A conglomeration of bach playing. From my youth, ah the memories of angry adolescence, stern harpsichord muddlings. The pain of imagining her not in rapture with me. The rejection, the utter lack of responsibility in every facet of life. The mistakes that were made:
"come one, come all! it's an evening of the half-drunk should-have-been butchering the classics! from beethoven to chopin, from liszt to debussy! see him falter and stumble his way through the old favourites that once poured from his fingers the music which once made niaive schoolgirls cry with empathy, now make you cry with embarrassment! tickets aren't limited, and there's plenty of seats to fill, always an empty house ready to accomodate anyone willing to endure his interesting interpretations of what used to be talent, but now is empty rememberance, not even a shadow of the music that filled concert halls, but now a tattering on cheap instrument, and the gutteral noises of swill infecting his throat.a horrible time to be had by all, experiencing the groans between the tankering of awful, wrong notes, a clanging of meaningless phrases and jolted melodies. now the stinking, bleates of his no good plastic imitation ivory goddess, hardly, but a whore of musical instrument. it is no good alcohol, and useless nostalgia that makes him 'play'. only a former idea of what could have been, what should have been, the art in him that has now been replaced by cold, heartless servers, and hot polluting internal combusting contraptions. the talent has been lost, never to return. the motivation to slave away filled by a drudging familiarity that is the female posession. the love that has been lost to age, bitterness, and a loss of hope in those things that were taught not as fairy tales in his youth but as a goal to be attained."
but were they mistakes that add to the beauty of learning the notes? I play them even worse now.
"come one, come all! it's an evening of the half-drunk should-have-been butchering the classics! from beethoven to chopin, from liszt to debussy! see him falter and stumble his way through the old favourites that once poured from his fingers the music which once made niaive schoolgirls cry with empathy, now make you cry with embarrassment! tickets aren't limited, and there's plenty of seats to fill, always an empty house ready to accomodate anyone willing to endure his interesting interpretations of what used to be talent, but now is empty rememberance, not even a shadow of the music that filled concert halls, but now a tattering on cheap instrument, and the gutteral noises of swill infecting his throat.a horrible time to be had by all, experiencing the groans between the tankering of awful, wrong notes, a clanging of meaningless phrases and jolted melodies. now the stinking, bleates of his no good plastic imitation ivory goddess, hardly, but a whore of musical instrument. it is no good alcohol, and useless nostalgia that makes him 'play'. only a former idea of what could have been, what should have been, the art in him that has now been replaced by cold, heartless servers, and hot polluting internal combusting contraptions. the talent has been lost, never to return. the motivation to slave away filled by a drudging familiarity that is the female posession. the love that has been lost to age, bitterness, and a loss of hope in those things that were taught not as fairy tales in his youth but as a goal to be attained."
but were they mistakes that add to the beauty of learning the notes? I play them even worse now.
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