Let's go back to classical music and to the “legion of beautiful ladies” that filled the entire Internet. You can "philosophize" on this subject! ALEXANDER BOOT Author, critic, polemicist Blogs
Alexander Boot Writer, critic, polemicist Sex sells - all of us short The other day I listened to something or other on RUclips, and a link to Chopin’s Fourth Ballade performed by the Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili came up. The link was accompanied by a close-up publicity photo of the musician: sloe bedroom eyes, sensual semi-open lips suggesting a delight that’s still illegal in Alabama, naked shoulders hinting at the similarly nude rest of her body regrettably out of shot… Let me see where my wife is… Good, she isn’t looking over my shoulder, so I can admit to you that the picture got me excited in ways one doesn’t normally associate with Chopin’s Fourth Ballade or for that matter any other classical composition this side of Wagner or perhaps Ravel’s Bolero. Searching for a more traditional musical rapture I clicked on the actual clip and alas found it anticlimactic, as it were. Khatia’s playing, though competent, is as undeniably so-what as her voluptuous figure undeniably isn’t. (Yes, I know the photograph I mentioned doesn’t show much of her figure apart from the luscious shoulders but, the prurient side of my nature piqued, I did a bit of a web crawl.) Just for the hell of it I looked at the publicity shots of other currently active female musicians, such as Yuja Wang, Joanna MacGregor, Nicola Bendetti, Alison Balsom (nicknamed ‘crumpet with a trumpet’, her promos more often suggest ‘a strumpet with a trumpet’ instead), Anne-Sophie Mutter and a few others. They didn’t disappoint the Peeping Tom lurking under my aging surface. Just about all the photographs showed the ladies in various stages of undress, in bed, lying in suggestive poses on top of the piano, playing in frocks (if any) open to the coccyx in the back and/or to the navel up front. This is one thing these musicians have in common. The other is that none of them is all that good at her day job and some, such as Wang, are truly awful. Yet this doesn’t really matter either to them or to the public or, most important, to those who form the public tastes by writing about music and musicians. Thus, for example, a tabloid pundit expressing his heartfelt regret that Nicola Benedetti “won’t be posing for the lads’ mags anytime soon. Pity, because she looks fit as a fiddle…” Geddit? She’s a violinist, which is to say fiddler - well, you do get it. “But Nicola doesn’t always take the bonniest photo,” continues the writer, “she’s beaky in pics sometimes, which is weird because in the flesh she’s an absolute knock-out. “The classical musician is wearing skinny jeans which show off her long legs. She’s also busty with a washboard flat tummy, tottering around 5ft 10in in her Dune platform wedges.” How well does she play the violin though? No one cares. Not even critics writing for our broadsheets, who don’t mind talking about musicians in terms normally reserved for pole dancers. Thus for instance runs a review of a piano recital at Queen Elizabeth Hall, one of London’s top concert venues: “She is the most photogenic of players: young, pretty, bare-footed; and, with her long dark hair and exquisite strapless dress of dazzling white, not only seemed to imply that sexuality itself can make you a profound musician, but was a perfect visual complement to the sleek monochrome of a concert grand… [but] there’s more to her than meets the eye.” The male reader is clearly expected to get a stiffie trying to imagine what that might be. To help his imagination along, the piece is accompanied by a photo of the young lady in question reclining on her instrument in a pre-coital position with an unmistakable ‘come and get it’ expression on her face. The ‘monochrome’ piano is actually bright-red, a colour usually found not in concert halls but in dens of iniquity. Nowhere does the review mention the fact obvious to anyone with any taste for musical performance: the girl is so bad that she should indeed be playing in a brothel, rather than on the concert platform. Can you, in the wildest flight of fancy, imagine a reviewer talking in such terms about sublime women artists of the past, such as Myra Hess, Maria Yudina, Maria Grinberg, Clara Haskil, Marcelle Meyer, Marguerite Long, Kathleen Ferrier? Can you see any of them allowing themselves to be photographed in the style of “lads’ mags”? I can’t, which raises the inevitable question: what exactly has changed in the last say 70 years? The short answer is, just about everything. Concert organisers and impresarios, who used to be in the business because they loved music first and wanted to make a living second, now care about nothing but money. Critics, who used to have discernment and taste, now have nothing but greed and lust for popularity. The public… well, don’t get me started on that. The circle is vicious: because tasteless ignoramuses use every available medium to build up musical nonentities, nonentities is all we get. And because the musical nonentities have no artistic qualities to write about, the writing nonentities have to concentrate on the more jutting attractions, using a vocabulary typically found in “lads’ mags”. The adage “sex sells” used to be applied first to B-movies, then to B-novels, and now to real music. From “sex sells” it’s but a short distance to “only sex sells”. This distance has already been travelled - and we are all being sold short.
