The day of rest

Today probably marks the first time I shall ever have heard the Doors sung as part of a worship service.

Last night's concert was better still (with one peculiar caveat). Higher energy, tighter ensemble (in the trio, particularly). No surprise, since I had spent yesterday relaxedly dawdling with my mum, mom-in-law & aunt at Plum Island, where before Friday's concert I had put in a day's work at the office. (Note to self: Do always take the day of a concert off, the music will thank you.)

The one caveat relates to Thoreau. It was brought to my attention that our audience in Danvers (which would be, in large part, our parishioners) would be inspired to mutiny if I played Thoreau in all its 25-minute glory. It was only good sense, and the advisory was meant in a thoroughly brotherly spirit. (Part of the problem, which was a matter of my not reminding Charles of Thoreau's duration when he prepared the program, was that the second half of the program was significantly longer than the first.)

Since on Friday, I had accomplished what I wished with the Op.109 (I wanted to play it in public, as it ought to be, and probably have a good document of the event), I suffered no need to insist . . . and I gave assurance that I was perfectly content to present an abridgement, with an eye to keeping the peace. I asked Charles what he would suggest, and he replied 5-6 minutes. "I defy you," I said; "I'm playing 7!"

Back when I first played Thoreau at King's Chapel, I bought a small, cheap clock so that I could mind the time. (Honestly, it was part of that undercurrent nervousness which resulted in my rushing the piece so awfully, then; the condition which it was my goal to defeat on this occasion.) So, since the proposal was to reduce the music a great, great deal, I thought that my process ought to be dispassionately Cageian. I decided that I should play for 3'30, and then I should turn the page, my eye lighting on some suitable "landing place," play for a further 2"30, and then turn to the last page.