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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Grand Piano, Tiny Desk

Jan. 12, 2018 | Tom Huizenga -- When we invited Russian pianist Daniil Trifonov to play a Tiny Desk concert, we rolled out the big guns. In place of the trusty upright, we wedged a 7-foot grand piano behind Bob Boilen's desk in preparation for the artist who The Times of London called "without question the most astounding pianist of our age."

That's a pretty lofty claim, but watch and judge for yourself. His performance here is extraordinary. Still in his 20s, Trifonov seems to have it all: jaw-dropping technique and interpretive skills beyond his age. He's also a composer — the night before his NPR visit, he played his own knuckle-twisting piano concerto at the Kennedy Center here in Washington, D.C.

But for his Tiny Desk show, Trifonov focused on Chopin, beginning with the mercurial "Fantaisie-Impromptu" in C-sharp minor, a work that mixes sweeping melody, turbulent passion and wistful repose. Hunching close over the keyboard with feline agility, Trifonov's slender fingers glide effortlessly. He coaxes the instrument to sing tenderly in the slow central section.

Trifonov follows with a pair of short tributes to Chopin by his peers. Robert Schumann's "Chopin" accentuates the lyrical side of Chopin, filtered through the German composer's forward-looking harmonies, while Edvard Grieg's "Hommage à Chopin" offers volatility, lovingly rendered.

The smartly programmed set is capped with more Chopin, but with a nod to Mozart: the finale from a set of variations based on an aria from Don Giovanni. It gives Trifonov a chance to display his lightness of touch, plus a few pianistic fireworks. Smiling, he treats the tricky filigreed runs and hand crossings as if it were a child's game. Look closely and you can see the piano shake.

(Daniil Trifonov appears courtesy of Deutsche Grammophon GmbH.)

 

Set List*

Chopin: "Fantaisie-Impromptu, Op. 66"

Schumann: "Chopin. Agitato" (from Carnaval)

Grieg: "Hommage à Chopin, Op. 73, No. 5"

Chopin: "Variations on 'Là ci darem la mano' (from Mozart's Don Giovanni) - Coda. Alla Polacca"

*(Selections found on the album Chopin Evocations.)

 

MUSICIAN
Daniil Trifonov (piano)

CREDITS
Producers: Tom Huizenga, Morgan Noelle Smith; Creative Director: Bob Boilen; Audio Engineer: Josh Rogosin; Videographers: Morgan Noelle Smith, Alyse Young; Assistant Editor: Alyse Young; Photo: Jenna Sterner/NPR

Marianne Boruch - There Ought to Be a Law Against Henry

given his showing up to teach at the U

disheveled, jittery cigarette and cigarette and probably

the drink, losing the very way there

over river, river of all song, all American story

which starts way north of St. Paul quiet or undone

wandering south, not

enraged mostly, something stranger.

That’s one epic shard of John Berryman anyway.

 

Notorious. And par for the course in a classroom

destined, struck-by-lightning

in sacred retrospect, the kind those long-ago students

now can’t believe themselves

so accidentally chosen, grateful though one

probably claimed the poet absolutely

bonkers then, out of his tree toward the end,

so went the parlance. Wasn’t he

always late—Give them back, Weirdo!—with those

brilliant papers they eked out, small dim-lit

hours when a big fat beer would’ve

been nice. Really nice.

Fuck him, I hear that kid most definitely

blurting were he young right now

though the others—  From the get-go their

startle and reverence. But not even that malcontent

did the damning I can’t believe

they gave him tenure.

 

Here’s where I think something else, think

of course it’s the Dream Songs that rattled him until—

as grandparents used to say—he couldn’t

see straight. Like Dickinson’s bits of shock and light

did her in between naps and those letters to

some vague beloved unattainable. Or Plath, her

meticulous crushing fog. Maybe closer to Milton working

his blindness—literally blind rage, if you want

to talk rage—into pages soaked through with triumphant

failure and rhyme, always

that high orchestration, that alpha/omega big voice thing. 

And Satan, after all, as wise guy

and looming because for chrissake, Jack, get an interesting

character in there! Someone must have

lobbed that right.

