Randall Bills Vidéos
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2024-05-01
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Randall Bills Gioachino Rossini Alessandra Marianelli Bach José Miguel Pérez Sierra 2018
Provided to YouTube by NAXOS of America Ricciardo e Zoraide, Act I: Cruda sorte! Oh amor tiranno · Randall Bills Rossini: Ricciardo e Zoraide ℗ 2018 Naxos Released on: 2018-02-09 Artist: Randall Bills Artist: Alessandra Marianelli Artist: Silvia Beltrami Choir: Poznań Camerata Bach Choir Conductor: José Miguel Pérez-Sierra Orchestra: Virtuosi Brunensis Composer: Gioachino Rossini Auto-generated by YouTube.
Theater Chemnitz Gioachino Rossini Ferretti Bender Rensburg Zimmermann Randall Bills Levy Sekgapane
DIE THEATER CHEMNITZ - OPER LA CENERENTOLA (ASCHENPUTTEL) Melodramma giocoso in zwei Akten von Gioachino Rossini Libretto von Jacopo Ferretti INSZENIERUNGSTEAM Musikalische Leitung Felix Bender Inszenierung Kobie van Rensburg Bühne Steven Koop Choreografie Sabrina Sadowska Chor Simon Zimmermann BESETZUNG Don Ramiro Randall Bills / Levy Sekgapane Dandini Andreas Kindschuh Don Magnifico Matthias Winter Tisbe Tiina Penttinen Clorinda Franziska Krötenheerdt Angelina Cordelia Katharina Weil Alidoro Kouta Räsänen Ein Theater-Trailer von Artgenossen.tv
Józef Władysław Krogulski Krogulski Krzeszowiec Soroka Marcin Zdunik Nelson Goerner 1454 1830 1831 1832 1905
0:00 - Adagio - Allegro 9:28 - Adagio 14:54 - Menuetto - Trio Allegretto 19:05 - Finale (A la Bohemienne) Flute - Jan Krzeszowiec Clarinet - Radoslaw Soroka Violin I - Lena Neudauer Violin II - Erzhan Kulibaev Viola - Artur Rozmyslowicz Cello - Marcin Zdunik Double Bass - Slawomir Rozlach Piano - Nelson Goerner In November, 1830, the Poles rose up against their Russian occupiers. This act of bravery did, however, leave Poland in a dire economic position. This economic pressure affected Poles of all walks of life, but it hit a young pianist named Józef Krogulski particularly hard. In 1831, Krogulski's everyday financial frustrations and hardships were compounded by the death of his mother, causing him to take a serious step back from his career as a performer. Krogulski took up some work as a private piano teacher to pay the bills. Over the course of the uprising, he began to focus more on his duties as a member of a church choir and on composing. Throughout these difficult years, he almost exclusively performed at home (in part because of health problems), focusing much of his attention on his new creations. When he finally arose from his seclusion in 1832, he premiered his 2nd Piano Concerto, and two years later, he premiered this work - the Octet in D-Minor. Krogulski has a reputation as a "Polish Mozart." We can see some of that influence here, but the work certainly stands on its own. The piece begins with the foreboding pulsation of the strings giving way to slow woodwind descent. The lighter tone of the first movement cuts through the dense atmosphere of the opening to recite the first theme. This first movement is a microcosm of the Octet as a whole. The adagio moves between a beautiful, glowing theme and creepy tremolos that interrupt the serenity. The rondo is lively and the finale is joyously vibrant. You can detect that hint of conflict in each of the movements. The work as a whole is well balanced and varied. As I was dissecting it, I encountered a lot that surprised me given the time period. Note: There are a lot of repeats in this octet. Where it started getting hard to follow, I started inverting sections that were not being played on that page because of the repeats. That is why several passages have those black sections. (http•••)
In the documentary "Night Mail" (1936), John Grierson narrates the opening scene with WH Auden's poem of the same name, "Night Mail." Auden wrote the poem specifically for the film. Visit my channel for more films that quote poetry. (No copyright infringment intended. I don't own the content of this video and make no money from it.) To make the poem's rhythm better sound like a chugging train, Auden's text was slightly altered for the film. Its original version is provided here. This is one of my very favorite poems. I teared up the first time I heard it. Night Mail WH Auden This is the Night Mail crossing the border, Bringing the cheque and the postal order, Letters for the rich, letters for the poor, The shop at the corner and the girl next door. Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb / The gradient's against her, but she's on time. Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder Shovelling white steam over her shoulder, Snorting noisily as she passes Silent miles of wind-bent grasses. Birds turn their heads as she approaches, Stare from the bushes at her black-faced coaches. Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course; They slumber on with paws across. In the farm she passes no one wakes, But a jug in the bedroom gently shakes. Dawn freshens, the climb is done. Down towards Glasgow she descends Towards the steam tugs yelping down the glade of cranes, Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen. All Scotland waits for her: In the dark glens, beside the pale-green lochs Men long for news. Letters of thanks, letters from banks, Letters of joy from girl and boy, Receipted bills and invitations To inspect new stock or visit relations, And applications for situations And timid lovers' declarations And gossip, gossip from all the nations, News circumstantial, news financial, Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in, Letters with faces scrawled in the margin, Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts, Letters to Scotland from the South of France, Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands Notes from overseas to Hebrides / Written on paper of every hue, The pink, the violet, the white and the blue, The chatty, the catty, the boring, adoring, The cold and official and the heart outpouring, Clever, stupid, short and long, The typed and printed and the spelt all wrong. Thousands are still asleep Dreaming of terrifying monsters, Or of friendly tea beside the band at Cranston's or Crawford's: Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh, Asleep in granite Aberdeen, They continue their dreams, And shall wake soon and long for letters, And none will hear the postman's knock Without a quickening of the heart, For who can hear and feel himself forgotten? .
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