New music is an unqualifiable entity, or at least it should be, as far as genre distinctions go.
It’s one thing to say that the vast majority of history’s composers remain unknown. But how many of history’s known (and even “great”) composers are, effectively, “mis-known”-either through insufficient performance of the bulk of their output, or through actual suppression of significant chunks of their oeuvres?
Brokeback Mountain: The Opera—who would you commission?
Often costumed and tattooed in ways that might evoke a dominatrix as much as a musician, it is clear when Yagi plays the koto who is the slave and who is the master.
I wish the uncontrollable excitement of a rock concert could be bottled and sprinkled over a decidedly more restrained Carnegie Hall affair.
I’ve come to a startling realization since moving out here to Minneapolis and starting doctoral study: It’s nice to have theorists around.
A precocious and articulate 22-year-old undergrad visual art major I hung out with last night repeatedly professed strong disdain for virtually all contemporary art; one salient quote was, “All they do is spit on canvasses; I really resent people who waste my time.”
Of all the revolutions of modernism, none was more complete than the ashcanning of beauty as the ultimate canon of art.
You’re kidding, right?
For me, the urban soundscape of Tokyo is the largest payoff I get for living in an already great city.