Franz Liszt was one of those love-or-hate-’em composer/performers, sometimes both at the same time — a gigantic, prima-donna personality, a performing style that mixed stupendous technique with hammy brio and about forty-five fingers on both hands.
He gave me whiplash this afternoon when I came home, having left the radio on.
Hearing that performed on a piano reminded me of a favorite simile of Robert Anton Wilson’s: “Like opening a door in your own home and finding Buck Rogers shooting it out with Fu Manchu.”
They’ve got the Revolutionary and Romantic orchestra playing the original version now, back to back. I don’t know if that’s for educational comparison, or to make us all calm down.