At home, I drink red wine while hearing things like the three carefully intertwined lines of counterpoint in the fourth movement of Mozart’s Divertimento for String Trio all the time, but being able to do so during a live performance makes the music breathe differently.
I’ve been thinking a lot recently about John Cage’s final definition of music, which is an extremely compact two-word koan: sounds heard.
Blogging has helped make us more of a community, but it is just a tool.
Why do so many composers still insist on numbering their works rather than naming them?
Here’s the skinny on Hong Kong’s music scene.
Should we really be satisfied with a narrow cast, even if that’s what we’ve had all along?
All too often when new work ceases to be new, it resides in a cast-off limbo, no longer welcome at the table with the new and not yet embraced by the avatars of the tried and true.
If you’re writing music without getting compensated, are you: (1) a victim; (2) an opportunist scab; (3) a smart gambler; or (4) all of the above?
What happens when you actually take the time to stop to listen to something without worrying about whether or not it conforms to your expectations?