Maestro Music Quotes

Where we are from... [s]tories are factual. If a farmer is declared a music virtuoso by the state, everyone had better start calling him maestro. And secretly, he'd be wise to start practicing the piano. For us, the story is more important than the person. If a man and his story are in conflict, it is the man who must change.

A girl who was to murder as maestros are to music.

Where we are from, he said, stories are factual. If a farmer is declared a music virtuoso by the state, everyone had better start calling him maestro. And secretly, he'd be wise to start practicing the piano. For us, the story is more important than the person. If a man and his story are in conflict, it is the man who must change....But in America, people's stories change all the time. In America, it is the man who matters.

He floods the house with music that shook the world a hundred years ago. His fingers knot over complicated patterns and his thumbs fail when he needs them most. But, the Maestro's wrath aside, he owes it to the music to find perfection.

Everything is a burned book, my dear maestro. Music, the tenth dimension, the fourth dimension, cradles, the production of bullets and rifles, Westerns: all burned books.

Can I know that mine was a foolish, innocent world, a world of delusion and feeling and ridiculous dreams - a world of music - and still love it? Endlessly, effortlessly.

He found himself thinking about his childhood. "Why do you drink so much, Maestro?" "This is not a music question." "Are you sad, Maestro?" "Again, not a music question." "I am sad sometimes, Maestro." "Practice more. Speak less. You'll be happier." "Yes, Maestro." Everyone joins a band in this life. Sometimes, they are the wrong ones.

All great conductors are different. The mediocre ones are more or less the same.

silent enabler of an invisible, audible force.

Francisco Presto: How do you know you are in love, Maestro? El Maestro: If you are asking, you are not.

Be maestro of your life and you will hear music in the silence.

Could he make a painting as emotional and epic as a Wagner opera? Not with the intention of replicating the maestro’s music, but to produce a parallel experience where colors were the notes and their composition the tonality.

Where we are from,” he said, “stories are factual. If a farmer is declared a music virtuoso by the state, everyone had better start calling him maestro. And secretly, he’d be wise to start practicing the piano. For us, the story is more important than the person. If a man and his story are in conflict, it is the man who must change.

El Maestro: Do not attack the strings, Francisco. Francisco Presto: No, Maestro. El Maestro: Coax them. Francisco Presto: Yes, Maestro. El Maestro: Make them hunger for your next note. Same as in life. Francisco Presto: In life, Maestro? El Maestro: When you want someone to listen to you, will you attack them? Francisco Presto: No, Maestro. El Maestro: No, you will not. you will make them hear the beauty of what you are offering, and they will want it for themselves.

I hate Toscanini. I’ve never heard him in a concert hall, but I’ve heard enough of his recordings. What he does to music is terrible in my opinion. He chops it up into a hash and then pours a disgusting sauce over it. Toscanini ‘honoured’ me by conducting my symphonies. I heard those records, too, and they’re worthless. I’ve read about Toscanini’s conducting style and his manner of conducting a rehearsal. The people who describe this disgraceful behaviour are for some reason delighted by it. I simply can’t understand what they find delightful. I think it’s outrageous, not delightful. He screams and curses the musicians and makes scenes in the most shameless manner. The poor musicians have to put up with all this nonsense or be sacked. And they even begin to see ‘something in it’. (…) Toscanini sent me his recording of m Seventh Symphony and hearing it made me very angry. Everything is wrong. The spirit and the character and the tempi. It’s a sloppy, hack job. I wrote him a letter expressing my views. I don’t know if he ever got it; maybe he did and pretended not to – that would be completely in keeping with his vain and egoistic style. Why do I think that Toscanini didn’t let it be known that I wrote to him? Because much later I received a letter from America: I was elected to the Toscanini Society! They must have thought that I was a great fan of the maestro’s. I began receiving records on a regular basis: all new recordings by Toscanini. My only comfort is that at least I always have a birthday present handy. Naturally, I wouldn’t give something like that to a friend. But to an acquaintance-why not? It pleases them and it’s less trouble for me. That’s one of life’s most difficult problems- what to give for a birthday or anniversary to a person you don’t particularly like, don’t know very well, and don’t respect. Conductors are too often rude and conceited tyrants. And in my youth I often had to fight fierce battles with them, battles for my music and my dignity.

