Don't be frightened. Mr. Gould is here, he will appear in a moment.I am not, as you know, in the habit of speaking on any concertexcept the Thursday night previews, but a curious situation hasarisen which merits, I think, a word or two. We are aboutto hear a rather, shall we say, unorthodox performance of theBrahms D Minor Concerto, a performance distinctly differentfrom any I've ever heard, or even dreamt of for that matter.Àæ
--Leonard Bernstein introducing Glenn Gould playingthe Brahms D Minor Concerto Op. 15, April 9, 1962, New York
At first his right and left hands hover over the keysbefore falling to the ivorylike a luggage-bombed Boeing.
His right hand on the trebles movingat the rate it takes to stitch shutthe eyes of a hawk.
Left hand low and slow, corkingscraps of breath in perfume bottles.
His right is a palace revolution,the King's own gave them the keys.
Left hand like an ancient fish that has cometo enjoy long walks on the beach.
His right, lucky as finding a duffle of pornthe day after his girlfriend left.
His left, like drilling rainpocking the pond before resting
like a cowboy in a hip bath,smoking a cigar in front of the fire.
Meanwhile, his right walks like a womanentering a dry stone hut knuckled on a hill,
her wounded revolutionary lying inside. Shecarries a basket of bread covered with a towel.
His left makes the rich nervous.
His right skis to the North Star, seeing-eye dog of explorers.
His left pivots at the star and stumbles in perfect harmonylike an actor playing the Bullet-Riddled Man.
His right is under oath.
His left's careful as a cobweb in a dry sink.
His right practices the foolproof rhythm method.
His left starts a pan-pan, jumps a tiger pit, rolls when it lands.
His right pulls the blinds.
His left lets one rip.
His right touches the keys like fruitchecked for ripeness by a football team.
His left stops in its tracks and shivers,having found a corpse in the hedge.
His right shakes its moneymakerat a nun, while his left
is held above the keys like a tonguesickened by the fur of unbrushed teeth.
His right blames its parents and slams the door.
His left goes off its rocker, lets outlike a soccer match, crushing people in the stands.
His right is read the riot act whilehis left sugars the sheriff's tank.
His right is winter, a pinhole of light broken open.
His left is a centaur having his way with a harpyon top of the Golden Fleece.
His right thinks the garburator has turnedthe left into a rosebud stump.
His left is flung on the guardrail like a car wreck.
His right turns back the tide.
His left is a combine going against the grain in the corn rows.
His right loves what you've done with your hair.
His left is a shut-in living through the eye in his door.
His right's limp as a severed gooseneck.
His left gives shelter to the poor, feels aroundin the dark for someone it knows.
His right has nothing left to lose, so it brings home the bacon,it spreads the threshold of your aorta while
the left is lowered by a long G chordinto the borehole of your heart.
