Music begins to be 'manipulated' the moment it is interpreted by a conductor or a soloist and played by an orchestra in a hall with a specific acoustic. All these factors 'manipulate' music and so does the fact that I ask the oboe please to play more piano. And you are manipulating the orchestra for one reason only: to get the sound you want. In the recording studio you are using the equipment at hand for exactly the same reason.
quote by Herbert von Karajan
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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I conceived of an instrument that would create sound without using any mechanical energy, like the conductor of an orchestra. The orchestra plays mechanically, using mechanical energy; the conductor just moves his hands, and his movements have an effect on the music artistry.
quote by Leon Theremin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Lover's Melody or And from the Oboe Came a Pretty Sound
And from the oboe came a pretty sound
The crescendo called love
From the bell that was his lover's heart
More beautiful than anything
Vivaldi could compose
True, she was an oboe
Alone, in an orchestra of drums, saxophones, and pianos
But she met a guitar
A beautifully carved acoustic instrument
That made a sound like no other
She'd ever heard
Together they made sweet, sweet music
The love-struck oboe wanted to stay
With the guitar, cut a deal, and
Make some records
But, alas, the guitar
Was completely unaware
Of the melody the oboe was playing
From the oboe came a pretty sound
And the guitar, he sung back
Of the returned love
The oboe was looking for,
It was a tune of lament—sad and slow
For he knew he could not give her
What she desired
So he set himself on fire
And from the guitar came a descend
When the oboe found her lover she
picked up what was left of he
and put it in a box of oak
and sailed it off to sea
the oboe knew no sad songs
but she wanted to sing him a tune
so on the beautiful sunset on June
she hummed him what she knew…
…and from the oboe came a pretty sound
poem by Alecia Carroll
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For All Pianos All Around The World
pi
piano
piano use
piano key
piano roll
piano wire
piano note
pianoforte
piano store
piano pedal
piano bench
piano effect
piano sound
piano string
piano mover
piano maker
piano music
piano action
piano player
piano lesson
piano design
piano course
piano soloist
piano tuning
piano recital
piano replica
piano sonata
piano rhythm
piano sample
piano teacher
piano program
piano concerto
piano repertoire
piano brand name
anno piano twenty twelve
poem by Nicolas Grenier
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If a professional musician in a symphony orchestra is playing Beethoven. But this particular orchestra have played this particular chestnut so many times, they can play it in their sleep. Does the genius remain present in the music or not?
quote by Robert Fripp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Playing Music Is Like Making Love
PLAYING MUSIC IS LIKE MAKING LOVE
Many people who insist that they enjoy
music known as classical merely say
they do, pretending. Far more serious is the ploy
planned by LSO, who'll just pretend to play.
There is surely nothing wrong with those who fake
enjoyment, like a woman faking an orgasm,
but pretense of playing music's a mistake,
since music needs not only sound, but ectoplasm.
Orchestras and lovemakers should never mimic:
they should always show their skin when they perform,
and should not be, although poetic, metonymic:
the use of any substitute is rotten form.
Denis Bartel reported the news about the London Symphony Orchestra's decision to mimic their playing while a performance is broadcast to visits at the Olympic Games. David Ng writes in the LA Times:
Musicians with the London Symphony Orchestra are reportedly going to have to pull a Milli Vanilli when they appear at the opening ceremony of the Summer Olympic Games in London. Reports from Britain state that the orchestra will mimic playing to prerecorded music due to concerns about the weather and the shape of the performing venue - a large, oval-shaped arena whose scale would apparently make a live-music performance tricky….
The London Symphony has reportedly recorded the music that is scheduled to be played during the July 27 ceremony. The Daily Mail reports that Boyle wanted the orchestra to perform live, but that he was overruled by the organizing committee for the Games. When viewers around the world tune in for the ceremony, they can expect to see the conductor and musicians from the renowned orchestra going through the motions while a soundtrack plays.
This wouldn't be the first time that the mimicking of live music was used at an Olympics ceremony. In 2008, a mini-controversy developed during the Beijing Games when it was revealed that a 9-year-old singer lip-synced to the voice of another young girl whom officials had deemed less telegenic. Similarly, at President Obama's inauguration, the musical performance by cellist Yo-Yo Ma, violinistItzhak Perlman, pianist Gabriella Montero and clarinetist Anthony McGill played, unamplified, to a recording. The decision to use a recording was made over fears that the cold weather that day could damage the instruments.
