I always feel rather let down by that bit in the Messiah about "And He shall be called Councillor"
Actually, this also now reminds me that
How Beautiful are the Feet... is in fact a prescient setting of the recent EC non-directive that apparently allows UK traders daft enough to want to do so to continue to retail goods measured in imperial rather than metric - a gallont if misguided move, if I may say so (although I have little doubt that Member Second-Person-Plural Grew will pitch in and disagree).
By the way, I'm sure that the willow that lays aslant a brook is there only because the storms caused by global warming have ensured that it was blown down.
Gordon Brown the Puritan will no doubt clamp down upon
Cockaigne, though he'd better ensure that any convicted culprits are not consigned to
Carceri d'Invenzione.
Haydn's
Seven Last Words... didn't allow for the critics.
And Szymanowski's
Hagith should perhaps not be performed before lisping Scots audiences.
And what a clatter Delius's
Song of the High Heels doth make when performed on a hard floor.
Poor d'Indy! His local golf course was very small, as evidenced by his
Symphonie Cévenole.
By the way,
Blood on the Floor isn't by Turnage; it's what results when a soloist plays Elliott Carter's delightfully athletic Clarinet Concerto while suffering from influenza.
In honour of this thread, should someone perhaps write a piece and call it
Fortunately Untitled, 2007?...
Best,
Alistair
