Word: rubinstein
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...common disease of the cynic is Vicarious Vertigo-the dizzying belief that he can be someone else. Very well, then, let him be, say, Andre Watts or Artur Rubinstein. Every pianist is familiar with the tale of the Texan who asked an old man, "How do I get to Carnegie Hall?" and received the reply, "Practice! Practice!" Alas, repetition cannot guarantee a recital. But $2,000 can. For that amount, the cynic may rent the entire Carnegie Hall, with Steinway, to play Chopsticks all evening. After all, who's listening? The cynic can be Arthur Fiedler...
...revolt and embarks on domesticity with a wealthy widow. But the elixir of life eludes him. After each venture he finds himself asking, in the words of Peggy Lee's song "Is that all there is?" Indeed, this Pippin might seem like something of a fool if John Rubinstein, son of the pianist Artur, had not imbued him with such a sweet and winning nature. His life, as related in this story, is more the stuff of show biz than history...
...They took too many liberties. Today they have more respect for the music they play. On the other hand, pianists have become too literal. As a result, if you are going to hear Beethoven's "Emperor" Concerto, unless you are listening to a really great artist like Artur Rubinstein, all the "Emperors" sound alike. This shibboleth about playing notes exactly as written is bunk. Notes are blueprints. They express nothing...
...foremost artistic personalities of our generation. I have always been fascinated by the fact that for some reason (ostensibly because of the political connotations of the art form), rock musicians have never been considered genuine artists--of the same order as a Casals, a Picasso, a Rubinstein, or (God forbid) a Beethoven or a Bach. Yet I would suggest that the work of the Dead compare favorably with the work of any of these. Listen to the early recordings. For the last six years, every concert something else--a musical manifestation of a unique juncture in time and space, with...
...serving 20 weekends in jail Mack was condemned, for the next two years, to wear mittens any time he is in a public place. "The mittens," said the judge, "must be of a texture a least as heavy as 8-oz. duck." One might as well break Artur Rubinstein's fingers. Mack has disappeared, in what presumably is defiant despair; a warrant is still out for his arrest...