I recently had the misfortune of reading some lame brain bemoan the difficulties of living a musician's life. Claiming the hours of deep thinking (I'm sure) led to isolation from others, this fool continued to plea for his readers' sympathy. Yet, seeing as his compositional methods most likely involve listening to Forever Changes and Odessey & Oracle, changing a few chords, then weeping for a while, I'm having a hard time seeing what the problem is. If it's all too troubling, then I think it's time to pack it in Sally. For future employment, I'd suggest getting a piece of card board, writing "will cry on command" on it, and pestering passersby for change. But at least he avoided the dreaded "artiste's" discussion on "craft" (a word I only want to hear if it's in reference to mac & cheese). Anyways, here's a musician that could honestly lay claim to suffering for one's art. All ball theft aside, Moreschi seemed to have led a pretty disappointed life. So no gripes from some idiot on daddy's dole is going to pull at my heart strings. And if I hear any more crying of this sort, plans may be arranged so that Moreschi won't be the last castrato any longer. Just think how lovely it would be to hear that high, clear male soprano once more.
Bobo Stenson Trio – Contra la Indecisión (2018)
45 minutes ago