In the key of hard

What does a pianist do once he's mastered Chopin and Rachmaninov? When you've transcribed all of Art Tatum, and played Vladimir Horowitz' arrangement of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No 2 till you're sick?

What's next when settling down to Charles-Valentin Alkan's Concerto for Solo Piano (I(i),I(ii),I(iii),II, and III for the fireworks) induces only yawns?

Well, there's Kaikhosru Shapurji Sorabji's Opus Clavicembalisticum (a few minutes from the four and a half hours can be heard here)... but I did that last night.

Michael Finissy's Solo Piano Concerto Number 4 is always good for a grin... and if I'm really desperate there's Stockhausen's Klavierstuck X again, I suppose.

But no. I need a new challenge.

So I'm grateful to Ivan for pointing me towards John Stump's Faerie's Aire and Death Waltz. It's based on a Cro-magnon skinning chant. I'll need to stock up on penguins, though.



Even better, once I've mastered that, there are many more wonderful manuscripts here, here, and here.

The only one which worries me is Ervin Schulhoff's 1919 composition In futurum:

King's Cock

If I was a convicted sex-offender desperately trying to clear my name, I probably wouldn't write and perform songs like this:



That's from Jonathan King's 2008 musical Vile Pervert, viewable here, reviewed here.

Come to think of it, if I was eager to paint myself as the innocent victim of a miscarriage of justice, I probably wouldn't choose Harold Shipman as metaphor for my cruel mistreatment by the media.

I will say this though: being done for fiddling has livened up King's creative output no end. I wouldn't have given his cheesy shite a second thought before. But I'm only 1 minute into Vile Pervert, and he's already got his cock out (followed up with full screen splashes of Jesus and Mother Theresa).

Retreat into virtuality

You may have been wondering where I've been... I haven't been around these parts much, but I've online all right. In fact, I've been online way, way too much.

You know those pasty teenagers who never leave their bedrooms, and spend days at a stretch playing World of Warcraft? Well, that's me that is.

Except that I can't claim youth as an excuse.

And it isn't a fantasy game which has done for me either. I can't be bothered with wizards and elves and that. I prefer game-environments which mimic the real world more closely... I know, I know, why not just go outside?

It's difficult to say. I guess it's the immediate gratification, plus the brilliantly crafted suspense, which just keeps you slumped there, in your chair. There's always a task to complete, and then more to do, more to see, more to experience.

And you get so deeply involved with your game-self, even to the point of feeling responsibility for his fate, almost associating yourself with him: in truth, it stops being a 'game' at this point.

The world I've been immersed in is based around a survival-horror quest, and has been rightly hailed as "probably the greatest adventure game ever created" (although I'm beginning to wish it never had been). It's called Don't Shit Your Pants, and you can give it a try here. Have fun. But please, try not to lose yourself.

[via DJCJD]

Smear-o-sphere

So Paul Staines has exposed Damian McBride as a smear-artist.

...and next week Nick Griffin outs Jim Davidson as a racist, and Colonel Sanders lectures Ronald McDonald on healthy eating.

Last disrespects

A wreath someone took to Jade Goody's funeral. Via B&T.