I've sat here for the last half-hour comparing Leonard Bernstein's four very distinct recordings of Mahler's 9th Symphony. And while doing this, it occurred to me that I used to read (Huck Finn, the Odyssey and Geothe's Faust line up on my nightstand in reverse order from how fascinating I expect to find them). Then it occurred to me that I once had a social life, with a reasonably steady barrage of begging from DC friends to join them in my old/new city, because they wonder if I have in fact disappeared into the lobster-basted vortex that is Baltimore and its environs of iron. Then it occurred to me that I'm now in a financial situation where the re-beginning of Voices of Washington could be feasible all-too-soon if ever I wanted to resurrect that accursed nightmare. Like all great problems, the answers to their solution remains ever-so-easy. And yet something stands in their way, one and all. So fuck you Mahler and all you stand for.
Still...even if Mahler misunderstands us, we misunderstand him, the music be pretty. Naw?
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