As I sidle into old age I am disgusted with the legacy of old white men that has been handed down to me. How can I expect anyone to listen to anything I have to say? Really! How do I denounce them without seeming in-genuine or untrustworthy? ...
How indeed can all the damage to our reputation be undone? I don’t want to associate with them but cannot leave my skin any more than I can intentionally sever myself from family. So I am stuck with this irrevocable mark on my forehead: ...
I am the progeny of torturers, plunderers, gluttons, wastrels and swarms of murderous thieves. No wonder my music is so dark and angry. And no wonder orchestration seems to reel away from me like an inconsolably offended pet cat...
Classical music, while often so appealing to the ear and our emotions, sadly relies upon a foundation of aristocratic norms, of children raised by wealthy parents and from the start set to the task of mastering an expensive instrument through expensive tutelage...
Orchestration then leaves a bitter taste of exclusivity in the soul as one writes. I find it difficult to ignore this association and as if to fend off the indignation I am driven to seek the folkish acoustic music of other cultures less stigmatized by industrial civilization...
Yet, it is loose gauze upon a seeping wound this presumption to uplift a pure form of expression while man-handling it with glistening metals, pummeling it with hammers and whipping it’s meter with wands. Traditional classical music is both butchery and caresses.
