Rummaging about in a pile of CD's today, I came across my collection of Ernesto Lecuona's solo piano renditions of his own work. After playing it for the first time in ages, I was reminded of why I let it settle to the bottom of the pile. His music alternately delights and outrages me. He'll start with an interesting idea, then veer off into something inane or pretentious, or simply incomprehensible in the context of the opening. I intend to listen to it some more, in hopes of figuring out exactly what it is that goes so terribly wrong in so many of his pieces. I suppose this could be considered the musical equivalent of forensic pathology. Yes, we know that he committed this crime, but how and why?
But I'll do that later. Now I will go make myself wet in the shower, so that I will match everything else around here, which is still damp despite the end of the rain. So much moisture, so little sun. My hair will look funny because I am out of mousse.