Rostropovich on cello.
The old man came through town this evening, and I had managed a subterranean balcony, as it were. The view was not everything, but the acoustic quality of the space was remarkable, and Rostropovich himself was every bit his melancholy instrument. He held Schubert in his hands like a dying vine of water, and the accompanist's piano rippled outward in sombre rings. The evening deeply resists meaningful summary.
Upon returning home Téodor mentioned to me that he had a bit of "crossover" cello music he thought I might be interested in. It consisted of a few pop melody exercies by a band called "Unplugged Nirvana"? Is that right? It was cute in its own Magic-Marker way, I suppose. I indicated that the instrument was appropriately used to imbue the composition with grief and left it at that. He seemed pleased enough, and went back to flipping through his CD-case.