 

All along, Berryman: how those Dream Songs surely

loosened a bolt or a wheel in his orderly

scholar-head, must have come at him

like Michael the Archangel, 77 days of winged flash

searing him to genius, some kind of

whack-a-mole version. Maybe like Gabriel

cutting that starry celebrity deal

for a most dubious conception in the desert, near a fig tree,

no proper human mechanics required. At last

Berryman’s rage wasn’t rage

but sorrow turned back on itself. With teeth.

 

Henry my hero of crankiness and feigned indifference,

unspeakable industry, exhaustion

and grief, half funny-crazy, half who-knows-what-

that-line-means. A henry whole

universe of Henry, of

there ought to be a law against Henry—pause

and pause—Mister Bones: there is. 

Will be! Was! Not to say poetry’s

worth it or the most healthy fascination for the sane.

I’m just, I mean—is this love? 

 

There’s break, as in lucky, as in

shatter. There’s smitten and there’s smite.

Call Me By Your Name

SCENE 57

EXT. TOWN SQUARE – DAY

 

They arrive on their bikes at the little town square. OLIVER buys a pack of cigarettes, Gauloises. He lights one up, then offers one to ELIO.

 

OLIVER

You want to try one?

 

ELIO nods and OLIVER cups his hands very near Elio’s face and lights his cigarette.

 

OLIVER (CONT’D)

Not bad, right?

 

ELIO

(drawing on it)

Not bad at all. I thought you didn’t smoke.

 

OLIVER

I don’t.

(taking another drag)

 

They walk their bikes towards the little World War I memorial in the center of the square which is dedicated to the youth of the town who perished in the Battle of Piave. They pause a moment to read the plaque.

 

OLIVER (CONT’D)

World War II? Did the Allies fight near here?

 

ELIO

No. This is World War I. You’d have to be at least eighty years old to have known any of them.

 

OLIVER

Is there anything you don’t know? I never heard of the Battle of Piave.

 

ELIO looks at OLIVER. He hesitates, then bursts out:

 

ELIO

I know nothing Oliver. Nothing, just nothing.

 

OLIVER

(looking at him steadily)

You know more than anyone around here.

 

ELIO

If you only knew how little I know about the things that really matter.

 

OLIVER

What things that matter?

 

ELIO looks him straight in the eye for once, summoning up his

courage:

 

ELIO

You know what things. By now you of all people should know.

 

Silence.

 

OLIVER

Why are you telling me all this?

 

ELIO

Because I thought you should know.

 

OLIVER

(he repeats ELIO’s words slowly, playing for time as he considers them)

Because you thought I should know.

 

ELIO

Because I want you to know

(blurting it out)

Because there is no one else I can say this to but you.

 

There is a magnificent view. A tiny bus works its way uphill, with some bikers struggling behind it. To buy time, OLIVER turns to look at it before replying:

 

OLIVER

Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

 

ELIO

Yes.

 

Now that he’s spilled the beans at last, ELIO takes on the laid-back, mildly exasperated air which the felon has, once he surrendered to the police, when he confesses how he robbed the store.

OLIVER looks at ELIO for a long moment, then gestures towards the shop front where he takes his manuscript to be typed up.

 

OLIVER

Wait for me here. Don’t go away.

 

ELIO

(looking at OLIVER with a confiding smile)

You know I’m not going anywhere.

 

Two buses stop nearby to unload their passengers – older women arriving from adjoining villages to shop. ELIO turns to read the names listed on the monument. OLIVER returns.

 

OLIVER

(frowning)

They’ve mixed up my pages and now they have to retype the whole thing. So I have nothing to work on this afternoon. Which sets me back a whole day. Damn!

 

ELIO looks as if it has been his fault the typist made a mistake.

 

ELIO

I wish I hadn’t spoken.

 

OLIVER

I’m going to pretend you never did.

 

ELIO

(unfazed)

Does this mean we’re on speaking terms - but not really?

 

OLIVER thinks about this.

 

OLIVER

Look, we can’t talk about such things, we really can’t.

 

He slings his bag with its papers around him and the two are

off down hill.