Giuseppe Verdi's final opera, "Falstaff," has the metabolism of a hummingbird.
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But Bach and Beethoven tell us exactly what they want to tell us, while Mozart lets us find what we want in him, on our own levels of need and understanding. And -- as sorry as this fact makes professional musicians -- a good percentage of any classical audience merely wants to sit back and be entertained. So be it. The depths will always be there for those who are ready to plumb them.
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She owned this music. In one of Terrence McNally's plays, one vocal aficionado challenges another: "Which 'Four Last Songs' do you like? Schwarzkopf or Schwarzkopf?"
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"Einstein" broke all the rules of opera: It was five hours long, with no intermissions (the audience was invited to wander in and out at liberty during performances). Its text consisted of numbers, syllables and some cryptic poems by Christopher Knowles, a neurologically impaired young man with whom Wilson had worked as an instructor of disturbed children for the New York public schools. There were references to the trial of Patricia Hearst (which was underway during the creation of the opera), to the mid-'70s radio lineup on New York's WABC, to the popular song "Mr. Bojangles," to the Beatles and to the teen idol David Cassidy. "Einstein" sometimes seemed a study in sensory overload, meaning everything and nothing.
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I think Maazel is generally a rather finicky and pretentious interpreter. He certainly knows a thing or two about the orchestra, however.
Agree with him or not (and really, who reads only critics one agrees with?) very, very few classical music critics in America have Tim Page's knowledge, his keen ear, his love for books and his beautiful writing style.
Il Signor Page, who was on leave from the Washington Post, teaching in California, has accepted the Post's buyout offer.
If he doesn't come back soon to writing on a regular basis, American readers -- that dying breed -- lose a priceless voice.
(Not to mention that the very fact that an allegedly august national newspaper offers a buyout to a writer like Page instead of holding on to him at all cost, shows how simply lame the Washington Post has become).
via Ionarts