Bach

The composer bailout tournament of the century!

 One of my most important personal mantras is "Do not take yourself too seriously."  In this spirit, I present to you Recession 2008: "Which Classical Composer Would Hypothetically Survive and Who Would Need a Government Bailout, The Tournament."  

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The Well-Tempered Clavier

"To me it means molecular harmony. To my father, it means a broken sewing machine. To Bach, it means an experiment in writing for every available key. To Bach's wife, it means money to pay his wig maker. Who's right? Individually, we all are. Generally, none of us are."

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Winter garden

Last week, I started complaining about the muddy, colorless winter weather. Today, I’m delighted every time I glance outside. The garden is etched in black and white, transformed into an Escher lithograph. Balls of ice-encrusted bee balm sway on brittle stalks. Privet bushes hunker down, nearly smothered by the heavy, wet snow. Cardinals flit, electric red. I declare this the loveliest winter weather ever, especially if you like shape and form and contrast.

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Let's Imagine

The RPO’s Annual Meeting, Having Been Held in Rochester’s Opulent Eastman Theatre, Later Discussed by The Busts of Bach and Beethoven Over the Exits

Johann: Grüß dich! That brass quintet, sehr gut! Don’t you think, my old friend?

Ludwig: Ja, ja, I almost heard it! I think it was almost as compelling as the players’ rousing performance of The Firebird by the Russian Wild One, Herr Stravinsky. (He pauses, leans over, whispering) But I believe the young man who spoke afterward, Herr Owens, may have a Napoleonic complex. Did you catch all his mumbling about fame and glory, making the RPO famous around the world?

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Organ bench II

On Sunday morning I woke up feeling hollow and unnecessary. I swung my feet onto the floor and stared out the window at the feeble sunlight, the bare trees, and the grass, still matted by leaves I hadn't found time to rake.

I wasn’t a church organist anymore. For four years, I rushed out every Sunday, pulled on a black robe and white cotta, greeted the choir, and perched attentively on the organ bench at a small town Episcopal church. I’d left my post after Christmas Eve, and this past Sunday, for the first time, no one was expecting me to show up.

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