Baking that Trumpets Flavor
Monday, October 27, 2003@ 1:00 AM
Where’s the brass?
It’s my constant refrain every year when the new symphony schedule comes out, and I was thinking it again last week at our latest concert. The pianist’s fingers flew faster than mine on deadline; I was impressed, but still, there just wasn’t enough brass. It’s always violins and piano. Violins are, well … nice. Inoffensive. But more than one “quiet, contemplative piece,” and I’m contemplating sleep. It’s why I love Easter at my sister’s church in Charleston: With the organ, choir and congregation at a crescendo, the kettle drums pound, cymbals clash, and the brass leads the charge into the empty tomb. My father’s fears a heaven filled with harps; I pray for a heaven filled with horn quintets.
It’s my constant refrain every year when the new symphony schedule comes out, and I was thinking it again last week at our latest concert. The pianist’s fingers flew faster than mine on deadline; I was impressed, but still, there just wasn’t enough brass. It’s always violins and piano. Violins are, well … nice. Inoffensive. But more than one “quiet, contemplative piece,” and I’m contemplating sleep. It’s why I love Easter at my sister’s church in Charleston: With the organ, choir and congregation at a crescendo, the kettle drums pound, cymbals clash, and the brass leads the charge into the empty tomb. My father’s fears a heaven filled with harps; I pray for a heaven filled with horn quintets.
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