6/4/12 #10403
poem by Gershon Hepner
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As long as its music
Please play me a symphony
Make a simple cheerful harmony
Please play me a chord from a guitar
For me, it does not matter
If I’m the only audience of your theatre
Give me some instrumental vibes
All rhythms and tunes are musically ripe
There is no need to take precaution
While playing the Banjo or flamenco percussion
As long as its music
We can all heal
As long as its music
We can all feel
We can sing out our hearts and soul
We can let this music take control
Please play me the drums
We can sing or we can hum
Please play me a CD or a hit record
We could sing to the tunes of an ipod
With the sounds of music we can compose a song
Maybe sing to the town’s bells chiming ding-dong
Please play me the sweet keys of a piano
Hit a sweet note that is a major or minor
As long as its music
We can all heal or cry
As long as its music
We can all feel or fly high
And I will be lost in your voice and eyes
Holding on to each minute that flies
Whatever sounds or instruments
I shall feel good in the moment
Please play me a note from a flute
Those peaceful sounds tend to soothe
I want to hear sweet, sweet music
Choose your lyrics, take your pick
My heart will dance, till she is weak
Get out that guitar, acoustic or electric
Please play me the violins of an orchestra night
String me some melodies in broad daylight
And we can rap to melodious sense or crap
While our feet’s playfully tap, tap and tap
As long as its music
We can dance along the shore
As long as its music
We can all take to the dance floor
And I say once more, once more!
As long as its music, I will only ask for more
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Last year in Germany at a town hall in Leipzig there was a game music concert played by the orchestra and some of the Final Fantasy scores were played. This year there is another concert scheduled in the same location, for game music.
quote by Nobuo Uematsu
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Soloist Singers
isolation rocks
soul voice would
become more...
mainstream
golden voice
is orchestra...
soloist singers
must solo sing
orchestra backed?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A tribute to the BBC 'Young Musician of 2008
This is what love
sounds like. This
is how you know
the heart is only ever one.
This boy, he’s twelve years old,
he’s standing on the platform
in the huge hall. He’s simply
waiting to play himself to you.
The trombone is now a few inches
shorter than he is. When he started,
it was bigger than he was.
He begins to play, Can this sweetness
have come from this contraption?
If Pythagoras was lecturing tonight
on music, measure, the harmony of spheres,
he’d have brought his tape measure
in case we needed proof.
If giraffes could sing,
they would sing to this trombone,
knowing themselves beautiful like it,
knowing that they both know
where music comes from.
How far it goes.
The sound says,
purity sounds like this. Listen.
The sound says,
did you know that innocence
can contain the whole of wisdom?
Listen.
The sound says,
did you know that experience
can know itself in music?
Listen.
The sound says,
I am music. This
Is what music is. I am
all music in this moment.
If tears were joys, they
would sound like this.
If joys were tears, they
would both sound like this.
The sound says,
I was made for this.
Listen.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Although we are being presented in Carnegie Hall, we have to furnish a budget for our guest stars, and for the music writing - which is a huge budget in any orchestra that plays popular music.
quote by Skitch Henderson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Music In The Heart
Music of the heart sounds in the orchestra
For others to judge according to taste;
The pumping of blood made you nearly ask
For the music to stop and make farewell.
O how the heart senses your happy tune!
The melody survives the laughter;
O how the harmonious smell of wooden instruments
Involves us with sound and the astonishment!
Music is a happiness, music is sound,
More than a thought, more than a word;
May wise musicians design the good noise
And turn it into a message of hope.
poem by Naveed Akram
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I always imagined that to bring an orchestra to play together is not enough for a conductor.
quote by Kurt Masur
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Marionettes Of Distant Masters
A pianist dreams that he's hired by a wrecking company to
ruin a piano with his fingers . . .
On the day of the piano wrecking concert, as he's
dressing, he notices a butterfly annoying a flower in his window
box. He wonders if the police should be called. Then he thinks
maybe the butterfly is just a marionette being manipulated by
its master from the window above.
Suddenly everything is beautiful. He begins to cry.
Then another butterfly begins to annoy the first butterfly.
He again wonders if he shouldn't call the police.
But, perhaps they are marionette-butterflies? He thinks
they are, belonging to rival masters seeing whose butterfly can
annoy the other's the most.
And this is happening in his window box. The Cosmic
Plan: Distant Masters manipulating minor Masters who, in turn,
are manipulating tiny butterfly-Masters who, in turn, are
manipulating him . . . A universe webbed with strings!
Suddenly it is all so beautiful; the light is strange . . .
Something about the light! He begins to cry . . .
poem by Russell Edson
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I Love....
i love...
that's the reason i walk,
the reason i breathe.
the reason i grieve.
the reason i dance.
the reason i smile.
the reason i listen.
the reason i offer a hand.
the reason i see beauty.
the reason i see both darkness,
and light....
the reason i take chances.
the reason i keep going.
the reason i get angry.
the reason i forgive.
the reason i touch.
the reason i question.
the reason i believe.
the reason i am tolerant.
the reason i understand.
the reason i fall.
the reason i fly.
the reason i write...
the reason i am what i am!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Sound of the Spheres
The Rastenberg Philharmonic had sat,
Were shuffling in their seats,
And tuning their various instruments
To play ‘The Survivor Suite'.
It had only been played just once before,
They knew they were taking a chance,
The conductor and several cellists had gone
Right after Svrili's Dance!
