From Brattle Street Chamber Players
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Heitor Villa-Lobos, Bachianas Brasileiras number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9, number 9...
There was a composer from Rio, Who wrote lots of music con brio. His prelude and fugue Would be worthy of Moog, If only we could make out the damned 11/8 section.
...We can, however, make out with the viola section: a little bit of Angela in my life a little bit of Rebecca by my side a little bit of Katie is all I need but a little bit of Johann is what I see. Ladies and Gents, this is Mambo #9!
Derrick Wang ’06, To My Grandfather
floating amongst synthetic threes toll monstrosities of broken rhyme, a heaving, marcato ring, un-donne. plastic fortuna bows unto (us), whence the mind dances wildly, wherefore escape the feet of time no... no( no) (((no))) (nononon)(o yes (((yes))(s)yes)ye(sy)))e(sye))s
Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, Serenade for String Orchestra Op. 48
Scene 1: Rehearsal. Peripatetic minstrels strum chords of ecstasy.
Lover #1(askew): Dearest lover, how do I love thee? Lover #2 (among brambles, golden): Like a flock of flightless cormorants floundering, prone, flummoxed. Mysteriously, I lack the will to commit, yet I partake of sonata form in my elaborate musical constructions. My love is like a sonatine, a jilted staccato. What does it all mean? Lover #1: Hark! Pause and enjoy this moment of unendurable Italianate beauty.
A vision from the future, Derrick Wang (’06) clothed in Burberry. Derrick (muddled, hauntingly clear): Sometimes... it be... like damn! Lover #2 (awestruck): A vision from the heavens has confirmed my belief in the fundamental continuity of humanity across all cultures and times. It is almost as if one musical motif underlies all the movements that constitute existence only to be restated in the dramatic moment of closure. Oh, death! Death! Be not proud! Lover #1 (suddenly inconsolable): The profundity of that statement has convinced me that fear is a postmodern social construction. The lovers and future-Derrick collapse in a heap of cathartic joy.
Scene 2: (Peace in the form of a Sonnet)
When Tchaik sat down to write his serenade Funeral marches made his music leaner; Yet in romantic manner ’twould be played In form severe, though, like a sonatina.
“I think that big bold themes will hold the stage, I like my crotchets strummed sempre fortissimi; Waltzes, they say, are simply all the rage, And Italian melodies are carissimi.
But right deep down my heart is truly Russian, And so my theme is folksy and repetitive; The strings gyrate round poles, though without blushin’, There’s rustic dances, blinis, thick borscht additive.”
Well, that’s enough of trite and senseless prattle, Let’s hear the fourteen wastrels nicknamed Brattle.
Note: A reception will be held after the concert in the Loker Coffeehouse. Please join us. Pleasure will be served.
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