Krzysztof Meyer's Mass for Mixed Choir and Organ (1987-92, somewhat more radical Oedipus Rex); Piotr Perkowski's Sinfonietta (1927, to the far right of Prokoffiev); Florent Schmitt (his oddball La tragédie de Salomé, 1907, clearly inspired the Rite of Spring, even if Stravinsky later denied it; his Antoine and Cleopatra is pure Stravinsky, whatever the Russian says); and Bruno Maderna Liriche su Verlaine (1946-47), songs accompanied by piano, are all very good.
I saw the last last year at the conservatory in Venice, played by two women: a boy-like, thin, tall short-haired Russian blonde was the pianist; she was manly and businesslike, a little brusque; while a big-haired, full-bodied Romanian sang the soprano; she was tender and feminine and sweet, fleshy-lipped, pure softness and eros. The two were well matched musically, too. It was one of those rare moments when simply everything goes right and general rapture results. The conservatory did not allow the performance to be recorded: the conservatory is not interested in either helping their students or promoting the repertoire. Damned fools.
But never mind that: what I wanted to say is that there is so much music to discover; it seems endless; every week I discover something new and excellent; why we all keep playing the same old, limited repertoire is not clear; that anyone could say X is the best based on such a small sampling as most of us, even the most erudite, know seems silly; that anyone would dare compose anything -- propose to add to this unnumbered, bottomless pit -- seems ludicrous. For all we know, it has already been done: all one needs to do is look around.
As in literature and philosophy, it has probably all been said already.
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