Alexander Boot Writer, critic, polemicist Sex sells - all of us short The other day I listened to something or other on RUclips, and a link to Chopin’s Fourth Ballade performed by the Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili came up. The link was accompanied by a close-up publicity photo of the musician: sloe bedroom eyes, sensual semi-open lips suggesting a delight that’s still illegal in Alabama, naked shoulders hinting at the similarly nude rest of her body regrettably out of shot… Let me see where my wife is… Good, she isn’t looking over my shoulder, so I can admit to you that the picture got me excited in ways one doesn’t normally associate with Chopin’s Fourth Ballade or for that matter any other classical composition this side of Wagner or perhaps Ravel’s Bolero. Searching for a more traditional musical rapture I clicked on the actual clip and alas found it anticlimactic, as it were. Khatia’s playing, though competent, is as undeniably so-what as her voluptuous figure undeniably isn’t. (Yes, I know the photograph I mentioned doesn’t show much of her figure apart from the luscious shoulders but, the prurient side of my nature piqued, I did a bit of a web crawl.) Just for the hell of it I looked at the publicity shots of other currently active female musicians, such as Yuja Wang, Joanna MacGregor, Nicola Bendetti, Alison Balsom (nicknamed ‘crumpet with a trumpet’, her promos more often suggest ‘a strumpet with a trumpet’ instead), Anne-Sophie Mutter and a few others. They didn’t disappoint the Peeping Tom lurking under my aging surface. Just about all the photographs showed the ladies in various stages of undress, in bed, lying in suggestive poses on top of the piano, playing in frocks (if any) open to the coccyx in the back and/or to the navel up front. This is one thing these musicians have in common. The other is that none of them is all that good at her day job and some, such as Wang, are truly awful. Yet this doesn’t really matter either to them or to the public or, most important, to those who form the public tastes by writing about music and musicians. Thus, for example, a tabloid pundit expressing his heartfelt regret that Nicola Benedetti “won’t be posing for the lads’ mags anytime soon. Pity, because she looks fit as a fiddle…” Geddit? She’s a violinist, which is to say fiddler - well, you do get it. “But Nicola doesn’t always take the bonniest photo,” continues the writer, “she’s beaky in pics sometimes, which is weird because in the flesh she’s an absolute knock-out. “The classical musician is wearing skinny jeans which show off her long legs. She’s also busty with a washboard flat tummy, tottering around 5ft 10in in her Dune platform wedges.” How well does she play the violin though? No one cares. Not even critics writing for our broadsheets, who don’t mind talking about musicians in terms normally reserved for pole dancers. Thus for instance runs a review of a piano recital at Queen Elizabeth Hall, one of London’s top concert venues: “She is the most photogenic of players: young, pretty, bare-footed; and, with her long dark hair and exquisite strapless dress of dazzling white, not only seemed to imply that sexuality itself can make you a profound musician, but was a perfect visual complement to the sleek monochrome of a concert grand… [but] there’s more to her than meets the eye.” The male reader is clearly expected to get a stiffie trying to imagine what that might be. To help his imagination along, the piece is accompanied by a photo of the young lady in question reclining on her instrument in a pre-coital position with an unmistakable ‘come and get it’ expression on her face. The ‘monochrome’ piano is actually bright-red, a colour usually found not in concert halls but in dens of iniquity. Nowhere does the review mention the fact obvious to anyone with any taste for musical performance: the girl is so bad that she should indeed be playing in a brothel, rather than on the concert platform. Can you, in the wildest flight of fancy, imagine a reviewer talking in such terms about sublime women artists of the past, such as Myra Hess, Maria Yudina, Maria Grinberg, Clara Haskil, Marcelle Meyer, Marguerite Long, Kathleen Ferrier? Can you see any of them allowing themselves to be photographed in the style of “lads’ mags”? I can’t, which raises the inevitable question: what exactly has changed in the last say 70 years? The short answer is, just about everything. Concert organisers and impresarios, who used to be in the business because they loved music first and wanted to make a living second, now care about nothing but money. Critics, who used to have discernment and taste, now have nothing but greed and lust for popularity. The public… well, don’t get me started on that. The circle is vicious: because tasteless ignoramuses use every available medium to build up musical nonentities, nonentities is all we get. And because the musical nonentities have no artistic qualities to write about, the writing nonentities have to concentrate on the more jutting attractions, using a vocabulary typically found in “lads’ mags”. The adage “sex sells” used to be applied first to B-movies, then to B-novels, and now to real music. From “sex sells” it’s but a short distance to “only sex sells”. This distance has already been travelled - and we are all being sold short.
