Franz Schubert: (The Witch King)

So for today’s piece, I have chosen a little piece by Schubert, which I know you have heard. It’s been used in so many films and cartoons that the second you hear it, you will recognize it. It is called, “The Witch King”, and starts out with a driving rhythm of ominous and dark sounding sounding chords. In the bass line, a short, deep and portentuous melody gives the piece a wonderful sense of foreboding. This piece is the perfect accompaniment for a film where some chase takes place on a moor in the driving rain. Or, in my case, when some stupid adolescent drives his car into a tree.

When I was 16, I got my driver’s license. That marked the beginning of my independence from my parents. My mother had a black 1968 Volkswagen Beetle, that she let me use in the evening and on the weekends, and I have always enjoyed getting in a car and just driving to see where the road takes me. Perhaps that is the great metaphor of my life. The journey seems more important than the actual arrival at some distant goal. You find so many interesting things along the way. If you’re a closet Buddhist, being in a car is the perfect analogy for living in the here and now. It is an opportunity to be mindful and present in the moment.

When I was in Indiana last week, I took a drive past the former house of my best friend from high school, Gary Endicott. He lived in a small house on the edge of a pretty heft chunk of farm land that had belonged to his grandfather. The house sat a about a half mile in from the Mishawaka hills. These rose up at the south end of town quite abruptly and from then on the geography was flat farmland all the way down to about Kokomo.

I used to go to Gary’s often to either study with him on week nights or to pick him up on weekends for our drinking binges. The way to his house was a familiar one for me as Gary lived not far from my maternal grandmother and my Uncle Walt who took care of her. I would have to drive over the St. Joseph River, through the town center of Mishawaka, which had been a quaint little manufacturing town in the early part of the century, and then up Main Street to the south side of town, through Belgian town. There I would turn right on Dragoon Trail and soon take a road that forked off to the left up into the hills. Where the two roads diverged, my successful first cousin John Pairitz lived at the top of the hill in a wonderful modern house he had designed. The road took a grand, sweeping curve up to the left and where it leveled off, there stood Gary’s house. Across the street was a ramshackle barn that housed a small saw mill which still served the farmers who lived in the area.

One day, perhaps while riding with Gary, I found there was another route up to his house. Instead of turning on to Dragoon, if I drove about a quarter of a mile and then turned right, another winding road snaked up the hill past wonderfully upscale houses that lie tucked away in the hardwood forest that covered the hill. This road came emerged from the trees and then went by a few more posh houses before coming out a few yards South of Gary’s. During my senior year in high school, I used to take this road more often because a girl whom I had a crush on, Harriet Schroeder, lived on it.

I also liked this road because it was fun to drive. The winding curves presented a challenge and made me feel a bit like a race car driver in my little four speed bug. And that almost led to my undoing.

One rainy summer weekend evening, my friend Paul Mankowski called me up to go out drinking. He had a friend named Dave Baker whose parents had a big, hulking Chevrolet station wagon. “Road Party!” Paul said and I was in. We loved to get a case of beer, climb into a big boat of a car, and then drive around in the countryside until about two in the morning. (Sometimes we didn’t always drink. I remember once going out to the country to watch a meteor shower and another time lying on the roof of my Volkswagen watching the aurora borealis, one year when it came so far south you could see it in Northern Indiana.)

On the night in question, we picked up Endicott. Time has made me forget what we did that night, but I distinctly remember dropping Gary off at his house. When we started off toward home, I told them we should take the alternate route. “It has a great hill!” “Yeah,” said Paul, who knew the road as well. Unfortunately Dave didn’t. At the top of the hill, we yelled “Gun it,” and Dave took off. At the first curve, Dave lost control on the wet road and the car went sailing into the wood and hit a tree head on. I was sitting in the back seat and was hurtled forward, hit the seat with my left hip and flew over and landed in Paul’s lap. The pain at first was sharp and blinding. We all checked each other. Dave’s head had hit the windshield and he had a gash in his forehead and his nose was swollen. Paul had managed to block his impact somehow and was unscathed. He left us and ran back to the Endicott’s to get help.

An ambulance soon arrived and packed Dave and me off to the hospital. My parents met us there and were greatly relieved when the X-rays showed no broken bones. When quizzed about how it happened, we only told them that Dave didn’t know the road and had lost control on the wet pavement. We omitted the fact that we had told Dave to gun the car and had done it for the thrill of it.

