This story is a disturbing, reflective, heartbreaking one: a world-famous violinist decides to perform in a subway station, one attached to a major American city. He plays great music on a Strad, and people generally... walk on by.
There are all sorts of elements to this story. Something about urban life, maybe DC. Something about government work, since many of the passersby were so employed. Perhaps the hectic pace of life, yes. And the fate of classical music, at least in the US. Not to mention the dramaturgical problem of breaking the fourth wall, or intruding performance into spaces where it doesn't usually occur.
I've trained myself to pounce on modernist sneering about an audience unadvanced enough to appreciate the finer things. But that argument is usually aimed at a different kind (i.e., modernist) of music, not what Bell played.
(via the discerning oook)
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