Alexander Boot Writer, critic, polemicist Sex sells - all of us short The other day I listened to something or other on RUclips, and a link to Chopin’s Fourth Ballade performed by the Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili came up. The link was accompanied by a close-up publicity photo of the musician: sloe bedroom eyes, sensual semi-open lips suggesting a delight that’s still illegal in Alabama, naked shoulders hinting at the similarly nude rest of her body regrettably out of shot… Let me see where my wife is… Good, she isn’t looking over my shoulder, so I can admit to you that the picture got me excited in ways one doesn’t normally associate with Chopin’s Fourth Ballade or for that matter any other classical composition this side of Wagner or perhaps Ravel’s Bolero. Searching for a more traditional musical rapture I clicked on the actual clip and alas found it anticlimactic, as it were. Khatia’s playing, though competent, is as undeniably so-what as her voluptuous figure undeniably isn’t. (Yes, I know the photograph I mentioned doesn’t show much of her figure apart from the luscious shoulders but, the prurient side of my nature piqued, I did a bit of a web crawl.) Just for the hell of it I looked at the publicity shots of other currently active female musicians, such as Yuja Wang, Joanna MacGregor, Nicola Bendetti, Alison Balsom (nicknamed ‘crumpet with a trumpet’, her promos more often suggest ‘a strumpet with a trumpet’ instead), Anne-Sophie Mutter and a few others. They didn’t disappoint the Peeping Tom lurking under my aging surface. Just about all the photographs showed the ladies in various stages of undress, in bed, lying in suggestive poses on top of the piano, playing in frocks (if any) open to the coccyx in the back and/or to the navel up front. This is one thing these musicians have in common. The other is that none of them is all that good at her day job and some, such as Wang, are truly awful. Yet this doesn’t really matter either to them or to the public or, most important, to those who form the public tastes by writing about music and musicians. Thus, for example, a tabloid pundit expressing his heartfelt regret that Nicola Benedetti “won’t be posing for the lads’ mags anytime soon. Pity, because she looks fit as a fiddle…” Geddit? She’s a violinist, which is to say fiddler - well, you do get it. “But Nicola doesn’t always take the bonniest photo,” continues the writer, “she’s beaky in pics sometimes, which is weird because in the flesh she’s an absolute knock-out. “The classical musician is wearing skinny jeans which show off her long legs. She’s also busty with a washboard flat tummy, tottering around 5ft 10in in her Dune platform wedges.” How well does she play the violin though? No one cares. Not even critics writing for our broadsheets, who don’t mind talking about musicians in terms normally reserved for pole dancers. Thus for instance runs a review of a piano recital at Queen Elizabeth Hall, one of London’s top concert venues: “She is the most photogenic of players: young, pretty, bare-footed; and, with her long dark hair and exquisite strapless dress of dazzling white, not only seemed to imply that sexuality itself can make you a profound musician, but was a perfect visual complement to the sleek monochrome of a concert grand… [but] there’s more to her than meets the eye.” The male reader is clearly expected to get a stiffie trying to imagine what that might be. To help his imagination along, the piece is accompanied by a photo of the young lady in question reclining on her instrument in a pre-coital position with an unmistakable ‘come and get it’ expression on her face. The ‘monochrome’ piano is actually bright-red, a colour usually found not in concert halls but in dens of iniquity. Nowhere does the review mention the fact obvious to anyone with any taste for musical performance: the girl is so bad that she should indeed be playing in a brothel, rather than on the concert platform. Can you, in the wildest flight of fancy, imagine a reviewer talking in such terms about sublime women artists of the past, such as Myra Hess, Maria Yudina, Maria Grinberg, Clara Haskil, Marcelle Meyer, Marguerite Long, Kathleen Ferrier? Can you see any of them allowing themselves to be photographed in the style of “lads’ mags”? I can’t, which raises the inevitable question: what exactly has changed in the last say 70 years? The short answer is, just about everything. Concert organisers and impresarios, who used to be in the business because they loved music first and wanted to make a living second, now care about nothing but money. Critics, who used to have discernment and taste, now have nothing but greed and lust for popularity. The public… well, don’t get me started on that. The circle is vicious: because tasteless ignoramuses use every available medium to build up musical nonentities, nonentities is all we get. And because the musical nonentities have no artistic qualities to write about, the writing nonentities have to concentrate on the more jutting attractions, using a vocabulary typically found in “lads’ mags”. The adage “sex sells” used to be applied first to B-movies, then to B-novels, and now to real music. From “sex sells” it’s but a short distance to “only sex sells”. This distance has already been travelled - and we are all being sold short.
