Wednesday Wink-Winkery (read: another gushy post about how cool Kosman is)

I’ll bet Joshua Kosman is just tickled by Michael Tilson Thomas’ deliciously alliterative name, because every time the opportunity arises his prose becomes chock full of wily word play.

Leave it to Michael Tilson Thomas to inject a few welcome shadows into the bubbly breathlessness of the San Francisco Symphony's opening gala.

And...

...subversive stealth...

And...

...ribbons and bonbons...

And, heck, why not pour it on, since Lang Lang is in the house?

...giddy triviality...

And this one, which may or may not have been intentional...

... fondness for garish display largely under control, producing an athletic yet sensitive account of the concerto...

Nevertheless:

Data Table 1. Well done, sir. Well done.

Sheesh! Have we at the Detritus changed our tune of late?

Of course not. But we like to give props, now and then. So don't worry, in short order we will be back to unapologetically subjecting you to the usual tripe of everyday music critiquery!

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An Alliterative and Antonymous Allegory

Richard Sheinin reviews the San Francisco Symphony and Shostakovich’s rich Ninth resoundingly shabbily.

The San Francisco Symphony is playing a program of pure pleasure this week.

“Pure pleasure,” although an alliterative cliché, suggests, to me anyways, that the Symphony’s program is the best pleasure one can have—it is so “pure” it is not adulterated by anything, like fear, pain, despair, etc. You know, things that are not pleasurable. Sounds great to me! I love not being in despair. That’s why this wily statement sounds orchidaceously odd.

After intermission came a flowering of comedy,

Pleasurable. See?

pity,

Neither here nor there, but not really pleasurable. Right?

dread and mockery: Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 9 in E-flat major composed in 1945.

Jesus. Christ!

The soviet authorities expected Shostakovich to deliver a triumphant work for chorus, soloists and mega-orchestra, celebrating the Red Army victory in World War II. The composer instead delivered his shortest symphony, a barbed commentary on the dismal life lying ahead for the Russians [sic].

Now I’m depressed, not pleased.

Richard, reap the rewards of an outline. Pronto pal!
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