where you learn of my tragic longing for the unachievable
|I am not Daniel Barenboim. i will never be that virtuoso . I am listening to the guy as i am typing this tripe. he is playing Beethoven's Apassionata sonata (no.23 in F minor), you know, one of those "learning the piano in 10 easy lessons" pieces. |
Beethoven was a genius, the way he employs those trills in the first Mvt., like a Pavlovian bell, ringing for me to expect a prize. but with the piece you get only turmoil and anguish. maybe this is the idea. maybe suffering and disquiet are a prize in Beethoven's eyes, the sadist.
or it could be that the trill is a cry of sanity or the soul, going against the overpowering waves of emotion, until you get these super emotional peaks of chords and arpeggios where the trill is pushed to an octave higher and gets drowned out by the noise. god knows i feel like that often, where the part that is sane is crying weakly in a torrent.
Beethoven wrote this little biddy in 1804. the hammerclavier sonata (no 29), which composed thirteen years later is already totally insane. i now watch Barenboim playing that one too, and he had hair in that video. must be a graceful aging process...to move up the list of sonatas, and grow a nice mop.
oh, i can't do any of that. Beethoven mocks me, with his hair and his hammering and his genius most of all. both he and the Angellicly-haired Daniel mock me in their technique, and ability. hammering away, and laughing cruelly in German , "Probieren Sie diese Ficker aus!! Probieren Sie diese Ficker aus!! HA HA HA" (try this on, fuckers!!)
oh the inner turmoil...