International Association of Theatre Critics (Hong Kong) 31.03.2016 ..... One may say that it is important for musicians to have a unique musical style and personality, but is it even acceptable to interpret the pieces like what Buniatishvili did? Buniatishvili is intoxicated by being virtuosic and often forgets what is behind the music. One should have faith in his or her own interpretation, but he or she should also re-think whether he or she is doing justice to the music or not. In addition, technique is much more than playing the notes accurately and rapidly. Technique refers to the total mastery of the keyboard. Yet, at times Buniatishvili’s playing lost control, no matter use of pedal, or tone production. Virtuosity does not necessarily mean speed and volume. In order to become a mature artist with individuality, Buniatishvili has to reflect on her musical approach and attitude towards music making.
@@MrSasha8 THE TELEGRAPH 05.06.2014 By Ivan Hewett Comment Tales abound of the heroic pianists of old, who beat pianos into submission, and broke strings without even raising a forearm. Young Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili clearly wants to join that company. True, I didn’t actually see any keys flying or hear any strings snap. But by the end of the Three Dances from Stravinsky’s Petrouchka, one or two notes had acquired that worrying out-of-tune rasp that shows a piano is wilting under the strain. Buniatishvili’s blistering power went hand-in-hand with an astonishing steely-wristed technique, which was a boon in the Stravinsky, and in the mad dance of Ravel’s La Valse, and in Chopin’s B flat minor Scherzo. Under her hands these pieces took on a crazed, tumultuous quality. At the opposite pole was the spectral calm of Le Gibet, Ravel’s evocation of a corpse swinging from a gallows. I’ve never heard this piece played with such a threadbare sound, and at such a slow pace. In between came three Intermezzi by Brahms, which were so quiet and thin in sound it seemed as if they’d died and returned as ghosts. This was all very striking. But where was the musical sense in it all? When everything is pushed to extremes, all we’re left with is a series of shocks to the nervous system, which very soon wear off. I never thought the beginning of Chopin’s heroic and tragic Scherzo could sound trivial, but Buniatishvili somehow managed it. The piece began fast and then accelerated, skidding to a halt at the first cadence with cartoonish suddenness. Buniatishvili’s problem is that she gets intoxicated by her own virtuosity, and musical judgment goes out of the window. This isn’t to say an effect of intoxication isn’t appropriate at times. In fact in Ravel’s La Valse a sense of encroaching delirium is the essence of the piece. But we have to feel delirium pushing against a firm underlying waltz tempo, and in Buniatishvili’s performance that dance pulse barely registered. It was crazed from the start. All this exaggeration was sorely disappointing, because here and there moments of real sensitivity emerged. The delicacy of the very first piece, Ravel’s Ondine, promised something special. In Brahms’s deeply nostalgic B flat minor Intermezzo her sound took on a lovely entangled, cobwebby quality, clear and hazy all at once. But to really savour these little nuances one needs a basic trust in the performer. That, I’d long since lost.
@@mariodisarli1022 What words, dear "bloodgrss", how many emotions! Did I step on your foot, respected businessman who sells half-naked, barefoot, busty whiskey drinkers who call themselves "pianists"?! Owning a piano keyboard is not yet an art, it is a craft! Therefore, your "pianists" attract the attention of an uneducated audience with their half-naked body, bare feet and other tricks. As their bodies age, these "pianists" will disappear! Together with them, you will disappear, dear "bloodgrss"! And we will all say goodbye to you: Ciao, baby!!! With your propaganda of the "attractive young half-naked body" you block the way to the stage for really talented people. Your place is the garbage pit of history!
A bit more rushed than usual...especially the chord section (page 2). And she nearly falls asleep on the last section...like no rhythm at all. Honestly, this was not her genuine best; I've heard her play it so much more effectively and beautifully. She takes too many risks here to be convincing.
my darling Khatia very sweet
Excellent camera angle, bro! THANK YOU!
Let's go back to classical music and to the “legion of beautiful ladies” that filled the entire Internet. You can "philosophize" on this subject!
ALEXANDER BOOT Author, critic, polemicist Blogs
a real man of culture
Why do I see two beautiful moons❤️❤️.I thought there was only one😍🤔
Merci pour ce partage.
Avec plaisir 😊
@@stephanerocknlive6439 Je trouve que c'est une grande artiste.
@@easyreader8859 une grande et belle artiste. Elle a la classe.
@@stephanerocknlive6439 Je suis tout à fait d'accord, pour l'avoir rencontré à Luxembourg lors d'un concert.
@@easyreader8859 grande chance. Ça m'arrivera bien un jour 😊
She's beautiful unbelievable..
Beautishviliful, to coin a new word.
Alexander Boot
Writer, critic, polemicist
Sex sells - all of us short
The other day I listened to something or other on RUclips, and a link to Chopin’s Fourth Ballade performed by the Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili came up.
