Our real Petyechka / Настоящий “Петечка”


Cadence. It’s a self-portrait. A Real “Forum”. Listen carefully. Especially the beautiful scene of fear (1.30 – 2.07), lushly written with a cinematic flare. It is very difficult to fully convey the whole picture on stage. This is qualitatively his confession – “I am wanting and wounded” sobbed out in gushes, lost in love and longing for the acceptance of a situation unabashedly rejected by the elite culture of his time and place. So here he is, throwing himself on the pyre in death-throws, his head bowed upon the ruins of his soul. And then death (2.37). The theme of death in the bass (if it were voiced in the orchestra he would have chosen a contra bassoon). Followed by the crying/moaning, an outpouring of the soul. Those of you who have been party to our many discussions together over the past two years probably unconsciously assembled this already – those newer to the group, stay tuned and we will learn together – are you with me ?:)🙂
Peter, the composer himself, is not particularly aesthetically handsome, nor particularly attractive, but his music makes him a model – the power and pulse of cosmic energy, the motivation and talent, the ambitions of a talented provincial – it’s really an impressive sounding confession.

                                                                      Translated by Svetlana Harris and Todd A Harris

Каденция. Это автопортрет. Настоящий “Петечка”. Послушайте внимательно. Особенно прекрасна сцена страха (1.30 – 2.07), выписанная с кинематографической тщательностью. Eе очень трудно передать на сцене. Это его исповедь – “хочется и колется” кинуться в гей любовь с головой на свою погибель. Бросается. И тут же рок и настигает. И смерть (2.37). Тема смерти в басу (в оркестре был бы контр фагот). Затем плач/стоны, Душа вон. Да вы сами уже должны уметь всё читать. На кой черт я вам нужен после двух лет наших тренировок?
Он, Петр, не особенно эстетичен, не особенно красив, но заряд и импульс энергии, при “космических” амбициях талантливого провинциала, всё-таки, впечатляет, как исповедь в звуках.



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