Did I learn my lesson? No. After my aches and pains went away by the middle of the next week, I was back in my Volkswagen, driving like a mad man. One night, I went to Dave’s house to see the car, which Paul told me had been towed back to his parents’ house. I hopped in my car and drove so fast I almost lost control driving around a familiar curve in the road not far from my house. When I got to Dave’s I was amazed to see the car. The front of the car was in the shape of a huge “Vee” where the tree had pushed the bumper almost up to the windshield. The engine had traveled downward and bent the frame, which now almost touched the ground under the driver’s seat. Inside the back of the driver’s seat, which was one continuous piece, was bent forward into a vee shape from the impact of my body hitting it.

What amazes me now is my attitude toward the whole episode. I thought it was “cool.” I drew no lesson from it. It did not scare me. In fact, I was glad it had happened: it gave me wonderful bragging rights at school. I regaled many a captive audience at school with my account of it. And What’s more it gave me an injury, that I could make the most of. I though it would be cool to have a bad back for the rest of my life, which I could tell people came from an accident in my youth.

Cars and youth. When my daughters neared their teens years later, I started to cringe. What would happen if they turned out as wild as I was! In the prosperous Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC where I lived, alcohol was the drug of choice among high school students–it was available, and most kid thought “my parents do it too, so who are they to say?”

I’m happy to say, my daughters are 27and 25now and made it through those years quite well. Maybe because they turned out not to be big classical music fans.

Schubert Bio

Download MP3 of “Erlkönig” (The Erl-King)

Advertisements

Franz Schubert: Piano Quintet in A major D667, “Trout”

You often find the “Trout” Quintet among those lists of 100 greatest recordings or basic libraries. Schubert wrote this piece in 1819 while vacationing in upper Austria with a group of musicians. One of them, a wannabe cellist named Sylvester Paumgartner, at whose place they were staying, commissioned Schubert to write this quintet based on the melody of one of Schubert’s own songs, “The Trout.”

This song tells of how Schubert was once walking along by a beautiful stream when he spied a trout at play in the water. Schubert contemplates the beauty of the scene when an angler appears and starts fishing for the trout. Eventually the fisherman hooks the trout and Schubert is left lamenting his sad fate. The first movement of this works starts with a rolling, bubbly phrase, repeated by the piano, which perfectly captures the impression of the music.

I first heard this piece while living in the French House in my junior year of college, in 1975. I thought it was quite pretty. When I mentioned it to my girlfriend, Linda, who was majoring in string bass, she said something like “Ugh! That piece is so overplayed.” After that, for a long time, I did not bother to listen to it. Then, years later, after I was married, my wife heard it playing on the local classical station. Suddenly she started singing these words along to the famous melody:

As by a crystal brooklet,
I wandered on my way
Among the gentle ripples
I spied a trout at play
As here and there he darted
As swift as swift could be
Was never fish so lively
Nor frolicsome as he.
Was never fish so lively
Nor frolicsome as he.

But skillful was the angler
With cruel delight
He sullied all the crystal water
And hid the fish from sight
Alas, by that deception
The fish, the enticing bait, sought out
And I was left lamenting
The fate of that poor trout.
And I was left lamenting
The fate of that poor trout.

Here’s the entire piece:

It’s a very Romantic conceit to write an impassioned song about the death of a fish. Still, if you respect life, where do you draw the line between which beings are not okay to kill and which are?  The Jainists in India have carried this so far as to wear masks over their mouths lest they breath in microbes that their natural antibodies would destroy. That might sound absurd, but there is something dear about Schubert writing this piece and it’s definitely sweet to have it serenaded to you by a beautiful woman.

I originally wrote a version of this about 15 years ago.  Since then, that marriage went the way of Schubert’s trout.  Much water has flowed by.  Our kids have grown up and moved away.  We’re both remarried and have tried to remain friends.  Life is full of challenges, hurts, slights, setbacks, and sometimes we see these things as injustices.  The artist tries to make sense of all this, commenting on the struggles and pain that life sometimes brings.  Schubert juxtaposed the beauty of nature with the cruelty of man’s despoiling it.  And he turned it into this beautiful music.