One moment, the baton was waved in the air,
The next, the podium was clear,
A cellist had sawed at an awful E flat
Before he had disappeared;
Then holes had appeared in the group at the front
Where cellists and violins sat,
And all that was left of the treble bassoon
Was a sandwich, under his hat.
It wasn't as if they hadn't been warned
For Borchnik appeared on the stage,
‘I scribbled this suite in a white hot heat
As I paced, in a boiling rage!
For those sitting close to the glockenspiel,
They really should cover their ears,
For once that crescendo of flute, lute and cello
Is heard - that's the Sound of the Spheres! '
Karamov turned to the audience, bowed,
Then tapped with his baton, twice,
He wouldn't be fazed to the end of his days
Though the Devil was tumbling the dice!
He looked at the fear-crazed Orchestra
Who'd heard about Borchnik's curse,
Then launched them in to The Wages of Sin
As an introductory verse!
The music was nothing like you would expect,
It capered and trilled, and it soared,
It spoke of the aeons of military might,
Of the soldier that fell on his sword,
The audience sat with their open jaws
As it thrilled and it burst into flight,
And carried them out where the planets sang
In a paean to endless night!
The music it raged, and the music roared
And it came to Svrili's Dance,
A blonde violinist took off for the door,
No way was she taking a chance!
A hole opened over a cellist's head
And swallowed the glockenspiel,
While Karamov's face went as white as the dead
When he found himself out in a field!
The Orchestra, crazed, seemed unable to stop,
The instruments sang in their hands,
The audience freaked as the piccolo peaked
And the harpsichord melted in strands,
They made for the exits in panic and fear
For the horror that waited outside,
A mammoth was leaning against the front door,
And a raptor was caught in mid-stride.
It took seven weeks for the madness to stop,
And Borchnik was run out of town,
While Karamov wanders where dinosaurs crop,
Conducting some thoughts of his own.
The Rastenberg Orchestra‘s now in recess,
Unlikely to play now for years,
The musicians agree that there isn't a fee
That would bring back the Sound of the Spheres!
poem by David Lewis Paget
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And over the last ten years, after my work with the Brodsky Quartet, I had the opportunity to write arrangements for chamber group, chamber orchestra, jazz orchestra, symphony orchestra even.
quote by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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the Joy Of Music
-THE JOY OF MUSIC -
The violin sang so softly
In the hands of this old man
As he sat there on the wooden stool
Bow held gently in his hand.
His wife played grand piano
Sweet music they did make
As from the hard work of the fields
This respite, they would take.
Gentle music of God's praise
They played for all to hear.
The sweetest music in the land
Was falling on God's ear.
They passed along that joyous sound
To children they did bare
The most relaxing trait of all
The gift of music rare.
And now throughout the generations
Which do continue to abound
We hear the perfect notes and glorious songs,
The joy of music does resound.
Author: Carolyn Ford Witt
2-11-07
By Ms. Caroline
poem by Carolyn Ford Witt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Joy Of Music
THE JOY OF MUSIC
The violin sang so softly
In the hands of this old man
As he sat there on the wooden stool
Bow held gently in his hand.
His wife played grand piano
Sweet music they did make
As from the hard work of the fields
This respite, they would take.
Gentle music of God's praises
They played for all to hear.
The sweetest music in the land
Was falling on God's ear.
They passed along this joyous sound
To children they did bare
The most relaxing trait of all
The gift of music rare.
Now throughout the generations
Which do continue to abound
We hear the perfect notes and songs,
The joy of music...does resound.
Author: Carolyn Ford Witt
2-11-07
By Ms. Caroline
© 2007 Ms. Caroline (All rights reserved)
poem by Carolyn Ford Witt
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Goofus
I was born on a farm out in iowa
A flaming youth I was bound I would fly away
I packed my grip and I grabbed my saxophone
Cant read notes, but I play anything by ear
I made up tunes on the sounds that I used to hear
When Id start to play folks to say
Sounds a little goofus to me
(*) cornfed chords appeal to me
I like rustic harmony
Hold a note and change the key
Hey but thats goofus
Not according to the rules
That you learn in music schools
But the folks just dance like fools
They sure go for goofus
Got a job but I just couldnt keep it long
The leader said that I played all the music wrong
So I stepped out with an outfit of my own
(**) got together a new kind of orchestra
And we all played just the same goofus harmony
And I must admit we made a hit
Goofus has been lucky for me
Repeat (*)
Repeat (**)
song performed by by Carpenters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Unheard Music
Unheard Music (Mozart)
The fingers on my left hand move all by themselves
like they are playing piano that produces music
I cannot hear. I watch my fingers play but it makes no
sense so I try to stop by holding them still with my
right hand’s fingers. So I sit like a vicar contemplating
the Sunday sermon, a mild one who hasn’t an arsenal
of fire and brimstone speeches, but would rather talk
about the coming spring. My wife brings me a glass of
water and a pill, fingers rest, but I would liked to have
heard the music they played, for all I know it could
have been music brought to me in a dream by Mozart
who died so young that he can’t believe it yet, and
tries trough, me to play his latest masterpiece.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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