Yesterday was Franz Schubert's birthday. People don't usually name him along with Mozart and Beethoven -- and all the other greats before and after the period during which those three lived in Vienna. He was as talented as either but had his own distinct style. More romantic than Mozart, not as grand and deep as Beethoven. He lived only to his early 30 but must have done nothing but write music -- his output was as almost as prolific as Mozart's.
I heard his Trout Quintet just before I fell asleep last night -- so beautiful, so joyous. I love his 9th symphony almost as much as Beethoven's. Last spring I saw one of his rarely performed operas. The music was as heavenly as his lieder but the story was ridiculous and the staging and design equally ridiculous. Never mind. He apparently did nothing dramatic -- no heavy handed father, no mysterious death, no deafness or secret romance. He just wrote music and made so little money at it he had to go play at soirees to earn a bit. The world is a more beautiful place because of Franz Schubert.
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow – Part 3 - Okay, that was a bit of a cheat on Monday - all process, no news. But it was quick and easy to write and I needed time to prepare for the arrival of a hous...
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