The link was accompanied by a close-up publicity photo of the musician: sloe bedroom eyes, sensual semi-open lips suggesting a delight that’s still illegal in Alabama, naked shoulders hinting at the similarly nude rest of her body regrettably out of shot…
Let me see where my wife is… Good, she isn’t looking over my shoulder, so I can admit to you that the picture got me excited in ways one doesn’t normally associate with Chopin’s Fourth Ballade or for that matter any other classical composition this side of Wagner or perhaps Ravel’s Bolero.
Searching for a more traditional musical rapture I clicked on the actual clip and alas found it anticlimactic, as it were. Khatia’s playing, though competent, is as undeniably so-what as her voluptuous figure undeniably isn’t. (Yes, I know the photograph I mentioned doesn’t show much of her figure apart from the luscious shoulders but, the prurient side of my nature piqued, I did a bit of a web crawl.)
Just for the hell of it I looked at the publicity shots of other currently active female musicians, such as Yuja Wang, Joanna MacGregor, Nicola Bendetti, Alison Balsom (nicknamed ‘crumpet with a trumpet’, her promos more often suggest ‘a strumpet with a trumpet’ instead), Anne-Sophie Mutter and a few others.
They didn’t disappoint the Peeping Tom lurking under my aging surface. Just about all the photographs showed the ladies in various stages of undress, in bed, lying in suggestive poses on top of the piano, playing in frocks (if any) open to the coccyx in the back and/or to the navel up front.
This is one thing these musicians have in common. The other is that none of them is all that good at her day job and some, such as Wang, are truly awful. Yet this doesn’t really matter either to them or to the public or, most important, to those who form the public tastes by writing about music and musicians.
Thus, for example, a tabloid pundit expressing his heartfelt regret that Nicola Benedetti “won’t be posing for the lads’ mags anytime soon. Pity, because she looks fit as a fiddle…” Geddit? She’s a violinist, which is to say fiddler - well, you do get it.
“But Nicola doesn’t always take the bonniest photo,” continues the writer, “she’s beaky in pics sometimes, which is weird because in the flesh she’s an absolute knock-out.
“The classical musician is wearing skinny jeans which show off her long legs. She’s also busty with a washboard flat tummy, tottering around 5ft 10in in her Dune platform wedges.”
How well does she play the violin though? No one cares. Not even critics writing for our broadsheets, who don’t mind talking about musicians in terms normally reserved for pole dancers. Thus for instance runs a review of a piano recital at Queen Elizabeth Hall, one of London’s top concert venues:
“She is the most photogenic of players: young, pretty, bare-footed; and, with her long dark hair and exquisite strapless dress of dazzling white, not only seemed to imply that sexuality itself can make you a profound musician, but was a perfect visual complement to the sleek monochrome of a concert grand… [but] there’s more to her than meets the eye.”
The male reader is clearly expected to get a stiffie trying to imagine what that might be. To help his imagination along, the piece is accompanied by a photo of the young lady in question reclining on her instrument in a pre-coital position with an unmistakable ‘come and get it’ expression on her face. The ‘monochrome’ piano is actually bright-red, a colour usually found not in concert halls but in dens of iniquity.
Nowhere does the review mention the fact obvious to anyone with any taste for musical performance: the girl is so bad that she should indeed be playing in a brothel, rather than on the concert platform.
Can you, in the wildest flight of fancy, imagine a reviewer talking in such terms about sublime women artists of the past, such as Myra Hess, Maria Yudina, Maria Grinberg, Clara Haskil, Marcelle Meyer, Marguerite Long, Kathleen Ferrier? Can you see any of them allowing themselves to be photographed in the style of “lads’ mags”?
I can’t, which raises the inevitable question: what exactly has changed in the last say 70 years? The short answer is, just about everything. Concert organisers and impresarios, who used to be in the business because they loved music first and wanted to make a living second, now care about nothing but money. Critics, who used to have discernment and taste, now have nothing but greed and lust for popularity. The public… well, don’t get me started on that. The circle is vicious: because tasteless ignoramuses use every available medium to build up musical nonentities, nonentities is all we get. And because the musical nonentities have no artistic qualities to write about, the writing nonentities have to concentrate on the more jutting attractions, using a vocabulary typically found in “lads’ mags”. The adage “sex sells” used to be applied first to B-movies, then to B-novels, and now to real music. From “sex sells” it’s but a short distance to “only sex sells”. This distance has already been travelled - and we are all being sold short.
Spectacular Khatia🎹🎹🎹🎶🎶👏
Toujours!!😊
ブニアティシビリさんの馥郁たる音の世界と熟れた果実が絶妙だ！
Be messed by the best views. This is the moon yet. Thank you!
