Showing posts with label linguistics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label linguistics. Show all posts

Saturday, March 10, 2012

Higher-Order Virtuosity: Richard Goode and Chopin’s Ballade No. 3

Chopin, Ballade No. 3, Op. 47
I  n everything Chopin wrote, no matter how complex and virtuosic, that powerful simplicity is there at the core. Although he wrote some very difficult and impressive stuff, the ultimate effect of his music, I feel, should never really be to ‘impress’. But that’s exactly what the pianists we usually hear are striving to do: impress the contest judges, the critics, the public. The world we classical performers live in gives us very little room not to play big ‘show’ pieces, or make everything we play into one... Chopin’s third ballade suffers particularly from this problem. The ballades are all difficult, but No. 3 is the easiest of them—sort of like the shortest Himalaya. It seems as though all the star performers I’ve heard end up trying to make it as hard as the others, plowing through it with virtuosic flare, and thus trivializing it. [And how wonderful it is when, instead, someone like Richard Goode plays this piece with selfless transparency. –DSM]”
  — Paul Cantrell blog, In the Hands, 02-MAR-2005..
M y favorite part of Richard Goode’s performance last night in Kansas City [a program that included Mozart, Beethoven, Schumann, and Chopin] was the Chopin Ballad No. 3, Op. 47. This 9-minute piece is maybe the strangest of Chopin’s four ballades, on account of its unrelenting optimism. Goode’s expressive dexterity handles the staggering complexity with seeming ease and imparts a vigor suffused with warmth... perfect for this sweet, cheerful work.

G entle A-flat 6/8-meter dolce, evoking donkeys Chopin observed in the hills of Majorca? Donkeys with jobs, but happy jobs that they enjoyed doing.

T  he technique [of musical gesture] is perhaps a musical version of what is referred to as a ‘suture’ in film theory: placing the camera in such a way that it functions as the eye of the protagonist of the film, thereby drawing us, as unwitting spectators, to become the subject of the film ourselves, since we share the same visual field and same [Majorcan] point of view.”
  —  Patrick McCreless, in Almén & Pearsall, p. 13.
W hat a narrative trajectory! What storytelling! Social media of 1841! Our minds engage, imagination runs free, and we ‘friend’ or ‘follow’ this peripatetic, vacationing Chopin voice from the beginning to the end. The feeling is physical, not just emotional; it coheres—for Goode, and for us in the audience—throughout the piece, all the way to the satisfying, happy ending. For example, the motion from C (mm. 230, 232) down to the E-flat (mm. 231, 233) suggests the subsequent plunges to the low A-flat at the end. Energy flows! We “feel” the path that we are on, anticipate things along the way, anticipate them accurately. And this experience of uncanny accuracy is part of what is pleasant and thrilling for us: in material that is this complex and unpredictable, we don’t usually experience ourselves as being so graceful or right as this. We love being unexpectedly better than we are!

U ltimately, our minds and bodies gladly go everywhere Chopin’s and Goode’s narrative aims to take us. Theirs is a higher-order virtuosity that doesn’t strive to impress. It strives only to reveal what’s True, to tell this true story. But it’s not just ‘telling’, not just a musical ‘text’. The human body is involved—fingers, arms, flesh, nerves, mortal gifts, physical mass. The higher-order virtuosity inhabiting the body averts its gaze and embodies Laws of Physics in action—beauty incarnate; a kind of transcendence—something for which we surely hadn’t planned on our Friday night out, and something for which we feel thrilled and grateful. Bravo!

Chopin, Ballade No. 3, Op. 47
V  iewed as a sign, ‘formative repetition’ refers to what is repeated: it is usually a marker of segmentation, a grammatical feature. When a figure is repeated more than once, the attention begins to be attracted by the repetition itself; instead of focusing on the repeated material only, we focus on the act of repetition as an activity signifier per se and seek a symbolic interpretation of it. It is then a sign, not of segmentation or grammar, but of connotative meaning. It evokes extra-musical associations of... emphatically [re-]emphasized speech, dancing, laughing, etc.”
  — Raymond Monelle, p. 88, quoting Lidov.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

NEC First Monday: Buvant à la Source, Laurence Lesser Explains a ‘French’ Program