Buy CD or Download MP3s of Schubert: Trout Quintet

Franz Schubert: Das Wandern

During my residency in the French House at Indiana University in 1975, I first heard today’s song by Schubert. It is called “Das Wandern,” which means “The Wanderer.    It’s a bubbly song for tenor and piano. Like Schubert’s Trout Quintet, it is full of a cute little rhythm representing a brook. The song comes from an entire song cycle that Schubert wrote in praise of the bucolic country life.  It’s called Die Schöne Müllerin–the beautiful miller’s daughter, or wife. (Hmm.  Wonder if this was a “farmer’s daughter” joke scenario.)  The joyous expression that goes into this song reminds you of light and sun and a walk on a sunny day in the woods. And that in turn reminds me of my sunny days in the French House.

The room I first occupied at the French House had a reputation. The semester before, a guy named Jacques Strange (not his real name) had lived there. He had a reputation, too. The first few weeks people would say, “So you moved into Jacques Strange’s room.” Or else, people would just stop buy and ask “what happened to Jacques?”

One of these was a girl named Dorothy Xristos (not her real name). She lived in the Spanish House, which occupied the other wing of our two-story dorm. Dorothy embodied the term “spunky.” She spoke fluent Spanish, she was articulate and well-read in English literature, and she espoused the feminist ideology popular around the time. That sat pretty well with me because I was kind of a gay straight guy:  not macho and a lover of the arts.

Dorothy was not afraid to speak her mind, and when she did, it was usually to say something intelligent or funny, which I liked best of all.

One day, Dorothy came knocking at my door asking after Jacques. We had a nice conversation in which she told me a bit about him. He had been a French major, gone abroad for a year, liked to smoke dope, and had kept an aquarium with an Oscar in it named “Oscar.”
“He also had a cat, named ‘Abortion.’”
“Abortion?” I asked.
“Yes,” Dorothy said. “I found him back behind the dorm and brought him to Jacques because he liked animals.”

I instantly fell in love with Dorothy, but being shy, didn’t try to put the moves on her.

We did manage to become kind of friends, that first semester, she always greeting and smiling at me whenever we saw each other. Another time, I watched her get into an argument with a guy over a woman’s role in society. She debated him skillfully reducing every point he made to its biased or illogical premise. Later that year, she and I and that guy sat in his room smoking dope and talking about literature.

At one point, she was telling a story, when the guy stopped her and said: “Do you realize that as you’re talking, Kurt is using hand gestures that illustrate your story?”

I hadn’t even noticed, but I had been doing just that. Kinda cosmic, eh?

I eventually did meet Jacques Strange. A former resident of the French House, a girl named Michael Grante, (I guess her parents had always wanted a boy) lived off campus and was throwing a party.

This was going to be a big event, and my best friend, Thom Klem, told me I was invited.

“Jacques Strange is going to be there,” he said. When I asked what Strange was like, Thom told me that he had dropped out of school. It turned out that Strange’s father was a journeyman insulator, and managed to get him into an apprentice program.

“Why did he do that?” I asked.

“The money,” Klem said. “He makes about twelve dollars an hour.”

That was an astronomical amount in 1975.

“What a waste,” Klem said.

They had grown up together in South Bend and gone to the same Catholic high school. They had been close friends there in a clique of very smart people. Two of their group had gone to Yale, another to Harvard.

“He blew his mind out on Hashish in France, and he just partied all the time when he came back. He had shared a room with David F*, and they hated each other. Then he moved into your room before leaving.”

Klem still had a certain regard for Strange. He thought of Jacques as what the French called an “aventurier” an adventurer, someone who loved to try new, exciting and sometimes dangerous things. Klem told me that he and a friend had once had a discussion about Strange’s character in which they compared Jacques to the ancient Greek hero, Alcibiades. Alcibiades was an adventurer who was more Athenian than the Athenians, and when he fell out of favor, became more Spartan than the Spartans.

The day of the party, Strange arrived. He had a tall, muscular frame and strawberry blond hair. His face was perfectly round, and he wore the stubble of a wispy beard that softened a pock-marked face. He smoked Marlboro’s and spoke in a seductively slow way which was half hippie, half southern drawl. Cool and full of life. I liked him immediately.