Avec plaisir !!😊
MARAVILLOSA,MÁGICA, DE UN FRASEO Y UN CANTO ESPECTACULARES, QUE HACEN SOÑAR Y MANTIENEN LATENTE EL CORAZÓN DE OYENTE Y SU SENSIBILIDAD
Alexander Boot
Writer, critic, polemicist
Sex sells - all of us short
The other day I listened to something or other on RUclips, and a link to Chopin’s Fourth Ballade performed by the Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili came up.
The link was accompanied by a close-up publicity photo of the musician: sloe bedroom eyes, sensual semi-open lips suggesting a delight that’s still illegal in Alabama, naked shoulders hinting at the similarly nude rest of her body regrettably out of shot…
Let me see where my wife is… Good, she isn’t looking over my shoulder, so I can admit to you that the picture got me excited in ways one doesn’t normally associate with Chopin’s Fourth Ballade or for that matter any other classical composition this side of Wagner or perhaps Ravel’s Bolero.
Searching for a more traditional musical rapture I clicked on the actual clip and alas found it anticlimactic, as it were. Khatia’s playing, though competent, is as undeniably so-what as her voluptuous figure undeniably isn’t. (Yes, I know the photograph I mentioned doesn’t show much of her figure apart from the luscious shoulders but, the prurient side of my nature piqued, I did a bit of a web crawl.)
Just for the hell of it I looked at the publicity shots of other currently active female musicians, such as Yuja Wang, Joanna MacGregor, Nicola Bendetti, Alison Balsom (nicknamed ‘crumpet with a trumpet’, her promos more often suggest ‘a strumpet with a trumpet’ instead), Anne-Sophie Mutter and a few others.
They didn’t disappoint the Peeping Tom lurking under my aging surface. Just about all the photographs showed the ladies in various stages of undress, in bed, lying in suggestive poses on top of the piano, playing in frocks (if any) open to the coccyx in the back and/or to the navel up front.
This is one thing these musicians have in common. The other is that none of them is all that good at her day job and some, such as Wang, are truly awful. Yet this doesn’t really matter either to them or to the public or, most important, to those who form the public tastes by writing about music and musicians.
Thus, for example, a tabloid pundit expressing his heartfelt regret that Nicola Benedetti “won’t be posing for the lads’ mags anytime soon. Pity, because she looks fit as a fiddle…” Geddit? She’s a violinist, which is to say fiddler - well, you do get it.
“But Nicola doesn’t always take the bonniest photo,” continues the writer, “she’s beaky in pics sometimes, which is weird because in the flesh she’s an absolute knock-out.
“The classical musician is wearing skinny jeans which show off her long legs. She’s also busty with a washboard flat tummy, tottering around 5ft 10in in her Dune platform wedges.”
How well does she play the violin though? No one cares. Not even critics writing for our broadsheets, who don’t mind talking about musicians in terms normally reserved for pole dancers. Thus for instance runs a review of a piano recital at Queen Elizabeth Hall, one of London’s top concert venues:
“She is the most photogenic of players: young, pretty, bare-footed; and, with her long dark hair and exquisite strapless dress of dazzling white, not only seemed to imply that sexuality itself can make you a profound musician, but was a perfect visual complement to the sleek monochrome of a concert grand… [but] there’s more to her than meets the eye.”
The male reader is clearly expected to get a stiffie trying to imagine what that might be. To help his imagination along, the piece is accompanied by a photo of the young lady in question reclining on her instrument in a pre-coital position with an unmistakable ‘come and get it’ expression on her face. The ‘monochrome’ piano is actually bright-red, a colour usually found not in concert halls but in dens of iniquity.
Nowhere does the review mention the fact obvious to anyone with any taste for musical performance: the girl is so bad that she should indeed be playing in a brothel, rather than on the concert platform.
Can you, in the wildest flight of fancy, imagine a reviewer talking in such terms about sublime women artists of the past, such as Myra Hess, Maria Yudina, Maria Grinberg, Clara Haskil, Marcelle Meyer, Marguerite Long, Kathleen Ferrier? Can you see any of them allowing themselves to be photographed in the style of “lads’ mags”?
I can’t, which raises the inevitable question: what exactly has changed in the last say 70 years? The short answer is, just about everything. Concert organisers and impresarios, who used to be in the business because they loved music first and wanted to make a living second, now care about nothing but money. Critics, who used to have discernment and taste, now have nothing but greed and lust for popularity. The public… well, don’t get me started on that. The circle is vicious: because tasteless ignoramuses use every available medium to build up musical nonentities, nonentities is all we get. And because the musical nonentities have no artistic qualities to write about, the writing nonentities have to concentrate on the more jutting attractions, using a vocabulary typically found in “lads’ mags”. The adage “sex sells” used to be applied first to B-movies, then to B-novels, and now to real music. From “sex sells” it’s but a short distance to “only sex sells”. This distance has already been travelled - and we are all being sold short.