I mention this by way of warning, O, my gentlefriends, that your narrator shares no such restraint. And if the unpleasant realities of bloodshed turn your insides to water, be advised now that the pages in your hands speak of a girl who was to murder as maestros are to music. Who did to happy ever afters what a sawblade does to skin. She’s dead herself, now—words both the wicked and the just would give an eyeteeth smile to hear. A republic in ashes behind her. A city of bridges and bones laid at the bottom of the sea by her hand. And yet I’m sure she’d still find a way to kill me if she knew I put these words to paper. Open me up and leave me for the hungry Dark. But I think someone should at least try to separate her from the lies told about her. Through her. By her. Someone who knew her true.

When he was conductor of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, Artur Rodzinski said: “In our orchestra we have many nationalities, types, and temperaments. We have learned to forget individual likes, dislikes, and differences of temperament for the sake of music to which we have dedicated our lives. I often wonder if we could not solve the world’s problems on a similar basis of harmony.” “Think what a single individual in a symphony orchestra can accomplish,” the famous maestro continued, “by giving up his individual traits and ambitions in the service of music…. Suppose that in life you had the same all-embracing love for the whole of mankind and for your neighbor in particular. Only when every one of us and every nation learns the secret of love for all mankind will the world become a great orchestra, following the beat of the Greatest Conductor of all.

and recrimination.  late 17th cent.: from early modern Dutch (denoting a mythical whirlpool supposed to exist in the Arctic Ocean, west of Norway), from maalen 'grind, whirl' + stroom 'stream'. mae·nad   n. (in ancient Greece) a female follower of Bacchus, traditionally associated with divine possession and frenzied rites.   mae·nad·icadj.  late 16th cent.: via Latin from Greek Mainas, Mainad-, from mainesthai 'to rave'. ma·es·to·so [MUSIC]   adv. & adj. (esp. as a direction) in a majestic manner.   n. (pl.-sos) a movement or passage marked to be performed in this way.  Italian, 'majestic', based on Latin majestas 'majesty'. maes·tro   n. (pl.maes·tri or maes·tros) a distinguished musician, esp. a conductor of classical music.  a great or distinguished figure in any sphere: a movie maestro.  early 18th cent.: Italian, 'master', from Latin magister.

Logically, when Maestro Gott some years ago, after an especially cruel critic had compared him to "a zombie who causes acute depression to innocent radio listeners", decided to stop performing in protest, the situation was considered so grave that the Minister of Culture himself went to console the deeply insulted star.

If your life could be transcribed into a song, the rights and wrongs, the ups and downs, the good and the bad, and the periods of turmoil and challenges, as much as the moments in which you felt high in the clouds, in love, in awe for all the good things happening to you, mesmerized with disbelief for the joys you were experiencing, all those things would be just and only sounds, perfectly arranged to formulate your own song, the song of your life. In the same way, you must see your friends, and enemies, and loved ones and strangers. For everything is made of frequencies, and everything comes to you in precise moments, to match other frequencies. Everything that happens to you is in a perfect arrangement of vibrations and coincidences. And the maestro of this song is you. You are creating all of that with your mind.

A good exercise is to practice using only one song. Dance to it focusing only on the rhythmic basis or musical pulsation. Gradually add dynamic changes based on the other instruments and their highlights during the song, one instrument at a time. This creates the possibility of advanced improvisation in

noun mae·stro \ ˈmī-(ˌ)strō \ : a master usually in an art; especially: an eminent composer, conductor, or teacher of music

No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a

Para la música crearon su centro el Padre Sojo y Juan Manuel Olivares (1770): en él aprenderá Cayetano Carreño, y de él saldrán certeramente orientados los compositores José Ángel Lamas, Lino Gallardo, Juan Landaeta y otros. Quizás esta realización noble fue la de mayor eficacia en el dieciocho, en Caracas; de ahí en adelante, Venezuela seguirá distinguiéndose, ante América, por el arte musical más que por las otras expresiones estéticas en que han sobresalido otras zonas: el Ecuador, en la pintura y escultura; México, la Nueva Granada, en pintura.

