Saturday, October 27, 2012

Degas

Which, as I understand it, is pronounced Day-GAH.  Not like the city in Nevada.

Daughter #2 (they don't like me to mention their names on the air, so I number them chronologically) and I went to see Swan Lake at the Met a couple of years ago.  Lovely.  As was the ballet.

I'm cleaning the studio, carefully avoiding the painting, now tentatively titled "Dear Lord, bless Ina Drew.  She was a nice woman.  And bless Daddy too, since he was the one who stuck the knife in her back and twisted it," which sits on a easel in the middle of the room.  I'm listening, really loud, to the Philadelphia Orchestra take a stab at Swan Lake.  Tchaikovsky.  Balanchine.  Immersively loud.  What's not to like?

The cover of the album features this ...


"The Dance Foyer at the Opera."

Oh my God, they're sliding into the part that goes deeee, dada do da da deee, da deeee.  Prolly the most famous part.  I'm trying to read the label, but it's spinning at exactly thirty three and a third revolutions per minute and it's making me nauseous.

Are you sure deeee, dada do da da deee, da deeee isn't from Beethoven's 3rd?
No.  That starts daaaaa.
Oh.

I bet this record is older than I am, and the listening experience is so beautiful that if I close my eyes my lower lip starts to quiver.  Nervous tic, likely.

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