuates immovable location;
trapped timpani, imprisoned oboes,
snared strings, travel nowhere slowly.

In this pit of annual agony we crack
the nut, hoping it doesn’t break us
before compensation for the pain.
—–