
Alex Ross
Classical Music Critic at The New Yorker
Music critic of The New Yorker, author of The Rest Is Noise, Listen to This, and Wagnerism. Blog: https://t.co/53IGcSxP49
Articles
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1 week ago |
newyorker.com | Alex Ross
“Music is no longer a matter for the few,” Kurt Weill declared in 1928, the year he wrote “The Threepenny Opera.” In Weill’s opinion, composers educated in the classical tradition had lost touch with the broader public and sunk into obscurantism. They should make their music “simpler, clearer, more transparent,” and they should address contemporary concerns. Seldom has an artist followed his own credo so faithfully.
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1 month ago |
newyorker.com | Alex Ross
When, last month, the preposterously gifted twenty-year-old pianist Yunchan Lim played Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto at the Segerstrom Center for the Arts, in Costa Mesa, California, the crowd responded with one of the loudest noises I’ve lately heard in a classical venue. The previous week, Lim’s thirty-year-old colleague Seong-Jin Cho gave an all-Ravel recital at Disney Hall, and concertgoers emitted a similarly full-throated roar.
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1 month ago |
newyorker.com | Alex Ross
In the wake of the murder of George Floyd, in 2020, and the cultural upheavals that ensued, classical-music organizations began including more composers of color in their programs. The Philadelphia Orchestra recorded the symphonies of the early-twentieth-century Black composer Florence Price. The National Symphony did the same for the modernist George Walker. The Metropolitan Opera presented two works by Terence Blanchard.
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2 months ago |
newyorker.com | Alex Ross
The first challenge is deciding what to call her. She is encircled by famous surnames—men jousting over her identity. A lustrous scion of fin-de-siècle Vienna, she was born Alma Maria Schindler, the daughter of the operetta singer Anna Bergen and the landscape painter Emil Schindler. She hoped to make her way as a composer, but that dream ended when, in 1902, at the age of twenty-two, she married the musical titan Gustav Mahler.
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2 months ago |
newyorker.com | Alex Ross
At her house, Kohner-Zuckerman showed me souvenirs of her parents’ world, which were nestled amid memorabilia of her beach days. One was a bound copy of her father’s University of Vienna dissertation, “Der Deutsche Film: Tatbestand und Kritik einer neuen Dichtkunst” (“German Film: Status and Critique of a New Poetic Art”), written in 1929, at the end of the silent-film era.
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