What is your favorite classical song of all time?
- Thread starter aphex
- Start date
4th movement of Brahms' German Requiem (aka How Lovely Is Thy Dwelling Place). Very moving and powerful.
Depends too heavily on my mood at a given time.
Sometimes I enjoy the lesser known works of Orff greatly, and sometimes they annoy me. Same with the works of Grieg and others.
Sometimes I enjoy the lesser known works of Orff greatly, and sometimes they annoy me. Same with the works of Grieg and others.
RaistlinZ
Diamond Member
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dennilfloss
Past Lifer 1957-2014 In Memoriam
Supermercado
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- Jan 18, 2002
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Firebird is good. We played part of that one year in marching band in high school.
I like Les Preludes by Franz Liszt, too.
And Carnival of Venice, as well. I played the arrangement in the Arban's book at a solo and ensemble contest in high school. That was pretty fun.
I like Les Preludes by Franz Liszt, too.
And Carnival of Venice, as well. I played the arrangement in the Arban's book at a solo and ensemble contest in high school. That was pretty fun.
Holst - Jupiter
Chopin - Opus 69, No 2
Haydn - Symphony No 39 in G minor
Mozart - Piano Concerto No 22
Chopin - Opus 69, No 2
Haydn - Symphony No 39 in G minor
Mozart - Piano Concerto No 22
Some of my favorites:
The Planets - Holst (especially Mars and Jupiter)
Night on Bald Mountain - Mussagorsky
Bolero - Ravel
Firebird - Stravinsky
Pictures at an Exhibition
Bruckner's 9th
Galdiator Battle theme - Zimmer
Beethoven's 5th
Four Season's - Vivaldi
The Planets - Holst (especially Mars and Jupiter)
Night on Bald Mountain - Mussagorsky
Bolero - Ravel
Firebird - Stravinsky
Pictures at an Exhibition
Bruckner's 9th
Galdiator Battle theme - Zimmer
Beethoven's 5th
Four Season's - Vivaldi
Anubis
No Lifer
Originally posted by: ironwing
Originally posted by: aphex
Stravinsky - Firebird
Brings a smile to my face EVERYTIME
Stravinsky? I thought Lynard Skynard wrote that.
I must be more cultured than I realized.
FIREbird not FREEbird
Anubis
No Lifer
It depends - I played the violin for 10 years.
Favorite to play was pretty much any Russian composer - very upbeat and a challenge, mostly liked Tsaikovsky.
Favorite to listen to is a lot, Vivaldi, Handel, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, etc. - basically all the more popular ones. Contemporary American composers from the turn of the century turned out to be some boring ass music though, can't hold a candle to any of the classic's.
Favorite to play was pretty much any Russian composer - very upbeat and a challenge, mostly liked Tsaikovsky.
Favorite to listen to is a lot, Vivaldi, Handel, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, etc. - basically all the more popular ones. Contemporary American composers from the turn of the century turned out to be some boring ass music though, can't hold a candle to any of the classic's.
Just because I liked this the first time I posted it a long time ago:
She was 16. He was 30. She was a noblewoman, he held no rank and few prospects. More importantly, she was his student. Nothing could possibly come of it. He knew that. Alas, what the mind decrees the heart seldom obeys.
It was 1801. The lessons passed too quickly, though every moment with her was a blissful eternity he dreamed would never end. She knew, of course; women always do (even at that young age). For you see, she held the same feelings for him. Eventually, inevitably, the glances and touches became more obvious. And then the truth was spoken. In that moment, the great composer was reborn.
He asked her...she accepted. Language holds no terms adequate for the joy and hopes in which they swam. Her parents were another matter entirely. The mother, as mother?s are wont to, sided with her daughter. Yet it was a secret support that brought nothing to the discussion. She certainly wasn?t about to admit her unhappiness in her own arranged marriage. Not in public. Not in that day, not in those circles.
The father would hear none of it. The man was little better than any other starving artist. Oh, he was talented, that was certain...but talent would not support his daughter as the lady she was, only money could do that. He forbid the union, unless the composer could prove his worth and ability. For his part, the composer was undaunted. He embraced the object of his utter affection and bid her a reassuring farewell. ?This is merely a delay my love, and no cause of tears or sorrow. What your father asks is a reasonable thing, and of no difficulty in its accomplishing. He desires proof of my devotion, and of my ability. I will show both in a single stroke. I go to compose love itself.?
From that moment on the great composer ignored all other duties and works, and dedicated himself fully to phrasing love itself in notes and measures. This was to be his finest work...indeed the finest of any work. Known to be eccentric and single-minded when composing, his new fervor frightened his friends and family who wrote to him of their concerns.
