New Music concert tonight. All living composers, in the room. (except Mr. Marquis)
You know that scene in "Heat," where DeNiro barks into the phone, "What am I doin? I'm talkin to an empty telephone." [Dude in trouble]: "I don't understand." DeNiro: "Cause there is a dead man on the other end of this fuckin line."
Well, how about an empty hall? Filled with clingers on. Standing on the shore. One foot in the river, already. Buncha old guys who wrote tunes, buncha young losers sawing them out, buncha old people listening.
This is music?? What the FUCK!!
The most beautiful sounds were the overtone series, streaming out like fairy icicles, from the hearing aid from an old mountain of feathery white hair and bundled coat material, hunched in the back. At one moment, he was hawking the most disgusting loogies, which reverberated throughout the entire church. I'm talking loogies that would make the old chinese men/women who, with them, pave the streets in Flushing, end up blushing. If I tried, I couldn't re-create these repiratorally clawing sounds of imminent death.
At one point, he pronounced to his wife, "Can you hear it?"
But it was the dulcet tones of his hearing aid, removed and adjusted every five minutes, that gentle whistling of the aural post-man, to make Schoenberg jealous, which made my heart gentle.
God set us all awound in his santuary, that room, whose scope was shrunken by the paucity of our intentions, and watched the unfolding. Pure theater.
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