Cello Player Quotes

This is one of those California moments, and these two women now have their own dose of surrealism to share with their friends: the mostly naked, mountaintop cello player and his even more naked, duck holding friend. Everyone here grooves on those stories, where the line between locals and tourists blur, and for a moment we're all Californians because we share the same love.

Consider yourself and the cello. As you play the music moves out to the listener, and also enters the core of your own being, for somehow you are tuned to the cello. Well, I am persuaded that this is because you are a chord. I am a chord. Our DNA dictates our physicality-made up of billions of little notes-on a basic level. Add to that our geography, background et cetera, and you have your original score. Life is the layering of chords, but the underlying one that we are will never change. This brings us to string theory and love. Our personal chord resonates with the personal ones of others, and sometimes we encounter another person who is completely harmonious with us. It is a dominant, overwhelming attraction on the DNA level. However, such a person can appear to be our opposite-and that's where this 'opposites attract' notion comes from-because they have tuned their chord in a different way. In reality, we are attracted to the person we have chosen not to become, an alternative adjustment to a chord that is nearly the same as our own. The clashing portions of the chords sounding together advance the richness of it. So when you make love you aren't expressing emotions or showing affection, you are merging melodies. You are players in the same symphony.

If you want to think about thinking itself, he told me, you should see it as being like a symphony. “You’ve got two violin sections, violas, cellos, basses, woodwinds, brass, percussion—but it operates as a whole. It has rhythms.” You need space in your life for the spotlight of focus—but alone, it would be like a solo oboe player on a bare stage, trying to play

You Can Fly But Your Body Can't My first seat was in first class between Penny and Belinda. Before I poured Rémy Martin down my throat and had to come see what the folks back here think of things. 316 'Cool out, you know, I didn't mean it, I don't really hate you,' I hear someone say. While, over the intercom, the pilot jabbers. He's explaining that some dysfunction, once we're on the ground, can be easily fixed with a pin. I don't know, at that point, how much any of us will care. Maybe I'm drunk, but seems like they could give the plane to the Arabs once we've all made our connecting flights. 317 The beer nuts just served to me in a cello packet are the most delicious food I've ever tasted in my life. Back at Dallas-Fort Worth I put an Otis Redding CD into my player and I doubt I'll ever have a reason to take it out. Through the window, trigonometry, under a silky pink sky.

Beside her, the strings were tuned. The quartet started to play. When Tom began it, gently rolling sullen, swelling notes out of the cello, she assumed it would be designed to show him as the superb cellist he was. But when Ann’s viola came mourning in, she wondered if it might be intended as a dirge. Beyond Ann, Sam’s violin sang, and Ed’s sang and soared, and the music became something else again, nearly light-hearted. Showing how much the quartet needed Tom? Polly wondered. There was no question they were a good quartet these days. They had improved almost out of mind from the afternoon Polly had spent hearing them practice in the green basement. … The music broadened and depend, put on majesty and passion, and moved onward in some way, fuller and fuller. All four of the players were putting their entire selves into it. Polly knew they were not trying to prove anything—not really. She let the music take her, with relief, because while it lasted she would not have to make a decision or come to a dead end. She found her mind dwelling on Nowhere, as she and Tom used to imagine it. You slipped between Here ad Now to the hidden Now and Here—as Laurel had once told another Tom, there was that bonny path in the middle—but you did not necessarily leave the world. Here was a place where the quartet was grinding out dissonances. There was a lovely tune beginning to emerge from it. Two sides of Nowhere, Polly thought. One really was a dead end. The other was the voice that lay before you when you were making up something new out of ideas no one else had quite had before. That’s a discovery I must do something about, Polly thought, as the lovely tune sang out fully once and then fell away to the end, as the piece had begun, in a long, sullen cello note. And her mind was made up. (p. 399-400)

The varied players—objects and events, currently present or recalled from memory—do not pluck the strings of any violins or cellos and do not press the keys of countless pianos, but the metaphor captures the situation. Objects and eventsdo “play,” in the sense that they, as distinct entities within the organism’s mind, can act on certain neural structures of the organism, “affect” their state, and change those other structures for a passing moment. Over the “playing time,” their actions result in a certain kind of music, the music of our thoughts and feelings and of the meanings that emerge from the inner narratives they help construct. The result may be subtle or not so. Sometimes it amounts to an operatic performance. You can attend it passively, or you can intervene, modify the score to a greater or smaller extent, and produce unpredicted results.

You’ve got two violin sections, violas, cellos, basses, woodwinds, brass, percussion—but it operates as a whole. It has rhythms.” You need space in your life for the spotlight of focus—but alone, it would be like a solo oboe player on a bare stage, trying to play Beethoven. You need mind-wandering to activate the other instruments and to make the sweetest music. I thought I had come to Provincetown to learn to focus. I realized that, in fact, I was learning to think—and that required much more than the spotlight of focus.

The orchestral session came off almost, but not entirely, without a hitch. Through several takes, the principal cellist seemed to be having difficulty phrasing the short cello obbligato in ‘Live and Let Die.’ The part was not that difficult, and Paul, noticing that it was 4:50 P.M., just ten minutes before overtime rates would kick in, walked down the long staircase from the Studio Two control room and took Newman aside. “He wants to go into overtime, doesn’t he?” Paul asked. “Do you mind if I take over?”27 Newman handed Paul the baton, and Paul told the cellist, “Right, I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll sing it, and you play it.” He then sang the cello line, using the names of the chords as lyrics, leaving the player no recourse but to play the line as Paul sang it before doing a final take. “It was so fucking brilliant,” Litchfield marveled, “that when he finished, the entire orchestra stood up and gave [Paul] a standing ovation. The cellist got outgunned. It was wonderful; it was a private piece of musicianship the like of which I’d never seen before, and certainly never since.”28