Regardless of its special art,
no one listens to the second part.
Did the Adam of our species start
with "principal" upon his heart
and tumble down the scale so far
to land in second territorie,
ego blown, illusion spent?
No second is an innocent!
Had Adam benefit of disguise,
the blessings therein visualize:
Who but a second could devise,
when free from prying ears and eyes,
various intellectual pursuits
sweeter than the apple's fruit
to entertain, amuse, portray,
while the principal's hair grows grey?
I. Conductors
Of conductors can be said the most,
those precious few of whom we boast.
The rest, though they comprise a host,
climb so man a conducting post,
the ass before our quick review, (
What was his name? He's gone. Adieu!)
unaware of their fatal condition,
yoked to their podiums of ambition.
Tireless management, while the orchestra slept,
hired the maestro the least adept,
while the fellow they ought to have kept
felt he really could not accept
a post wherein he was sure to be told
"Be decorative, smile, do not be bold,
nothing too new, no dissonant song,
the public and critics will lead you along".
So we accept for an endless time,
the maestro who waited the last in line,
who hefts a baton so elephantine,
it crushes our phrases, virgin and fine,
whose Medusa eyes are everywhere
except upon the second chair.
Let Giovanni's ghost be miserable,
I'm happy here, invisible!
In music still there's consolation
for the poor conductor's station,
weighted by remuneration,
burdened so by adoration.
A "Beggar's Opera" I perscribe,
with Bach and Bruckner on the side,
Unworthy is the lamb who strayed
into the ranks of the overpaid.
Once a season, I calculate
must second chair succumb to fate.
I lift my eyes toward the great
Omnipotent Immaculate.
Imagine my surprised relief,
the affirmation of my belief.
Where once a conductor I had seen,
is only Schuller's Twittering Machine!
II. Critics
Of critics very little can be said,
Suffice to say, we wish them dead.
III. Singers
Singers are as common as sox,
yet the good ones are as rare as rocs.
The amateur true talent mocks,
entitled to sing because he talks.
Singing is the only art
in which the populace can take a part.
Even Handel could not, I'm sure,
another sing along endure.
Of great singers, much is said,
the obvious: they're overfed,
and suffer enlargement of the head.
A breeder would say they're over bred.
But not withstanding mutant genes,
they provide us with fantastic scenes,
a screeching temperamental din,
before the performance can begin.
The tenor is a curious thing.
The poorer he acts, the better he sings.
From Tristan can such power spring,
while on his back, a-languishing?
This player Shakespeare could not gauge,
who struts and frets upon the stage.
He's more like Carroll's Jabberwock:
He doublesings in doubletalk!
While divas are concerned with wealth,
they're more concerned about their health.
With hypochrondriatic stealth,
they minister to the suffering self
Drink no milk; do not laugh,
these things are much too bad by half!
Protect the sacred vocal chord,
treasure like the Midas hoard!
Let the flame of knowledge burn;
from singers must these lessons learn:
the breath control for which we yearn
comes from a place we can't discern;
in the mystic halls of voice technique,
the secret of vibrato seek;
project your sound into the hall,
it's volume that makes the rafters fall!
(If I've learned one thing worthwhile,
it's Florence Foster Jenkin's style!).
What Ogden Nash might
might have said about critics:
Consider those fellows musicritical,
marvelously unspoiled and unpolitical.
With bionic ears so nitty- grittical
they hear mistakes too little bittical.
With their proper choice of words,
our soaring passion they've interred.
On recycled newsprint, over-proseltized in ink,
lies the poor blythe spirit, fossilized, extinct.
E. Dusté