Laurence Lesser, cellis
T   onight’s program is… ‘French’. Stravinsky? French? Well, yes, at least part of him is.”
  —  Laurence Lesser, cellist, introductory remarks.
T he New England Conservtory ‘First Monday’ program featured, among other things, Belgium-born violist Dimitri Murrath introducing each movement of Couperin’s ‘Le Parnasse’ homage to Arcangelo Corelli by reading aloud the movement’s title and subtext, in impeccable French. Quel réalisme! Quel charme! Vive l’authenticité!
  • Couperin – Le Parnasse, ou L’apothéose de Corelli (James Buswell, John Holland, violins; Laura Blustein, cello; John Gibbons, harpsichord)
  • Stravinsky – Apollo (Masuko Ushioda, Wanzhen Li, violins; Dima Murrath, Sarah Darling, violas; Laurence Lesser, Natasha Brofsky, cellos; Donald Palma, double bass)
  • Ravel – Piano Trio (Hung-Kuan Chen, piano; James Buswell, violin; Laurence Lesser, cello)
L esser gave a 15-min pre-concert talk, explaining various things to us… about his experiencing the then-elderly Stravinsky’s pungent advice to him first-hand, when he was a young cellist just starting out in the mid-1960s; about how Couperin was enthralled with what was shaping music in Italy in the 17th Century and early 18th… the unifying, glorious transnationally-strategic possibilities of it. Parnassus, the home of the Muses, is where the soul of Corelli is conducted—ascension (‘remerciment’) to join the god, Apollo… who is the subject of the second work on the program by Stravinsky. And the piano trio after that… Ravel, who in his own time meditated upon his musical predecessors and the debt owed to them (‘Le Tombeau de Couperin’, etc.).

T he violin cadenza performed by Masuko Ushioda in the Prologue of the Stravinsky was spectacular… indicative of the sonic aggressiveness and beautiful iconoclasm ahead.

I  love that the words ‘analysis’ and ‘performance’ have such wide purviews. The ensemble surely ‘analyzes,’ in preparing and interpreting each work, examining the score and its style including notational idiosyncrasies (e.g., ‘void’ functions, expanded tunings, etc.), music theory, historical practices, and so forth. And ‘performance’ may refer to the live performance, to recordings, to practice, to memorization, to improvisation, and to aesthetic, hermeneutic, social, psychological, cognitive, or motoric/musculoskeletal/neurophysiological aspects of all of these.

U shioda’s cadenza served the rhetorical function of announcing the Apollo character in the story and establishing that figure’s authority. It clarifies which key that character operates in, and transforms the thematic material that has preceded the cadenza. The cadenza provides convincing proof of Ushioda’s violinism prowess. But the supervening ensemble members’ parts reveal that there will be disagreement ahead—Apollo may be a god, but he doesn’t rule the Universe.

T his piece was originally orchestrated by Stravinsky for a 28-piece chamber orchestra. Last night’s performance was arranged for string septet. Both orchestrations have their merits, but I especially liked the septet last night. How clear everything is! How much more intimate, compared to the larger version!

T hought #1: Each of these three pieces is characterized by motives and phrases, repeated and massaged and turned round and round through the whole piece and all the movements and variations... Is this particular delight in variational permutations psychologically an archetypically ‘keyboardist’ thing to do (i.e., composers who are not primarily keyboard artists tend not to do it), or is it in some way idiomatically ‘French’, across these centuries?

T hought #2: Each of these three pieces is ‘cinematic’ in terms of structure and narrative. Is the fondness for the picturesque a distinctively ‘Gallic’ trait, or is this feature more an artifact of what it takes to make a living as a musician/composer in each century, in an exchange-economy, market-driven society?
David Lidov, ‘Is Language a Music?’



