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I am listening to Shostakovich Symphony No. 7, the “Leningrad”.
In the introduction, the Radio 3 presenter – I think it was Petroc Trelawney – gave a brief description of the symphony’s history, and how it was played in Leningrad during the city’s siege by the invading German army, which broadcast on the radio; apparently, hostilities ceased; even the Germans were listening to it.
Rehearsals were interrupted by members of the orchestra who had to bury their families.
This brief description of the hardships suffered by the city raised tears in my eyes.
I like Shostakovich Symphony No. 7; there is a long, repetitive snare drum figure, which reaches climax just about…
Now.
[Later] God, this is good music: powerful, emotionally engaging, soaring; sad. Did I say powerful? It disturbs me that I don’t have the words to adequately describe how music – not just this, but almost any music – can make me feel; I lack the subtlety, the depth of emotion, the language to convey how it feels.
I have heard this piece many times before, so I know it fairly well – I know the rhythms, the pace, the highs and lows. But it still surprises.
But this is great music.