La cachucha, is that for us, maestro? Will it be danced across the tottering floorboards of the cavaliers' wing, between cramped walls, blackened with smoke and greasy with grime, under its low ceiling? Curse you, the way you play! La cachucha, is that for us, for us cavaliers? Outside the snowstorm howls. Do you mean to teach the snowflakes to dance in rhythm, are you playing for the light-footed children of the blizzard? Female bodies, which tremble under the pulse beat of hot blood, small sooty hands, which have thrown aside the cooking pot to grasp the castanets, naked feet under tucked-up skirts, yard coated with flakes of marble, crouching gypsies with bagpipe and tambourine, Moorish arcades, moonlight and black eyes, do you have those, maestro? If not, let the fiddle rest! Cavaliers are drying their wet clothes by the fire. Should they swirl around in their tall boots with iron-shod heels and thumb-thick soles? They have waded through the ell-deep snow the whole day to reach the bear's winter lair. Do you think they should dance in their wet, steaming homespun clothes, with the shaggy bruin as a partner? Evening sky, glittering with stars, red roses in dark female hair, tormenting sweetness in the evening air, untaught grave in the movements, love rising out of the earth, raining from the sky, hovering in the air, do you have this, maestro? If not, why force us to long for such things? Cruelest of men, are you sounding the attack for a tethered warhorse? Rutger von Orneclou is lying in his bed, imprisoned by gout pains. Spare him the torment of sweet memories, maestro! He too has worn a sombrero and a gaudy hairnet, he too has owned a velvet jacket and a sash with a dagger tucked in it. Spare old Orneclou, maestro!

You are writing your own symphony, you choose the notes and the melody. If there is something out of tune, you can change the music. You create the harmony. You are the maestro.

Mencius said: “In good years, young men are mostly fine. In bad years, they’re mostly cruel and violent. It isn’t that Heaven endows them with such different capacities, only that their hearts are mired in such different situations. Think about barley: if you plant the seeds carefully at the same time and in same place, they’ll all sprout and grow ripe by summer solstice. If they don’t grow the same – it’s because of inequities in richness of soil, amounts of rainfall, or the care given them by farmers. And so, all members belonging to a given species of thing are the same. Why should humans be the lone exception? The sage and I – surely we belong to the same species of thing. “That’s why Master Lung said: Even if a cobbler makes a pair of sandals for feet he’s never seen, he certainly won’t make a pair of baskets. Sandals are all alike because feet are the same throughout all beneath Heaven. And all tongues savor the same flavors. Yi Ya was just the first to discover what our tongues savor. If taste differed by nature from person to person, the way horses and dogs differ by species from me, then how is it people throughout all beneath Heaven savor the tastes Yi Ya savored? People throughout all beneath Heaven share Yi Ya’s tastes, therefore people’s tongues are alike throughout all beneath Heaven. “It’s true for the ear too: people throughout all beneath Heaven share Maestro K’uang’s sense of music, therefore people’s ears are alike thoughout all beneath Heaven. And it’s no less true for the eye: no one throughout all beneath Heaven could fail to see the beauty of Lord Tu. If you can’t see his beauty, you simply haven’t eyes. “Hence it is said: All tongues savor the same flavors, all ears hear the same music, and all eyes see the same beauty. Why should the heart alone not be alike in us all? But what is it about our hearts that is alike? Isn’t it what we call reason and Duty? The sage is just the first to discover what is common to our hearts. Hence, reason and Duty please our hearts just like meat pleases our tongues.

