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.
Are longer pieces somehow more profound?
Studying with a new teacher is a convenient time to reevaluate the foundations of one’s compositional thinking. My conundrum du jour: Is it worth limiting one’s options in the short term to realize what may ultimately be a much more valuable project somewhere far down the road?
If you can’t convince yourself that something you’ve done is spectacular, how will ever convince anybody else to care about it?