Beethoven. Rimsky-Korsakov. Modest Mussorgsky. Ravel. All, in their own way, geniuses. All managed to capture something, a passing moment, and tie it to paper without crushing it. Through many years of performances, some of the world’s most gifted musicians have honed, interpreted, practised these works, giving us some truly precious recordings.
You are not one of them.
Yes, you. You, with the fucking mobile phone. Sitting behind me in the “no mobile” section of Virgin Trains’ “doesn’t tilt yet but it will, honest” train.
Yes, well done, that was Night On A Bare Mountain. Truly, reducing it to a succession of shittily modulated bleeps has crystallised the listening experience. Those were real tears in my eyes.
Ah, the recital has moved on. Bolero never sounded so spare, so stark, so FUCKING ANNOYING!
No, I have no desire to hear Per Elisa (Socially Stunted Fuckwit arrangement). I would rather eschew the Flight Of The Digital Bumblebee.
What possesses