Cultural Diplomacy—and an Accolade Among Piazzolla’s tasks during his first summer at the Chalet El Casco was the composition of “Le Grand Tango,” a ten-minute piece for cello and piano commissioned by Efraín Paesky, Director of the OAS Division of Arts, and dedicated to Mstislav Rostropovich, to whom Piazzolla sent the score. Rostropovich had not heard of Piazzolla at the time and did not look seriously at the music for several years.7 Written in ternary form, the work bears all Piazzolla’s hallmarks: tight construction, strong accents, harmonic tensions, rhythmic complexity and melodic inspiration, all apparent from the fierce cello scrapes at the beginning. Piazzolla uses intervals not frequently visited on the cello fingerboard. Its largely tender mood, notably on display in the cello’s snaking melodic line in the reflective middle section, becomes more profoundly complex in its emotional range toward the end. With its intricate juxtapositions of driving rhythms and heart-rending tags of tune, it is just about the most exciting music Piazzolla ever wrote, a masterpiece. Piazzolla was eager for Rostropovich to play it, but the chance did not come for eight years. Rostropovich, having looked at the music, and “astounded by the great talent of Astor,” decided he would include it in a concert. He made some changes in the cello part and wanted Piazzolla to hear them before he played the piece. Accordingly, in April 1990, he rehearsed it with Argentine pianist Susana Mendelievich in a room at the Teatro Colón, and Piazzolla gently coached the maestro in tango style—”Yes, tan-go, tan-go, tan-go.” The two men took an instant liking to one another.8 It was, says Mendelievich, “as if Rostropovich had played tangos all his life.” “Le Grand Tango” had its world premiere in New Orleans on April 24, 1990. Sarah Wolfensohn was the pianist. Three days later, they both played this piece again at the Gusman Cultural Center in Miami. [NOTE C] Rostropovich performed “Le Grand Tango” at the Teatro Colón, Buenos Aires, in July 1994; the pianist was Lambert Orkis. More recently, cellist Yo-Yo Ma has described “Le Grand Tango” as one of his “favorite pieces of music,” praising its “inextricable rhythmic sense...total freedom, passion, ecstasy.

I crossed my arms. "Pray, be more specific, maestro," I said. "I'm afraid we rustic peasants have not your worldly experience." Grumbles from the audience, and their pointed daggers of curiosity were aimed at Master Antonius now. "Liesl," Papa warned. "You overreach yourself." "No, no, Georg," the old violinist said. "The young lady has a point." He smirked. "True genius is not just technical skill, yes? Any fool could learn to play all the right notes. It takes a certain... passion and brilliance to bring the notes together to say something true. Something real." I nodded in agreement. "Then if true genius is performance and ability and passion," I said, not daring to look at Papa, "perhaps my brother was ill-served by the choice of music." This piqued the old master's interest. He lifted his bushy brows, his dark eyes beady in his fleshy face. "So the little Fräulein fancies herself a better tutor than her father! Well, I am tickled. You amuse me, girl.

A diferencia de las generaciones anteriores —de la suya, por ejemplo—, todos ellos eran conscientes de los costes no sólo morales de las desigualdades económicas y de la precariedad; también, de las consecuencias irreversibles para el medio ambiente que tenía el consumo: todo apuntaba a que tuvieran miedo, y su ocio orbitaba alrededor del miedo también, era el de una generación a la que las superficies lisas —cuya manifestación última, pensaba Él, debían de ser la depilación definitiva, los ángulos redondeados de los ordenadores portátiles que «todo el mundo» tenía en el barrio y los colores planos y seductoramente infantiles de las aplicaciones de móviles— ofrecían un simulacro de estabilidad y orden, eran el equivalente al café de comercio justo, la carne producida en granjas en las que los animales eran, supuestamente, tratados de forma ética y la reducción de la huella de CO2 en virtud de los desplazamientos en bicicleta y coche eléctrico. ¿Cuánto CO2 producía, en contrapartida, el transporte de las frutas exóticas con las que se confeccionaban los batidos de moda? ¿Qué formas específicas de producción, con su sabiduría de sí y su conocimiento de la naturaleza, estaban siendo barridas por la proliferación de los cultivos de soja sin los cuales no habría «soja lattes» ni helados veganos? ¿Cuánta deforestación producía la emergencia del café que no necesitaba sombra para su cultivo y su omnipresencia en la vida cotidiana? ¿A qué coste humano se extraían los minerales semipreciosos que eran necesarios para el funcionamiento de sus teléfonos móviles y ordenadores, que solían cambiar cada par de años? ¿Quién pagaba, literalmente con su vida, por las camisetas a seis euros con las que se apropiaban de la historia musical del siglo xx y de sus modas, casi todas horribles? ¿A cuánto se pagaba la hora de quienes les llevaban la comida a domicilio y los conducían al aeropuerto en una celebración unilateral de la supuesta economía colaborativa? ¿Quién y para qué usaba los datos que producían con cada desplazamiento y cuando utilizaban la función de geolocalización de sus teléfonos? ¿Cuáles eran los costes económicos y políticos de su desinterés por la prensa y, en líneas generales, por cualquier otra cosa que no fuera un destino turístico? ¿Cómo es que no veían el plan maestro y su participación en él?