In her radio feature “What in the World is Music?” Eastman musicologist Ellen Koskoff takes listeners to some far-flung locale and listens to strange sounds humans make. They might be the yodels of a Bulgarian shepherd serenading the shepherdess babe in the field next door or a Balinese fisherman wailing a song about entrails. Sometimes the singers sound like cats. As the music plays, Ellen describes what’s happening in journalistic language.
Monday night, June 9th, the RPO plays Métaboles (Metamorphoses) by the living French composer Henri Dutilleux.
“In the conception of this work,” Dutilleux wrote, “the composer never ceased to dream of the mysterious and compelling realm of eternal metamorphosis. The spirit and the form of the music find their origins in an intense contemplation of nature.”
Hear it Monday at 8:00 p.m. on Classical 91.5 FM, 90.3 or streaming.
Just nights ago I had the unexpected experience of spending about six hours in a hospital emergency room (no worries - everything ended up fine). However, while I was there, alone, awaiting test results, and desperately wanting to sleep, I found myself somewhat comforted by the ER Symphony I began to hear.
I love music passionately. And because l love it, I try to free it from barren traditions that stifle it. It is a free art gushing forth — an open-air art, boundless as the elements, the wind, the sky, the sea.
The century of airplanes has a right to its own music.
The colour of my soul is iron-grey and sad bats wheel about the steeple of my dreams.
I think someone took my copy of The Rest is Noise by Alex Ross. Right off my desk. I want it back. After I get my book back, I shall lock the thief in a dark room for a week with only Cheetos, Yanni, and warm diet cream soda.
When soprano Jane Eaglen and baritone Dean Elzinga walked out onto the stage of Eastman Theatre last October, I expected to be dazzled by Eaglen’s powerhouse, Wagnerian voice. But Elzinga was a surprise, equally forceful in Ralph Vaughan Williams’ Sea Symphony, based on Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass.” Elzinga delivered a warm, rich tone similar to that of Bryn Terfel, but with a mournful aspect. He was, in a word, spooky.
I missed the bus home yesterday. After considering various options, I hopped the next one, knowing it would only take me halfway. The second, pokey bus dropped me off on a springy bit of green turf outside what was, is, and ever more shall be my favorite used bookstore. Oh, joy! I walked in with a light heart and about seven bucks.