Critical condition:
A Cecelia Hopkins Porter
(“The Florence Foster Jenkins of Music Criticism”)
Sacrarium
Thesis:
Antithesis:
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The musicians jabbed merciless bows into the pathos of the middle movement, rendering it
an essay in unbearable beauty that ended in the sublime introspection of the wrenching Andante.
— Cecelia Hopkins Porter, Washington Post music critic and logorrhea poster-child,
on a performance of Prokofiev's String quartet no.1, op. 50.
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Even the funereal pace and fugal whispers of the Allegretto were but breathers, albeit wondrous,
before Temirkanov's high-octane charge through the following movements altogether fit for its
premiere in a Vienna ripe for festal release from its Napoleonic fetters.
— A ripe Cecelia Hopkins Porter releases festally over Beethoven's 7th symphony.
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The Mozart is a delirious maelstrom of wrenching pathos that draws
you into its whirling twists of unease... While preserving its
primordial bliss, Herbig gave (Schubert's 6th symphony) a studied
nonchalance that seemed to waft in from Vienna's breezy Alpine
foothills and filtered through the hazy tints of Bohemian melancholy.
— The deliriously wrenching maelstrom of studied nonchalance that is Cecelia Hopkins Porter.
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The tonguing wizardry of a Saint-Saens morsel led to some Bartok cameos capturing the rhythmic
asymmetries and black despair of Eastern European peasants.
— Cecelia Hopkins Porter's take on the poor, the depressive, and the asymmetrical.
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Kalichstein dove into Bach's frenzied roulade of embellishments in fast forward, and negotiated
Liszt's crazed mingling of the exotic Iberian theme whirling in a wild tempest of Hungarian idioms.
— Yet more Cecelia Hopkins Porter (... and I'd like a second helping of that frenzied roulade, please)
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In the Allegretto, the pianist's keen articulation and supple legato produced a fully percussive yet
finely etched keyboard contribution, while a bluesy Gershwinesque tang suffused the Adagio, with Vedernikov's
ruminative response hinting delicately at resignation.
— In her column, the reviewer's turgid prose and slavish addiction to vapid metaphor produced a morbidly
verbose yet intellectually vacuous literary coprolite, while an unctuously Hanslickian self-regard suffused the report,
with the Post's puzzling lack of oversight hinting tragically at editorial indifference.
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"Carmina" (Burana) . . . always strikes this writer as appealing chiefly to humanity's more bestial
ur-rhythmic impulses.
— Calling Dr. Freud, calling Dr. Freud.
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Grant's music seems a series of musical cliches meandering nowhere...
— Cecelia Hopkins Porter, oblivious to the irony.
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