![]() This is a definite improvement over the cheese. The pronunciation changes the most in this one, LIMB URGER. FARRAGO THEME JOY PROPROVOLONE splits up with an abbrev, for someone who is PRO VOL. GORGONZOLA is clued as Gorgon + Zola, as well as stark and richly detailed prose. It’s cheese, Gromit! A SLICED CHEESE theme in which assorted cheese names are sliced into shorter words and clued accordingly: Why, this theme is the greatest thing since a sliced bread…theme. It was terribly badly played, but the best performance in the world couldn't have stopped the thought which came as soon as the double basses started on the D major theme: this just isn't going to work.NY Times crossword solution, 7 21 11 0721 It just wasn't the moment, you felt, to be listening to any of this.Īnd then, towards the end, came the finale to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and all those niggling doubts surfaced. Better, grander music just seemed wrong the great overture to La Forza del Destino has never made less of an impression. The pieces stuck in to divert one's thoughts seemed no more than impertinence – even in normal circumstances, Canteloube's horrible Chants d'Auvergne always seem like eating Turkish delight in a brothel, and I longed for them to be over. A rubbishy little English elegy by Gerald Finzi was just not good enough to say anything much. Beyond that, the concert began to wound with its shallow certitudes. That is all one can reasonably ask of art in these awful circumstances to put a voice to our simple, inarticulate grief. Verdi's "Va, Pensiero" chorus, too, seemed cripplingly apt the great arch of the melody as much as the expression of nationalist grief. Normally, I rather dislike the piece and its shamelessly low-rent imitation of the finale of Mahler's Ninth Symphony on Saturday night, it worked with terrible directness. Barber's Adagio for Strings has become a universal expression of funerary mourning, as well as a specifically American one, but, starting to cry, I wondered at the mysterious transformations wrought by circumstances. Twice, indeed, in the concert, I found myself close to tears. It can be an elegy, and bring home some sense of loss through fluently expressed grief, wordless or otherwise. To judge by the comments made in the programme, and Leonard Slatkin's speeches in the course of the concert, it can do several things. And then into the concert proper, and what art, in these circumstances, can do. For a moment you thought how beautiful, aspiring and unsingable "The Star-Spangled Banner" is, with its yodelling leaps over an octave and a half. The concert began, under the BBC Symphony Orchestra's new American conductor, Leonard Slatkin, with the American and British national anthems. "For the first verse of tonight's version of Jerusalem, please sing with gusto: And did those feet in ancient time/Walk upon England's mountains green /But now the cows burn in the pyres,/This is the mul-ti-nation-al's desire./Without the dung from animals/To grow our crops needs more chemical." My God, I thought someone is still thinking hard enough about cow shit to write a calypso about it. And, standing outside, many of the usual accoutrements of the event had already seemed tastelessly irrelevant the touts, who for once were selling tickets, the flag-sellers, and one ass in a determinedly silly hat. Behind us, in a box, was Mary Archer, elegant in black, chatting determinedly, but she needn't have tried so hard her family's little problems seemed as irrelevant as her best frock. I've never been to a Last Night before, but the atmosphere was unlike that of any concert I could imagine. ![]()
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