❤❤
Que locura.
Alexander Boot
Writer, critic, polemicist
Sex sells - all of us short
The other day I listened to something or other on RUclips, and a link to Chopin’s Fourth Ballade performed by the Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili came up.
The link was accompanied by a close-up publicity photo of the musician: sloe bedroom eyes, sensual semi-open lips suggesting a delight that’s still illegal in Alabama, naked shoulders hinting at the similarly nude rest of her body regrettably out of shot…
Let me see where my wife is… Good, she isn’t looking over my shoulder, so I can admit to you that the picture got me excited in ways one doesn’t normally associate with Chopin’s Fourth Ballade or for that matter any other classical composition this side of Wagner or perhaps Ravel’s Bolero.
Searching for a more traditional musical rapture I clicked on the actual clip and alas found it anticlimactic, as it were. Khatia’s playing, though competent, is as undeniably so-what as her voluptuous figure undeniably isn’t. (Yes, I know the photograph I mentioned doesn’t show much of her figure apart from the luscious shoulders but, the prurient side of my nature piqued, I did a bit of a web crawl.)
Just for the hell of it I looked at the publicity shots of other currently active female musicians, such as Yuja Wang, Joanna MacGregor, Nicola Bendetti, Alison Balsom (nicknamed ‘crumpet with a trumpet’, her promos more often suggest ‘a strumpet with a trumpet’ instead), Anne-Sophie Mutter and a few others.
They didn’t disappoint the Peeping Tom lurking under my aging surface. Just about all the photographs showed the ladies in various stages of undress, in bed, lying in suggestive poses on top of the piano, playing in frocks (if any) open to the coccyx in the back and/or to the navel up front.
This is one thing these musicians have in common. The other is that none of them is all that good at her day job and some, such as Wang, are truly awful. Yet this doesn’t really matter either to them or to the public or, most important, to those who form the public tastes by writing about music and musicians.
Thus, for example, a tabloid pundit expressing his heartfelt regret that Nicola Benedetti “won’t be posing for the lads’ mags anytime soon. Pity, because she looks fit as a fiddle…” Geddit? She’s a violinist, which is to say fiddler - well, you do get it.
“But Nicola doesn’t always take the bonniest photo,” continues the writer, “she’s beaky in pics sometimes, which is weird because in the flesh she’s an absolute knock-out.
“The classical musician is wearing skinny jeans which show off her long legs. She’s also busty with a washboard flat tummy, tottering around 5ft 10in in her Dune platform wedges.”
How well does she play the violin though? No one cares. Not even critics writing for our broadsheets, who don’t mind talking about musicians in terms normally reserved for pole dancers. Thus for instance runs a review of a piano recital at Queen Elizabeth Hall, one of London’s top concert venues:
“She is the most photogenic of players: young, pretty, bare-footed; and, with her long dark hair and exquisite strapless dress of dazzling white, not only seemed to imply that sexuality itself can make you a profound musician, but was a perfect visual complement to the sleek monochrome of a concert grand… [but] there’s more to her than meets the eye.”
The male reader is clearly expected to get a stiffie trying to imagine what that might be. To help his imagination along, the piece is accompanied by a photo of the young lady in question reclining on her instrument in a pre-coital position with an unmistakable ‘come and get it’ expression on her face. The ‘monochrome’ piano is actually bright-red, a colour usually found not in concert halls but in dens of iniquity.
Nowhere does the review mention the fact obvious to anyone with any taste for musical performance: the girl is so bad that she should indeed be playing in a brothel, rather than on the concert platform.
Can you, in the wildest flight of fancy, imagine a reviewer talking in such terms about sublime women artists of the past, such as Myra Hess, Maria Yudina, Maria Grinberg, Clara Haskil, Marcelle Meyer, Marguerite Long, Kathleen Ferrier? Can you see any of them allowing themselves to be photographed in the style of “lads’ mags”?
I can’t, which raises the inevitable question: what exactly has changed in the last say 70 years? The short answer is, just about everything. Concert organisers and impresarios, who used to be in the business because they loved music first and wanted to make a living second, now care about nothing but money. Critics, who used to have discernment and taste, now have nothing but greed and lust for popularity. The public… well, don’t get me started on that. The circle is vicious: because tasteless ignoramuses use every available medium to build up musical nonentities, nonentities is all we get. And because the musical nonentities have no artistic qualities to write about, the writing nonentities have to concentrate on the more jutting attractions, using a vocabulary typically found in “lads’ mags”. The adage “sex sells” used to be applied first to B-movies, then to B-novels, and now to real music. From “sex sells” it’s but a short distance to “only sex sells”. This distance has already been travelled - and we are all being sold short.
👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👍🏻
Quelle chance!
Oui, je dois avouer. Quel talent, quelle belle femme.
International Association of Theatre Critics (Hong Kong) 31.03.2016 .....
One may say that it is important for musicians to have a unique musical style and personality, but is it even acceptable to interpret the pieces like what Buniatishvili did? Buniatishvili is intoxicated by being virtuosic and often forgets what is behind the music. One should have faith in his or her own interpretation, but he or she should also re-think whether he or she is doing justice to the music or not. In addition, technique is much more than playing the notes accurately and rapidly. Technique refers to the total mastery of the keyboard. Yet, at times Buniatishvili’s playing lost control, no matter use of pedal, or tone production. Virtuosity does not necessarily mean speed and volume. In order to become a mature artist with individuality, Buniatishvili has to reflect on her musical approach and attitude towards music making.
Nice 🎵🎶 🎹
C'était magnifique!!
@@stephanerocknlive6439 j'ai jamais été dans la salle
@@MrSasha8 c'était ma première fois. Une très belle salle, pourtant je ne suis pas fan du moderne.
@@MrSasha8
THE TELEGRAPH 05.06.2014 By Ivan Hewett
Comment Tales abound of the heroic pianists of old, who beat
pianos into submission, and broke strings without even raising a
forearm. Young Georgian pianist Khatia Buniatishvili clearly wants to
join that company. True, I didn’t actually see any keys flying or hear
any strings snap. But by the end of the Three Dances from Stravinsky’s
Petrouchka, one or two notes had acquired that worrying out-of-tune rasp
that shows a piano is wilting under the strain. Buniatishvili’s
blistering power went hand-in-hand with an astonishing steely-wristed
technique, which was a boon in the Stravinsky, and in the mad dance of
Ravel’s La Valse, and in Chopin’s B flat minor Scherzo. Under her hands
these pieces took on a crazed, tumultuous quality. At the opposite pole
was the spectral calm of Le Gibet, Ravel’s evocation of a corpse
swinging from a gallows. I’ve never heard this piece played with such a
threadbare sound, and at such a slow pace. In between came three
Intermezzi by Brahms, which were so quiet and thin in sound it seemed as
if they’d died and returned as ghosts. This was all very striking. But
where was the musical sense in it all? When everything is pushed to
extremes, all we’re left with is a series of shocks to the nervous
system, which very soon wear off. I never thought the beginning of
Chopin’s heroic and tragic Scherzo could sound trivial, but
Buniatishvili somehow managed it. The piece began fast and then
accelerated, skidding to a halt at the first cadence with cartoonish
suddenness. Buniatishvili’s problem is that she gets intoxicated by her
own virtuosity, and musical judgment goes out of the window. This isn’t
to say an effect of intoxication isn’t appropriate at times. In fact in
Ravel’s La Valse a sense of encroaching delirium is the essence of the
piece. But we have to feel delirium pushing against a firm underlying
waltz tempo, and in Buniatishvili’s performance that dance pulse barely
registered. It was crazed from the start. All this exaggeration was
sorely disappointing, because here and there moments of real sensitivity
emerged. The delicacy of the very first piece, Ravel’s Ondine, promised
something special. In Brahms’s deeply nostalgic B flat minor Intermezzo
her sound took on a lovely entangled, cobwebby quality, clear and hazy
all at once. But to really savour these little nuances one needs a basic
trust in the performer. That, I’d long since lost.
@@mariodisarli1022
What words, dear "bloodgrss", how many emotions! Did I step on your foot, respected businessman who sells half-naked, barefoot, busty whiskey drinkers who call themselves "pianists"?! Owning a piano keyboard is not yet an art, it is a craft! Therefore, your "pianists" attract the attention of an uneducated audience with their half-naked body, bare feet and other tricks. As their bodies age, these "pianists" will disappear! Together with them, you will disappear, dear "bloodgrss"! And we will all say goodbye to you: Ciao, baby!!! With your propaganda of the "attractive young half-naked body" you block the way to the stage for really talented people. Your place is the garbage pit of history!
Eine Botschafterin nicht nur atemberaubender Klänge.
たまらん
マーラーがドビュッシーしそう
A bit more rushed than usual...especially the chord section (page 2). And she nearly falls asleep on the last section...like no rhythm at all. Honestly, this was not her genuine best; I've heard her play it so much more effectively and beautifully. She takes too many risks here to be convincing.