We all went over to Michael Grante’s house during the afternoon and helped her get ready for the party. Strange announced he was going to make a shrimp quiche, but he had to go out buy the ingredients. He needed eggs, shrimp, butter, and cream. Somehow I ended up going shopping with him. He had a hot red Fiat sedan that had a great stereo in it. He popped in a copy of David Bowie’s “Young Americans,” and we drove off. After being around the hermetic, esthete French House, Jacques was a breath of fresh air.

Many people in the Department of French and Italian came, who didn’t live at the French House. Strange’ quiche turned out perfectly. He was quite comfortable at the party and many people came up expressing pleasure and surprise at seeing him. They all asked how he was doing and showed even more surprised to hear he had left school.

The group who hung around Mark Z***’s room for the most part ignored him. I never got the whole story about why he fell out of their favor. Jacques wasn’t gay, but in all the years I knew him, (and he and I eventually became very good friends), I never heard him say a disparaging word about gays. So homophobia seems out of the question. Who knows? Maybe he got tired of the hot-house atmosphere of our dorm.

Whatever the reason for his departure, I’m glad I met him.

Schubert Biography

Download MP3 Or Buy CD of Schubert:Die Schöne Mullerin

Franz Schubert: “Symphony Number 8 in B minor (Unfinished)

Schubert’s ”Unfinished” Symphony was among the collection of classical albums that belonged to my second-to-oldest brother, Bob.

I remember him talking about it one day–I must have been 5 or 6 at the time–and the novelty of its subtitle. Did Schubert die before he finished it? Had he just gotten fed up and abandon it? Perhaps he had mislaid it, or had put it down during a barren period, and had never gotten around to finishing it. The latter happens to me all the time as I’m sure it does to all adults. Just when you start something, somebody with a crisis interrupts you, and it takes hours before you can pick up the where you left off. By that time you might have lost your thread.

Still, one can make excuses for everything. Life is full of chaos and crises. The only way to become successful is to learn to adapt. Take the hugely successful writer, Danielle Steele, writer of bodice-ripping fiction for bored housewives. She was so driven to be a writer that, as a young mother with several toddlers, she started writing a line or two during the one moment she got to herself during her busy day: while in the bathroom. After pegging away for a couple of years she had enough for a novel. Now one might argue that the quality of her work fits the location of its creation, but that’s not the point. She could have spent her days grizzling about her unfulfilling life and the misery of it. She could have given umpteen million excuses for not having written her novel. Yet, she didn’t. Instead she chose to adapt to her situation and got on with it.

Schubert was another one of those artists who “just got on with it.” By the time he died at the age of 31, he had composed over a thousand works, including songs, operas, symphonies and chamber pieces. Probably best known for his songs, which he must have felt a certain affinity for having started out as a Vienna Choir Boy. When his voice cracked devoted himself to composition. Though patronized by the wealthy and artistic, and writing prolifically (one reports said he wrote eight songs in one day), he died virtually penniless and unknown because of greedy publishers. When his body was discovered by the police, nearby sat a pile of over 500 songs which the investigators valued as nearly worthless.

Schubert wrote the Unfinished Symphony in 1822 at the age of 25. Most music historians think of it as revolutionary, a) for being the first Romantic work and b) for radically changing the use of instruments in symphonies. From the outset he gives the woodwinds and brass equal importance as violins, something that wasn’t done before. Some musicologists state that the two movements are so perfect that Schubert must have intended to write no more, though the discovery of a piano score for a third movement belies that thinking. More likely, after completing the first two movements, the real reason was that Schubert had contracted syphilis and fallen gravely ill. During the early months of 1823, he nearly died and perhaps the association of that illness with the work prevented him. However, despite his illness, he continued to compose at an astounding rate, composing another symphony in the five remaining years left to him.

And that brings me back to my brother Bob. After his first marriage ended after 20 years, he decided to go on a kind of spiritual quest which resulted in his going back to complete a master’s degree in counseling. No slacker! He continues to be a role model for me.

Schubert’s Biography

Download MP3 or buy CD of Schubert: Symphony No. 8, “Unfinished”

Franz Schubert: “Symphony Number 8 in B minor (Unfinished)

Schubert’s ”Unfinished” Symphony was among the collection of classical albums that belonged to my second-to-oldest brother, Bob.

