tip of an iceberg
If my classical collection, so far, looks scattered it’s because I’m still working through the compilation CDs. It’ll be a while before I get to composer collections. But often it was these compilations that lead me to composers. Though this next one didn’t: Mario Lanza is a childhood memory (see earlier post Golden Days: http://wp.me/p1RtxU-iN for more about that memory).
black & yellow hat
This is one of my lp to cd transfers I combined his soundtrack recording for The Great Caruso with recordings of Caruso singing the same songs – a chance to compare the two voices. My ear isn’t refined enough to tell you the difference but there are difference. One thing that my ear did tell me was how orchestra is placed – sounding like the singer is recording while the orchestra is in a another room – distant.
green & lavender fence
Next come Alicia De Larrocha: Spanish Fireworks: she lets fly with dynamic work by Albeniz, Granados, de Falla & others. I love theis over-emotional writing & playing. Perfect for writing romantic scenes. I picked this up 2nd hand way back in 1997. Just like books, though, digital is replacing the jewel case.
black running shoe
Next is The Musicians of Swanne Alley: Elizabethan Ballads & Theatre Music. I bought this way back in 1993 to use as pre-show music for a play I was directing. What play? That I can’t recall – the info is my archives somewhere. But the music was appropriate for the production. I enjoy this period of music but often find the recordings too polite – like classical renderings of pop music that sort miss the energy of the common folk originals. Fine stuff all the same.
‘Saw you in here the other day. Last week?’ I added soap to the clothes in the washing machine.
‘I suppose so.’ He leaned against them machine two down from mine. His newspaper vibrating on top if it.
‘Good thing all the machine are working today.’
‘Yep.’ he answered without looking up from his paper.
Baggy saggy ass jeans hugged his hips, band of boxers showed above. Glimpse of flesh where his tight t-shirt had slid up some.
‘You live around here?’ I wanted to keep the conversation going, to get him to look at me so I could see more of his face.
‘No. I take a cab here special cause this is such a friendly laundromat.’
‘Sorry I didn’t mean that to sound like such a line.’
‘Well it did.’ He finally looked up. Little trail of dark hair around his chin & up into his toque. Soul patch under his lip.
I wasn’t sure what to say or do next. I needed more text, a line that was the right tip-off that took the action somewhere. Not that it could go anywhere outside of the laundromat. As much as I enjoyed the street look I never felt confident enough to ask it into my home.
I retreated to a chair that allowed me to watch my laundry till the light went off that it was ready for the drier. I did a cross word. Five letter word for wet snow.
I glanced up. He stood before me. He scratched his hard, flat stomach inches from my face. I didn’t really want to look up.
‘It’s just that guys are always hitting on me for some reason. I’m not … you know … gay.’
‘Life is like that.’
‘Must be some sort of cue that I sent out. I don’t know. Can’t help being who I am. Can I?’
‘No more than some guys can help being who they are either.’
I expected him to move away but he leaned against the coke machine beside me.
‘Funny world. Takes a lot of getting use to.’ his yanked his jeans up.
‘I don’t think one very gets used to it.’
My machine dinged.
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