Monday, March 7, 2011

Is Language Music? Sightreading Kirzinger’s Program Notes, BMOP w/ Bolcom

Garden of Cosmic Speculation, Dumfries, Scotland
W   hen writing a score, there’s got to be something that you can do that will not just be a nice honor to the play, or the book, or the film you’re dealing with, but some aspect that maybe can explore something that the play just couldn’t do. Once I know what the first page [of music] is, then the rest will come.”
  —  William Bolcom.
T he Boston Modern Orchestra Project - Bolcom w/ BMOP program last night was exceptionally good. A thread held in common by each of the works was their concern for spirituality, for Time, and for how we experience our short lives and the lives of those we love.
  • Sojourner Hodges - Full-Fathom Five, elegy for Donald C. Hodges [première] (Bethany Worrell, soprano)
  • Michael Gandolfi - Garden of the Senses Suite (Allemande-audition; Courante-olfaction; Sarabande-gustation; Passepied-palpation; Gigue-vision; Chorale-intuition)
  • Kati Agócs - ...like treasure hidden in a field (Chorale; Peregrination; Pearl of Great Price; Cathedral with No Ceiling; Celestial Machinery)
  • William Bolcom - Commedia for (Almost-) 18th-Century Orchestra
  • William Bolcom - Symphony No. 3 (Alpha; Scherzo vitale; Chiaroscuro; Omega)
T he program notes by composer Robert Kirzinger are always a genuine pleasure when attending BMOP events or Tanglewood, and last night was no exception. Knowing the composers/artists as well as he does, he is invariably able to provide a great number of fascinating details about the composers’ biographies and current projects—far more vivid than you would find in any press-kit or agent bio package, and far more than most artists would think to mention. Terse, crystalline, provocative; never enigmatic or museum-plaquelike. And his 7 pages and 3,500 words of text for last night’s BMOP program reveal many intimate bits; the dates of composition and first performance, and where and by whom it was first performed; generous juicy quotes from each composer, on what she or he intended and what inspired or motivated each work; the occasional wry, funny, ironical ditzel; plus mini-summaries of what’s ‘under the hood’ of each piece and how it works.

H e gives the audience a sense of what to expect while hearing the piece, but is never excessively technical—sonata form, rondo, passacaglia, etc.—he does not ‘talk down’ or define each term for his readers, but rather gently makes it apparent in his ensuing paragraphs what the deal is and why it’s interesting. Seven pages and 3,500 words are not “a lot” when they are truly exciting like his writing is—any more than 400 pages and 200,000 words are too much for a really good novel that you can’t put down.

T   he designation ‘symphony’ implies ambition—and the piece, in 30 minutes and four movements, delivers, if not precisely in a traditional way… the orchestra is more-or-less Mozart-sized, with modern doublings (piccolo, alto flute, E-flat clarinet) plus electric piano, which adds a distinct sonic touch… The beginning and end of the piece, musically similar, represent a ‘collective consciousness’ from which our individual spirits emerge and into which they return. The alto flute, English horn, and first bassoon are a ‘half-humorous visualization of three spirits who watch over the process of our birth and death.’ … Bolcom represents the collective consciousness with a miasma of string glissandi…”
  —  Robert Kirzinger, program notes.
W hile the primary consumers of program notes are the audience members, the notes can enrich the playing experience and understanding of the performers and the conductor as well. In fact, I suspect that the reason Kirzinger writes the way he does is because it is a genuine creative opportunity, not an ‘obligation’, not mere marketing ‘collateral’ that he is producing. Program notes are an artistic performance by its author(s), not a workaday ‘task’ with a commodified, mass-market ‘deliverable.’ Program notes are part and parcel of his ongoing dialogues with these people and with this music. It’s conversational—the writing of the program notes is an embodiment of the mutual commitment and the friendship that make high-quality conversation possible and real.

A nd if well-engineered program notes can manage to contribute to the performers’ and the conductor’s experience, then how much more we audience members can get from them! Hold the program notes in your hand. Open them. Begin reading them as though they were a piece of music. You are sight-reading a libretto! The story has characters in it—some who live; some who have died; all of whom have done some cool things. Things happen in that program-notes libretto—exciting stuff—and if you give a good ‘reading’, you might have a part! You really oughtta take that program home with you and re-read it. It isn’t a throw-away; it isn’t a only-for-show ‘sacrament’ of a religion you no longer believe in. Your sight-reading ability isn’t as great as it could and should be, you know…

