To whatever genius wrote this: Hello, I owe you a beer.
A Composer Makes Himself Perfectly Gliere
You can Telemann by where he likes to live. I just Toch a trip Orff into one of the Wilder areas Faure Wieck, and to be Verdi Franck, it nearly drove Menotti.
I know opinion Varese, but even Vivaldi urban noises, the Bizet traffic, De Falla engines, as well as knowing there are Mennin the streets Callas enoughto knock your Bloch off, I couldn’t resist the urge to Galuppi home early Satie, and I Haieff to say I Still prefer the Mitropoulos.
The Boyce were Sor that I had Gibbons up and succumbed to the Riegger of the Field so easily, but I don’t give a Schuetz.
I was practically Krein from my Severacs and Pains brought on by that brief time in the countryside! Even the sounds got my Dandrieu up; let me Liszt some of them: the Rorem of the wind, a constant Birtwhistle, the Menuhin of the Katz, the Lipatti-Patti-Glinka-Poulenc of the Reiner on the roof, theGluck-Gluck of the hens, and every morning a woodpecker or some Byrd Chopin holes in a Tree. My only company was a Thorne Busch,
a Partch of poison Ives, a Braun Babbit, and sometimes a Wolf, nothing Moore. For a Forrest Grainger it may be Fine – it may be the Katz Milhaud — but I could have died of
Borodin. A friend suggested my making this Tureck; “Abegg” his pardon, but I will never go Bach to those Gotterdaemmerung Hillis. They Suk!
No, I don’t care for the Ruggles life. I like a good Mehul – a little Suppe, some Szigeti, maybe some Salome at my local Taverner with a little lime Schubert after (even if they don’t always clear the Crumbs off the table). And I like to Locatelli while I’m Eaton Maderna at night. Is that asking for Egk in Meyerbeer?
Nono! So many people Berio themselves under a Holst of problems they know they can’t Handel. Their answer is too Offenbach to nature – into Haydn, it seems to me.
I Karajan a d’Indy life in the Berg for the most Paert. Maybe it isn’t Perle Bliss for everybody, but it’s
Godunov for me!