My small Julian Bream collection consists of stand-alones: Guitarra, Guitar Recital, and a lp/cd transfer of Classical Guitar, with some Segovia, John Williams to round that cd off. The music includes works by Sor, Granados, Albeniz, de Falla, Villa-Lobos.
I picked up the first two as deletes at either Sam’s or HMV mainly because of the Spanish composers. Even under the controlled playing of Bream the emotional, sexual energy of their writing came though loud & clear.
sole of snow
The transfer has less Spanish music, mind you – Segovia was the real start of my love of classical guitar – more about him when I get to ‘s’ on the shelf. These guys recorded at a time when the music was paramount, not the looks of the performer. Unlike pop I was aroused by the composer not the performer.
I say this because often on the classical lps there were no photos of the performer so I had imparted some of the vibrant music to the appearance of the performers. When I saw pictures of say Segovia, I was a bit disappointed he was older & pudgy. Pop music sells on image and these guys had the image of university professors not dashing Spanish bullfighters.
October 10-12 – attending – Gratitude Roundup http://www.torontogratitude.org
October 19 – feature – Cabaret Noir – Pinebow https://www.facebook.com/events/1651892755035275/
November 1-30 – participating – NaNoWriMo 2014 – http://nanowrimo.org
There was nothing familiar in the room Frank found before his eyes. He had come in to the room get his glasses to open his pension cheque. When he had went to bed the living room had been bare, spare, empty, cold, dark and uninviting.
This morning it was filled with snow. A crack in the window had gradually widened and the room had filled with snow. Not just loose aimless drifts but a whole crystalline and fluffy world of turrets valleys peaks trees and ponds.
Frost patterns covered the windows and walls in elaborate swirls of tender and sometimes frightening visages. A picture of life in whites and wallpaper spread out along the ceiling, over the doorsill and down around the window.
Thick slabs of icicles hung along the window sill like heavy diamonds that encrusted the walls with an eerie blue winter light. His breath hung in tiny sparks in front of him as he stood in the doorway.
He was afraid to speak, to move, lest the vibration send the entire scene into a sudden collapse. He didn’t want to hear the crash and tingle of the ice world as it crumpled because of his lumpen human encroachment. Slowly he kneeled to take a closer look at the small marvel of a house on the carpet. As his eye neared it he could make out a tiny perfect person look up from it’s pension cheque to glance out the window at him. He jerked his head up to look out his own window but was relieved to see only the morning sun there and not a huge eye ball eye balling him.
Frank didn’t know how long he stood there, his unopened pension cheque in his hand. Time became meaningless as he studied the various permutations and variations of ice and snow in the room. He entered it slow so as not to disturb too much beneath his feet. He breathed as light as he could while he savored the myriad of reflections the morning sun sent darting through the many facets of ice in the corners of the room. The gems of blue swayed overhead and seemed to get larger as each of his breaths joined with them.
The heavy ice gems in the corners began to creak, rub together.
He heard someone call him from deep within a frost cloud.
“Yes.” he whispered. His voice fell into the air, flakes of ice trailed behind it. “Yes. I am here. But where is here.”
The cold hand reached out from the cloud to touch him. It caressed his face. It brought him sleep. He looked for a place to rest but didn’t want to risk any of the fantastic ice world around him.
“I’m here. I’m here.”
He slipped into sleep. A deep, comfortable, warm sleep.
yummy yellow snow