T   his work represents the desire to keep spiritual things close and present in everyday life, with recognition of just how challenging this goal can be… a series of saturated chords is cast antiphonally throughout the ensemble, and the otherworldly presence of unpitched, flat Chinese gongs sustains a rarified atmosphere over the work’s five-movement arc, culminating in a cacophony of bells.”
  —  Kati Agócs, notes for ‘…like treasure’.
R obert Kirzinger’s program notes texts read like concise, friendly ‘gists’… in-a-nutshell analyses, bolted onto exciting, expertly-redacted, friend-to-friend interviews with the composers—this is substantially what his program notes are. It’s really heartwarming to read program notes as lively and honest as the programs they’re about, and we consider ourselves very lucky to receive them as a bonus for the modest price of admission. The pre-concert chat between William Bolcom and Michael Gandolfi on-stage was fantastic, too—providing insights into their music, yes, but also enabling us to know what smart, decent human beings they both are. Went home happy, a little brighter, a little bigger-hearted, and more confident about the future of serious music and of program notes. Bravo, Robert! Bravo, BMOP! Bravo, Kati, Bill, Michael, and Sojourner!

T   he ‘almost’ refers to the makeup of the [1971] then-very-new St. Paul Chamber Orchestra [who commissioned ‘Commedia’], of which Bolcom’s friend, composer Sydney Hodkinson, was conductor, and to whom the score of Commedia is dedicated… inspired (albeit distantly) by things Italian… the influence is the commedia dell’arte—the stock stage characters tossed against each other in a variety of situations, often comic but not without a dark side.”
  —  Robert Kirzinger, program notes.
T   he kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field: which when a man hath found it, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant, seeking goodly pearls: who, when he had found one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had, and bought it.”
  —  Matthew 12:44 - 46. (“…like treasure hidden in a field”).
David Lidov, ‘Is Language a Music?’



Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Love Is Blind: Representational Art and Amative/Amatory Symbols in Chamber Music

 Catherine McMichael
A   m•a•tive (æm´•ə•tɪ v)
adjective: disposed to love; amorous; symbolizing amorous intent.
1630–40; < ML amātīvus, equiv. to amāt(us) [ptp. of amāre to love] + -īvus –ive.
S cores of Love’, a piece by Catherine McMichael for alto saxophone, tenor voice, and piano—is a fine Valentine’s Day chamber work you may like to try. As is the case with many art songs, this piece draws attention to how music is able to ‘mean’ things—how the intertextuality between the words and the music works; how the ‘representation’ of the emotions happens, specifically, the constellation of sentiments that denote love.



    [30-sec clip, Catherine McMichael, ‘Scores of Love…, Love at 20: Love Is Not All, Lynn Klock (saxophone), Jon Humphrey (tenor), 1.0MB MP3]


    [30-sec clip, Catherine McMichael, ‘Scores of Love…, Love at 40: April Rain Song, Lynn Klock (saxophone), Jon Humphrey (tenor), 1.0MB MP3]


    [30-sec clip, Catherine McMichael, ‘Scores of Love…, Love at 60: Send Her a Valentine, Lynn Klock (saxophone), Jon Humphrey (tenor), 1.0MB MP3]

I n some ways, this piece is in the great tradition of Robert Schumann… the ‘Spanisches Liebes-Lieder’ (Spanish Love Songs), op. 138. But with Catherine McMichael’s piece we have the three-way interaction of voice and sax and piano. The relationship of music to words is cultivated with great intimacy in each of the three movements, and there is a meta-intimacy that comes from the juxtaposition of three ‘chapters’ of life, advancing 20 years at a time (hence, the word-play of the title ‘Scores’ = spanning 20 years), represented by the texts of the three poets. The result is a kind of declamation that is propelled as much by the music as by the poetry. The colors and rhythms in the instrumental parts are not mere accompaniment—they disclose propositions of their own, on a par with the expressions of the tenor’s words—and this fact leads me to revisit my uneasiness with the question of whether and how deeply and accurately musical motifs can represent or allude to specific things.

L    ove is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It may well be. I do not think I would.”
  —  Edna St. Vincent Millay, ‘Love Is Not All’ (age 20).
L    et the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain.”
  — Langston Hughes, ‘April Rain Song’ (age 40).
S    end her a valentine to say
You love her in the same old way.
Just drop the long familiar ways
And live again the old-time days
When love was new and youth was bright
And all was laughter and delight—
And treat her as you would if she
Were still the girl that used to be.