Most he passed off, or replied dismissively at best. Only to he oldest brother, who was also his closest confidant, did he offer reassurance and understanding. ?Ever have I been the composer first, this you know. And yet now, now I am first a man and music becomes the tool of a man, rather than I of it. My hearing declines still, as before I mentioned. Whereas before I was consumed with fears of such, now I am at peace and content. Why should I care what squawks and screeches become lost to me, when I have heard my angel?s voice exclaim her truest love for me? No melody nor harmony, save that which I now compose, will e?er be matched against that most glorious of sounds. And so be at ease brother, as I am; and let me now return to my life?s work.?
For 5 months and a year he stayed locked away, holding true to his purpose. After his initial correspondences had been returned unread (no doubt from his love?s protective father), he had not paused even to seek contact with his beloved. It was by far the longest he ever spent on such a short piece, but perfection would not surrender to him easily or quickly. Finally, it was done. He arranged for it to be played in an open hall overlooking their favorite park where many long walks had begun their romance. It was going to be his greatest recital, and he took great pains to ensure that the family of his future wife would be attending.
On the night of the performance the composer was to greet those of station before they took their seat, as was the fashion of the time. He could hardly contain his nervous excitement, knowing he would soon see his beloved again, and certain that afterwards her father would accede to the wishes of the lovers. He was so befuddled that he hardly comprehended when the page announced the family into the throng; ?Count Wenzel Robert Gallenberg and his betrothed, the Countess Giulietta Guicciardi.? Giulietta had finally arrived...but wait...Wenzel? Betrothed? In a panic the composer (himself no longer composed) cast his gaze to the entry to prove the damnable voice a liar. But it was not so. There stood his beloved, on the arm of another, her eyes riveted to the ground. Only her father met his furious stare; with a calm and superior smugness of victory.
History tells us that the composer lived another twenty-five years beyond that night; but history is a soulless observer. In fact, he died that instant. In a fleeting moment all hope was gone. In the din of the gathered masses, muted by his advancing deafness, he knew beyond doubt that everything was lost. He stood dumbly, with ears that would not hear, and heart that would not feel. How he maintained his composure there is a mystery to all, yet maintain he did. He finished the greeting of the guests, including the Guicciardi family. No hint of his rending heart did he betray as he bowed to those who would not be his father and mother-in-law. No bitterness seeped into the greeting of the young Count Wenzel who had stolen the love of his life. Not even when Giulietta finally raised her reddened and tear filled eyes to his did he break. Perhaps humans have not evolved a method for expressing the immensity of emotion he was experiencing.
After the greetings the great composer disappeared. Where he fled none could say, but he was not to be found at the appointed hour. Apologies were made, distractions arranged, but still he did not come. It was not until the moon was rising, full and so stark as to sting the eyes, that he finally walked onto the stage. He quickly retreated to his piano, alone on the stage. Alone forever more. He dismissed the assistant who was bringing the music pages...this was to be a recital from his heart, not of notes on a page. Besides, for the duration of the concert his eyes did not once leave the form of his beloved...who sat beyond his reach in the shadow of another man. And so situated, the master played love in sound.
Of all the tragedies in human memory, perhaps none is so clear as the lack of any means of recording what he played that night. Assuredly many since have reproduced the notes, but it is clear from the reactions of the audience that none have ever played the music. Within a few measures every being assembled knew they sat in the presence of greatness, in the making of history. No soul remained untouched. All wept...all; the men with the women, young and old alike. Not even the previous stony countenance of the man who spoiled his hopes could endure the desperate, limitless anguish that resonated from the keys that evening. So wracked with passion and loss were all assembled that when the piece was concluded, none could stand to cheer. It was the unique applause of weeping that rewarded the composers labors. Only after some great length did proper reactions begin. The greatest of composers stood, did not bow, turned, and left...alone.
The man, of course, was Ludwig von Beethoven. The song was the Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia Opus 27 No 2...forever remembered by those who heard it truly, as the Moonlight Sonata.
She was 16. He was 30. She was a noblewoman, he held no rank and few prospects. More importantly, she was his student. Nothing could possibly come of it. He knew that. Alas, what the mind decrees the heart seldom obeys.
It was 1801. The lessons passed too quickly, though every moment with her was a blissful eternity he dreamed would never end. She knew, of course; women always do (even at that young age). For you see, she held the same feelings for him. Eventually, inevitably, the glances and touches became more obvious. And then the truth was spoken. In that moment, the great composer was reborn.
He asked her...she accepted. Language holds no terms adequate for the joy and hopes in which they swam. Her parents were another matter entirely. The mother, as mother?s are wont to, sided with her daughter. Yet it was a secret support that brought nothing to the discussion. She certainly wasn?t about to admit her unhappiness in her own arranged marriage. Not in public. Not in that day, not in those circles.