I remember him talking about it one day–I must have been 5 or 6 at the time–and the novelty of its subtitle. Did Schubert die before he finished it? Had he just gotten fed up and abandon it? Perhaps he had mislaid it, or had put it down during a barren period, and had never gotten around to finishing it. The latter happens to me all the time as I’m sure it does to all adults. Just when you start something, somebody with a crisis interrupts you, and it takes hours before you can pick up the where you left off. By that time you might have lost your thread.

Still, one can make excuses for everything. Life is full of chaos and crises. The only way to become successful is to learn to adapt. Take the hugely successful writer, Danielle Steele, writer of bodice-ripping fiction for bored housewives. She was so driven to be a writer that, as a young mother with several toddlers, she started writing a line or two during the one moment she got to herself during her busy day: while in the bathroom. After pegging away for a couple of years she had enough for a novel. Now one might argue that the quality of her work fits the location of its creation, but that’s not the point. She could have spent her days grizzling about her unfulfilling life and the misery of it. She could have given umpteen million excuses for not having written her novel. Yet, she didn’t. Instead she chose to adapt to her situation and got on with it.

Schubert was another one of those artists who “just got on with it.” By the time he died at the age of 31, he had composed over a thousand works, including songs, operas, symphonies and chamber pieces. Probably best known for his songs, which he must have felt a certain affinity for having started out as a Vienna Choir Boy. When his voice cracked devoted himself to composition. Though patronized by the wealthy and artistic, and writing prolifically (one reports said he wrote eight songs in one day), he died virtually penniless and unknown because of greedy publishers. When his body was discovered by the police, nearby sat a pile of over 500 songs which the investigators valued as nearly worthless.

Schubert wrote the Unfinished Symphony in 1822 at the age of 25. Most music historians think of it as revolutionary, a) for being the first Romantic work and b) for radically changing the use of instruments in symphonies. From the outset he gives the woodwinds and brass equal importance as violins, something that wasn’t done before. Some musicologists state that the two movements are so perfect that Schubert must have intended to write no more, though the discovery of a piano score for a third movement belies that thinking. More likely, after completing the first two movements, the real reason was that Schubert had contracted syphilis and fallen gravely ill. During the early months of 1823, he nearly died and perhaps the association of that illness with the work prevented him. However, despite his illness, he continued to compose at an astounding rate, composing another symphony in the five remaining years left to him.

And that brings me back to my brother Bob. After his first marriage ended after 20 years, he decided to go on a kind of spiritual quest which resulted in his going back to complete a master’s degree in counseling. No slacker! He continues to be a role model for me.

Schubert’s Biography

Download MP3 or buy CD of Schubert: Symphony No. 8, “Unfinished”

Maria Joao Pires – Le Voyage Magnifique: Schubert Impromptus

Such beautiful music–like water in a brook rippling over stones.

[object Window]

via Maria Joao Pires – Le Voyage Magnifique: Schubert Impromptus.

Franz Schubert: (The Witch King)

So for today’s piece, I have chosen a little piece by Schubert, which I know you have heard. It’s been used in so many films and cartoons that the second you hear it, you will recognize it. It is called, “The Witch King”, and starts out with a driving rhythm of ominous and dark sounding sounding chords. In the bass line, a short, deep and portentuous melody gives the piece a wonderful sense of foreboding. This piece is the perfect accompaniment for a film where some chase takes place on a moor in the driving rain. Or, in my case, when some stupid adolescent drives his car into a tree.

When I was 16, I got my driver’s license. That marked the beginning of my independence from my parents. My mother had a black 1968 Volkswagen Beetle, that she let me use in the evening and on the weekends, and I have always enjoyed getting in a car and just driving to see where the road takes me. Perhaps that is the great metaphor of my life. The journey seems more important than the actual arrival at some distant goal. You find so many interesting things along the way. If you’re a closet Buddhist, being in a car is the perfect analogy for living in the here and now. It is an opportunity to be mindful and present in the moment.

When I was in Indiana last week, I took a drive past the former house of my best friend from high school, Gary Endicott. He lived in a small house on the edge of a pretty heft chunk of farm land that had belonged to his grandfather. The house sat a about a half mile in from the Mishawaka hills. These rose up at the south end of town quite abruptly and from then on the geography was flat farmland all the way down to about Kokomo.