Pretend that all the years have passed
Without one cold and wintry blast;
That you are coming still to woo
Your sweetheart as you used to do.
Forget that you have walked along
The paths of life where right and wrong
And joy and grief in battle are,
And play the heart without a scar.

Be what you were when youth was fine
And send to her a valentine;
Forget the burdens and the woe
That have been given you to know
And to the wife, so fond and true,
The pledges of the past renew
‘Twill cure her life of every ill
To find that you’re her sweetheart still.”
  —  Edgar A. Guest, ‘Send Her a Valentine’ (age 60).
A llusions, like symbols, strengthen and localize the cognitive and emotional experience for the performer or listener. In literary theory, allusions fall under the rubric of ‘intertextuality’. Intertextuality refers to the relationships between two or more texts that refer to each other. “Intertextuality is therefore the textual exploitation of another text. It would include satire, parody, pastiche, imitatio, refacimento, reference, allusion, modeling, borrowing…” as William Rothstein has written. The synthesis or reconstruction of narratives is a fundamental part of the interpretive process and performance practice. If you’re interested, have a look at Rothstein’s ‘Analysis and the Act of Performance,’ in John Rink, ed., ‘The Practice of Performance’, pp. 217-40. An extended thread assessing these issues runs through Kendall Walton’s writings as well, which are a joy to read.

H ave a look, for comparison, at Roger Scruton’s ‘Aesthetics of Music’. After ending his sojourn in the U.S. at Boston University and repairing to his native Wiltshire English countryside, Scruton has in recent years been somewhat notorious as a conservative political philosopher and ruralist, but Scruton is also an amateur composer. “When we hear music, we do not hear sound only; we hear something in sound, something which moves with a force of its own.”

O ne might imagine from his expressions in this vein that Scruton would hold that music can be representational. After all, he says that metaphors in music are “indispensable ... because we are using them to describe something other than the material world; in particular because we are attempting to describe how the world seems, from the point of view of active imagination ... The indispensable metaphor occurs when the way the world seems depends upon an imaginative involvement with it, rather than on our ordinary cognitive goals. And this is the case when we listen to music” (p. 92). And he asserts that “We are all to some extent sentimentalists” (p. 488). But sentimentality in Scruton’s reading turns out to be a kind of defense against the postmodern world by way of ‘make-believe’ or ‘language games’. In this respect, Scruton’s view intersects with Kendall Walton’s.

W alton famously holds that all effective fictions arise from our playful use of symbols and signifiers: what Wittgenstein once called ‘language games’ or ‘language-play’. When we experience fiction, we suspend our disbelief, enter into the realm of play, and act as if the fictional world were real. Walton charts what amounts to an epistemology of fiction, a virtual world where ‘it is fictionally present’ is equivalent to ‘it is true’ in the real world.

W    ollheim’s purpose in connecting ‘seeing-in’ with seeing depth in flat surfaces is not so much to clarify seeing-in as to indicate the range of cases in which it occurs. In viewing many paintings regarded as non-representational, one sees one plane or shape or line in front of another. Many of the works of such artists as Hans Hoffman, Piet Mondrian, and Mark Rothko demand ‘seeing-in’, Wollheim claims, and qualify as representational along with portraits and landscapes, although the former are not ‘figurative’ as the latter are... [Audience members] participate in what I call perceptual games of make-believe. ‘Seeing-in’ ... [is] an experience characterized by the phenomenology of twofoldness: an experience with two aspects—a ‘recognitional’ aspect and a ‘configurational’ one.”
  —  Kendall Walton, Marvelous Images, p. 136.
A  century ago ‘Vom Musikalish-Schönen’, Eduard Hanslick argued that it’s impossible to represent emotions in music because music can’t provide enough specificity—can’t convey the specific cognitive content associated with emotions. “The feeling of hope cannot be separated from the representation of a future happy state which we compare to the present ... Love cannot be thought without the representation of a belovèd person, without desire and striving after felicity, glorification and possession of a particular object.” If music can’t represent these ideas or objects but only some ‘dynamic’ aspects of emotional life, then (according to Hanslick) it can’t be seriously representational at all.

S usanne Langer maintained this conservative view, too, in the mid-20th Century. And, in his own way, so now, it seems, does Scruton. By contrast, Peter Kivy is an exponent of the view that music can indeed express particular emotions. [I have had in these past few days more Scrutonization than is probably healthy; I think I (and, maybe, you) can find the antidote by rereading and being re-persuaded by Kivy, just in time for Valentine’s Day.]

