Notes from Music History III

This is why I will never be a great classical musician. I have no appreciation for technicality. A performance cannot move me past indifference without something to show for itself other than hours upon hours of time spent alone in a fucking practice room. Those rooms will never center my life, that's for goddamn sure. I refuse to applaud here, no matter how much I respect this man. I value his thinking more than the movements he has trained his fingers to perform. Energy: this is what I value. Destruction, too. I want to deconstruct this and put it back together in the most fucked up manner I can. This is what is so amazing about Bach. He was a fucking punk, despite the religious affiliations. He can make straight eighth notes sound like a desperate lover scratching at their face until blood is running down their cheeks to stain their clothes. Every note is another thick red drip from the chin to the lap. It challenges you to actually feel something from a pattern so simple and complex simultaneously, something this trained singer could never do. Iggy and Bach are blood brothers, I don't care what you say.