Chausson giving a helping hand to Debussy.
Everyone has that handful of artists he or she feels is their own, that no one else knows about, that they alone possess. It used to be like that for me way back in the Dark Ages of the mid-1980s with Metallica. Then everyone started liking them. Then they started becoming musically mediocre. But I'm not here to rehash Metalli-bashing. I'm here to sing, well, type, the praises of French composer Ernest Chausson, whose works, at least in the United States, never seem to get played.
The dark, somber piano trio in G minor, the concert for piano, violin and string quartet in D, the thick, Wagner-esque symphony in B-flat, some of my all time favorite classical pieces were penned by this dude. In addition, Ernest has the distinction of having proved just how dangerous riding a bike can be. A shame he died with easily two or three decades of composing ahead of him.
Assuming he decided to walk everywhere.
So when you're pedaling through your illusion of sporting the yellow jersey of the Tour de France leader, don't be a, er, dope [I can almost hear the guffaws, thanks]. The next great American novel might never get written. Oh, and happy purposely-belated-by-one-day birthday, Ernie.
The brilliant David Oistrakh playing the first half of Chausson's Poème for violin and orchestra. Forget the fact that there's no hot string-on-string action to see. Close your eyes and dig the music, mes amis.
I'm hoping it'll soothe the savage beast that is my anger at the Packers for their loss to an inferior team. Blah.