So we’re driving down Boylston on our way home, still tingling with the sensory feast from a terrific program at Symphony Hall (on which, more later). We’re all talking excitedly, especially about the Shostakovich (Opus 93), underneath our conversation the car radio is tuned to WCRB (the ‘safe-as-milk classics’ station).
At some point, Maria impatiently asks, “What is this?”
“No idea,” I rejoin, “only it sounds pointedly unimaginative compared to the marvelous program we just heard, doesn’t it?”
This was unanimously endorsed.
Not even going to tell you whose music it was. There is a reason these mediocrities get buried under the sands of Time.