The father would hear none of it. The man was little better than any other starving artist. Oh, he was talented, that was certain...but talent would not support his daughter as the lady she was, only money could do that. He forbid the union, unless the composer could prove his worth and ability. For his part, the composer was undaunted. He embraced the object of his utter affection and bid her a reassuring farewell. ?This is merely a delay my love, and no cause of tears or sorrow. What your father asks is a reasonable thing, and of no difficulty in its accomplishing. He desires proof of my devotion, and of my ability. I will show both in a single stroke. I go to compose love itself.?
From that moment on the great composer ignored all other duties and works, and dedicated himself fully to phrasing love itself in notes and measures. This was to be his finest work...indeed the finest of any work. Known to be eccentric and single-minded when composing, his new fervor frightened his friends and family who wrote to him of their concerns.
Most he passed off, or replied dismissively at best. Only to he oldest brother, who was also his closest confidant, did he offer reassurance and understanding. ?Ever have I been the composer first, this you know. And yet now, now I am first a man and music becomes the tool of a man, rather than I of it. My hearing declines still, as before I mentioned. Whereas before I was consumed with fears of such, now I am at peace and content. Why should I care what squawks and screeches become lost to me, when I have heard my angel?s voice exclaim her truest love for me? No melody nor harmony, save that which I now compose, will e?er be matched against that most glorious of sounds. And so be at ease brother, as I am; and let me now return to my life?s work.?
For 5 months and a year he stayed locked away, holding true to his purpose. After his initial correspondences had been returned unread (no doubt from his love?s protective father), he had not paused even to seek contact with his beloved. It was by far the longest he ever spent on such a short piece, but perfection would not surrender to him easily or quickly. Finally, it was done. He arranged for it to be played in an open hall overlooking their favorite park where many long walks had begun their romance. It was going to be his greatest recital, and he took great pains to ensure that the family of his future wife would be attending.
On the night of the performance the composer was to greet those of station before they took their seat, as was the fashion of the time. He could hardly contain his nervous excitement, knowing he would soon see his beloved again, and certain that afterwards her father would accede to the wishes of the lovers. He was so befuddled that he hardly comprehended when the page announced the family into the throng; ?Count Wenzel Robert Gallenberg and his betrothed, the Countess Giulietta Guicciardi.? Giulietta had finally arrived...but wait...Wenzel? Betrothed? In a panic the composer (himself no longer composed) cast his gaze to the entry to prove the damnable voice a liar. But it was not so. There stood his beloved, on the arm of another, her eyes riveted to the ground. Only her father met his furious stare; with a calm and superior smugness of victory.
History tells us that the composer lived another twenty-five years beyond that night; but history is a soulless observer. In fact, he died that instant. In a fleeting moment all hope was gone. In the din of the gathered masses, muted by his advancing deafness, he knew beyond doubt that everything was lost. He stood dumbly, with ears that would not hear, and heart that would not feel. How he maintained his composure there is a mystery to all, yet maintain he did. He finished the greeting of the guests, including the Guicciardi family. No hint of his rending heart did he betray as he bowed to those who would not be his father and mother-in-law. No bitterness seeped into the greeting of the young Count Wenzel who had stolen the love of his life. Not even when Giulietta finally raised her reddened and tear filled eyes to his did he break. Perhaps humans have not evolved a method for expressing the immensity of emotion he was experiencing.
After the greetings the great composer disappeared. Where he fled none could say, but he was not to be found at the appointed hour. Apologies were made, distractions arranged, but still he did not come. It was not until the moon was rising, full and so stark as to sting the eyes, that he finally walked onto the stage. He quickly retreated to his piano, alone on the stage. Alone forever more. He dismissed the assistant who was bringing the music pages...this was to be a recital from his heart, not of notes on a page. Besides, for the duration of the concert his eyes did not once leave the form of his beloved...who sat beyond his reach in the shadow of another man. And so situated, the master played love in sound.
Of all the tragedies in human memory, perhaps none is so clear as the lack of any means of recording what he played that night. Assuredly many since have reproduced the notes, but it is clear from the reactions of the audience that none have ever played the music. Within a few measures every being assembled knew they sat in the presence of greatness, in the making of history. No soul remained untouched. All wept...all; the men with the women, young and old alike. Not even the previous stony countenance of the man who spoiled his hopes could endure the desperate, limitless anguish that resonated from the keys that evening. So wracked with passion and loss were all assembled that when the piece was concluded, none could stand to cheer. It was the unique applause of weeping that rewarded the composers labors. Only after some great length did proper reactions begin. The greatest of composers stood, did not bow, turned, and left...alone.
The man, of course, was Ludwig von Beethoven. The song was the Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia Opus 27 No 2...forever remembered by those who heard it truly, as the Moonlight Sonata.
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