T    he expressive character of art is connected with its role in the Entäußerung or ‘realization’ of our feelings. We encounter works of art as perfected icons of our felt potential, and we appropriate them in order to bring form, lucidity, and self-knowledge to our inner life. The human psyche is transformed by art, but only because art provides us with the expressive gestures towards which our emotions themselves lean in their search for sympathy—gestures which we seize, when we encounter them, with a sense of being carried at last to a destination that we could not reach alone...”
  —  Roger Scruton, Aesthetics of Music, p. 352.
T o be a proper ‘representation’, a work must ‘express specific thoughts about its subject’. To be interested in the work is to be interested in ‘understanding those thoughts.’ By ‘thoughts’, Scruton means, “the sense or content of a declarative sentence,” which can either be true or false. A representational work must generate propositions with truth-values that are accessible to and, by consensus, agreed upon by [a majority of] those who experience the work: “Representation... is essentially propositional.” N.B.: Wittgensteinian language-games, ballast even on philosophers’ social networks, positively fatal on Valentine’s Day.

P eter Kivy elegantly rebuts Scruton’s arguments that music can’t be representational. Kivy accepts Scruton’s criteria for something to be representational and for a representation to be aesthetically relevant, but disagrees that music fails to meet these criteria.

 Viola d’amore, Stadelmann, 1777
A    traditional painting depicts something, and if the painting is a good one, every part of the canvas contributes to the effectiveness of the visual message that the artist is trying to convey. In traditional literature every passage has its purpose – fleshing out a character, setting the mood, developing the plot, and so on. The same is generally true of music in the European tradition: the composition is considered to be greater than the sum of its parts, a work of art in which each passage has a function that is vital to the overall plan of a work. Think of any tonal work that you know well, and imagine what it would be like if its parts, themes, transitions and so forth—were randomly rearranged. It might be interesting to see how it would turn out, but the piece would almost certainly not be as effective as a whole.”
  —  Stefan Kostka, Materials and Techniques of Twentieth-Century Music, p. 152.
 Viola d’amore, Hulinsky, 1785
S cores of Love’ by Catherine McMichael is a composition through which the respective contributions of the vocal text and instrumental parts to the work’s meaning can be dissected and understood, maybe more clearly or dramatically than other examples allow. Here’s an experiment for you: Have a viola perform the tenor part—preferrably while reading from the tenor part—or transposed to alto clef, but with the lyric retained below the staves for the violist to see. Better yet, use a viola d’amore—one with an anatomically correct carved head at the top of the peg box, complete with the blindfolded eyes to represent Love. See if the sense of the piece doesn’t convey substantially the same meaning as it does when the words are sung. Do you not agree that it is as fine and precisely evocative a Valentine when arranged in that way, as it would be in its original mixed trio form?

I t’s like my violin teacher periodically reminds me (odious keyboard/brass/woodwind player and erstwhile tenor that I am): “The string contact-point ... is, at best, like your vocal cords. The instrument and the bow should be your voice. You must remember to make them sing; every note must sing.” The tone quality or sound color of viola can be a wonderful substitute for the tenor voice. Your make-believe mind (the mind of your listener as well) imagines the fictional words and automatically fills in the correct representations, the accurate intertextual truths. It’s enough to know the poems that inspired the setting—that caused the music to be constructed as it is...

I    have performed the piece with viola (in place of the saxophone, not the singer), and it’s just as effective. In fact, the tenor at that performance was 60. His wife was in the audience, and it was his valedictory performance ... Several people came up to me at the intermission, literally weeping, exclaiming how grateful they were that contemporary music by a living composer could still be beautiful and moving.”
  —  Catherine McMichael, email to CMT.
 Viola d’amore, Wassern, 1707
I    have to pour unrequited love into bar 100 and not forget a touch of fear and loathing at bar 210.”
  —  Jonathan Dunsby, Performing Music: Shared Concerns, p. 24. [an interesting on-point quote, I thought; has nothing to do with McMichael’s ‘Scores of Love’, though]

 Wagner, Tristan chord, unresolved je n’est sais quoi of longing