Get a grip, Gustav
I can't help wondering whether there's something wrong with me. The
rest of the Royal Festival Hall goes nuts over Mahler, Bruckner and
Shostakovich symphonies. And I sit there wondering what to cook for
dinner tomorrow, daydreaming about being forcibly confined for as long
as this in better surroundings (the Sanctuary/beach in south of
France/leisurely dinner at Gavroche) - or simply wishing that dear old
Gustav could get a grip.
Why, why, WHY did these self-indulgent egomaniacs have to write
symphonies that go on for 80 minutes with no relief to the
overwhelming gloom? Were they sadists? Or cry-babies? Listen, Gussy,
everyone's got problems. If you didn't know what you were getting into
when you married Almschi...well, you were probably the only man in
Vienna who didn't. You have only yourself to blame.
Actually, I can deal with Gus on a good day - at least he had a heart,
which is more than can be said for Bruckner, who bores me to tears.
Shostakovich isn't exactly heartless, but usually induces inclination
to throw self off Waterloo Bridge - bad idea, no future in it.
Schubert could encapsulate the sort of emotion that the symphonic
dinosaurs were after in a three-minute song. What did Anton B write
that could even begin to compare with Schwanengesang? And did Gus ever
create a view of the human condition more intensely touching than
Schubert's String Quintet? I don't believe so.
Also, the more I think about it, the more I prefer French stuff once
we get past about 1865. One of my best musical moments in the past
month was attending the dress rehearsal of Verdi's 'Simon Boccanegra'
at the Royal Opera House. Lots of doges, intrigues, mixed-up
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