Last night I was going to go and practice technique and then dig out my Mozart concerto, but after doing some technique, warm up, I decided I was in a Bach mood. I'd normally try to not play for more then 30 minutes or so without a break, but once I got into my new Bach piece I couldn't leave it. Nearly an hour went by before I had to make myself quit.
After quitting from practicing I had to organise some stuff in my room so I could actually find my bed, and go to bed. It was kind of fun leafing through a whole bunch of my manuscripts I hadn't looked through in a while that I had piled on by bed at the beginning of the day. I had cleaned out a wooden fruit crate and got all of my music all organised in it, so that my floor didn't have to be buried in my music, and so I wouldn't have the problem of finding my music stuffed inside piano and guitar music books.
When I was cleaning out my music bin and getting it all organised I put the radio on, and listened to a couple of my favorite Saturday radio shows. I was excited to hear, on the reviews recordings, a recording by the vocal group Anonymous 4. I quite liked it!! I had heard some of their stuff quite a long time ago, and it was really neat to hear some more of it again. After that recording was reviewed another one came on featuring Canadian performers. I'm a little confused about the composer though. I'm sure they said it was by Susie Napper but she plays cello and viola da gamba, and the viola da gamba was in the work. So I can't tell you who wrote the piece, but it was a really short work called The Rite of Spring and it most definetly was not by Stravinsky. I'm waiting for the CBC to post the show details and then I can get the official information.
And one last tidbit of fun information! I found a text for my vocal piece and now have the work well underway. I've decided on a text by Heinrich Heine. It's a great text and I'll leave off with it now!
Death is the cool night. Life is the sultry day. It now grows dark; I'm drowsy, The day has wearied me. Above my bed rises a tree, The young nightingale sings there, it seems; She sings of naught but love - I hear it even in my dreams. - Heinrich Heine
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