I used to go to Gary’s often to either study with him on week nights or to pick him up on weekends for our drinking binges. The way to his house was a familiar one for me as Gary lived not far from my maternal grandmother and my Uncle Walt who took care of her. I would have to drive over the St. Joseph River, through the town center of Mishawaka, which had been a quaint little manufacturing town in the early part of the century, and then up Main Street to the south side of town, through Belgian town. There I would turn right on Dragoon Trail and soon take a road that forked off to the left up into the hills. Where the two roads diverged, my successful first cousin John Pairitz lived at the top of the hill in a wonderful modern house he had designed. The road took a grand, sweeping curve up to the left and where it leveled off, there stood Gary’s house. Across the street was a ramshackle barn that housed a small saw mill which still served the farmers who lived in the area.

One day, perhaps while riding with Gary, I found there was another route up to his house. Instead of turning on to Dragoon, if I drove about a quarter of a mile and then turned right, another winding road snaked up the hill past wonderfully upscale houses that lie tucked away in the hardwood forest that covered the hill. This road came emerged from the trees and then went by a few more posh houses before coming out a few yards South of Gary’s. During my senior year in high school, I used to take this road more often because a girl whom I had a crush on, Harriet Schroeder, lived on it.

I also liked this road because it was fun to drive. The winding curves presented a challenge and made me feel a bit like a race car driver in my little four speed bug. And that almost led to my undoing.

One rainy summer weekend evening, my friend Paul Mankowski called me up to go out drinking. He had a friend named Dave Baker whose parents had a big, hulking Chevrolet station wagon. “Road Party!” Paul said and I was in. We loved to get a case of beer, climb into a big boat of a car, and then drive around in the countryside until about two in the morning. (Sometimes we didn’t always drink. I remember once going out to the country to watch a meteor shower and another time lying on the roof of my Volkswagen watching the aurora borealis, one year when it came so far south you could see it in Northern Indiana.)

On the night in question, we picked up Endicott. Time has made me forget what we did that night, but I distinctly remember dropping Gary off at his house. When we started off toward home, I told them we should take the alternate route. “It has a great hill!” “Yeah,” said Paul, who knew the road as well. Unfortunately Dave didn’t. At the top of the hill, we yelled “Gun it,” and Dave took off. At the first curve, Dave lost control on the wet road and the car went sailing into the wood and hit a tree head on. I was sitting in the back seat and was hurtled forward, hit the seat with my left hip and flew over and landed in Paul’s lap. The pain at first was sharp and blinding. We all checked each other. Dave’s head had hit the windshield and he had a gash in his forehead and his nose was swollen. Paul had managed to block his impact somehow and was unscathed. He left us and ran back to the Endicott’s to get help.

An ambulance soon arrived and packed Dave and me off to the hospital. My parents met us there and were greatly relieved when the X-rays showed no broken bones. When quizzed about how it happened, we only told them that Dave didn’t know the road and had lost control on the wet pavement. We omitted the fact that we had told Dave to gun the car and had done it for the thrill of it.

Did I learn my lesson? No. After my aches and pains went away by the middle of the next week, I was back in my Volkswagen, driving like a mad man. One night, I went to Dave’s house to see the car, which Paul told me had been towed back to his parents’ house. I hopped in my car and drove so fast I almost lost control driving around a familiar curve in the road not far from my house. When I got to Dave’s I was amazed to see the car. The front of the car was in the shape of a huge “Vee” where the tree had pushed the bumper almost up to the windshield. The engine had traveled downward and bent the frame, which now almost touched the ground under the driver’s seat. Inside the back of the driver’s seat, which was one continuous piece, was bent forward into a vee shape from the impact of my body hitting it.

What amazes me now is my attitude toward the whole episode. I thought it was “cool.” I drew no lesson from it. It did not scare me. In fact, I was glad it had happened: it gave me wonderful bragging rights at school. I regaled many a captive audience at school with my account of it. And What’s more it gave me an injury, that I could make the most of. I though it would be cool to have a bad back for the rest of my life, which I could tell people came from an accident in my youth.

Cars and youth. When my daughters neared their teens years later, I started to cringe. What would happen if they turned out as wild as I was! In the prosperous Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC where I lived, alcohol was the drug of choice among high school students–it was available, and most kid thought “my parents do it too, so who are they to say?”

I’m happy to say, my daughters are 26 and 23 now and made it through those years quite well. Maybe because they turned out not to be big classical music fans.

Schubert Bio

Download MP3 of “Erlkönig” (The Erl-King)

%d bloggers like this: