Leap year just gave us anextra day. Less than two weeks later, we’re already giving an hour of it back. It’s time again to spring ahead, time to turn our clocks one hour forward to adapt to Daylight Saving Time.
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Most everyone credits Benjamin Franklin with the idea, but how many know Franklin initially suggested saving light in jest?
Franklin conceived the “invention” of using time and light more effectively during his nine years as the French ambassador, pitching it as a letter to the editor in The Journal of Paris in 1784: “An Economical Project for Diminishing the Cost of Light.” Bear in mind, before light bulbs and electrical power, the cost of light involved candle wax.
Franklin calculated the total savings for about half a pound of candles per family per night. Based on 183 nights, he summed up savings for the city to be 96,075,000 livres tournois — about $200 million in today’s dollars. According to Franklin, “an immense sum that the city of Paris might save every year, by the economy of using sunshine instead of candles.”
On the face of it, Franklin’s push for economy of scale warranted serious consideration. However, Franklin’s own reasoning unmasks his tongue-in-cheek recommendation in a debate with a “learned natural philosopher.”
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Franklin claimed that because his shutters were accidentally left open one night when he went to bed, noises from the street and the sun coming in through the window woke him up much too early the next morning. But the philosopher countered, saying that it wasn’t the light of the sun peeking in that woke up Franklin — it was the darkness pouring out.
To acclimate Parisians to the change, Franklin suggested the following:
Every morning, as soon as the sun rises, let all the bells in every church be set ringing; and if that is not sufficient? Let cannon be fired in every street, to wake the sluggards effectually, and make them open their eyes to see their true interest.
Acknowledging that men of old also knew that the sun rose earlier in the spring, Franklin glibly claimed that the ancients did not realize that the sun lit up the sky the very moment it rose. It was the astute Franklin who discovered this astonishing fact.
After Franklin, two others earnestly pursued advancement of adjusting clocks to take advantage of daylight. George Hudson, an entomologist in New Zealand in the late 1800s, wanted more time to collect his bugs. In 1907, British builder and outdoor sportsman William Willett vigorously championed the idea. Willett, however, passed away before Daylight Saving Time was formally adopted in 1916, first in Germany, then in Great Britain. (April 30 marks the 100th anniversary of DST.)
America lagged a couple years behind in its implementation of this time-saving idea. First applied in 1918, DST was so unpopular Congress repealed it the very next year, overriding a veto by President Woodrow Wilson.
During WWII, President Franklin Roosevelt instituted what he called “War Time.” But following 1945, individual states decided how they wanted to handle the time switch-up.
Finally, most of the time confusion in this country was straightened out with something called “The Uniform Time Act” in 1966 — which was amended in 1994.
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Thus, wise use of time that began with the Founding Father who said, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,” has taken many turns through the years, and people continue to debate the effectiveness of DST.
Libertarianism (Latin: liber, "free") is a political philosophy that upholds liberty as its principal objective. Libertarians seek to maximize autonomy and freedom of choice, emphasizing political freedom, voluntary association, and the primacy of individual judgment.
Libertarianism doesn’t often attract attention from The Atlantic, but a recent article, “The Information Revolution’s Dark Turn,” features philosopher Alistair Duff who attacks libertarianism in general, and Murray Rothbard specifically. Unfortunately, the article misrepresents libertarianism, but does so in a superficially plausible way. Many critics of libertarianism, I suspect, view it in the same way the article does.
The article is an interview of Alistair Duff, who teaches information society and policy at Edinburgh Napier University. Duff is interested in the information revolution in Silicon Valley, and he thinks that people who work there are too anti-statist.
Duff says of libertarianism, “I think it’s a mistaken philosophy.”
I have read [Robert] Nozick’s Anarchy, State, and Utopia, and Murray Rothbard’sEthics of Liberty, and Milton Friedman’s Capitalism and Freedom— I’ve read it all, and it’s a flawed philosophy. The ultimate value is not liberty: It is justice. Liberty has to fit within the context of social justice. And where it violates justice, I’m afraid justice trumps liberty.
Libertarianism says that freedom is the paramount value. But I don’t think that’s the case. I’m a follower of John Rawls, the great Harvard political philosopher, and in his Theory of Justice, he makes clear that justice is the paramount virtue in political life.
It should incorporate a great deal of freedom, including some inalienable freedoms, but you cannot trump justice with liberty in the way Tim Cook is doing.
In brief, according to Duff, libertarians think that freedom is the highest value, but justice is in fact more important.
Readers might expect me to say that Duff is mistaken: freedom outranks justice; but this would not be a good way to proceed. To do so would be to accept the way Duff characterizes libertarianism, and it would be wrong to do so.
At first sight, one might think that Duff was correct. After all, Murray Rothbard says “Libertarianism does not offer a way of life; it offers liberty, so that each person is free to adopt and act upon his own values and moral principles. Libertarians agree with Lord Acton that ‘liberty is the highest political end’ — not necessarily the highest end on everyone's personal scale of values.” Further, Rawls says, “Justice is the first virtue of social institutions, as truth is of systems of thought.” (A Theory of Justice, 1st edition, p. 3)
Isn’t this exactly the contrast that Duff has set forward? Libertarians rank liberty first: supporters of Rawls think that justice outranks liberty. What could be clearer?
We Need the Correct Theory of Justice
The contrast that Duff draws in fact rests on a false assumption. As libertarians see matters, liberty and justice are not separate values that need to be ranked. Rather, “liberty” refers to the system it supports of rights based on self-ownership and property rights, and precisely this system is “justice” as libertarianism characterizes it. The difference between libertarians and Rawls concerns the correct theory of justice, not whether “justice” or “liberty” has greater importance. Rothbard makes this vital point clear in his discussion of Isaiah Berlin, who did speak of “liberty” unmoored from other values. He writes, “Berlin’s fundamental flaw was his failure to define negative liberty as the absence of physical interference with an individual’s person and property, with his just property rights broadly defined.” (The Ethics of Liberty, p. 216) Nozick takes exactly the same position. Anarchy, State, and Utopia offers an alternative to Rawls’s theory: it is not an endeavor to elevate liberty above justice in the hierarchy of values.
Duff may have gotten the wrong idea about libertarianism because when he thinks of “justice,” he has in mind his own view. He says, “There is massive inequality, which is unacceptable. Inequality should not be so great that it crystallizes into class distinctions — master-servant relations — and I think you have that in Silicon Valley, to some extent.” It’s certainly right that libertarianism doesn’t value equality of income and wealth, but this is not a rejection of justice. Duff cannot see that his view of justice is not the only one on offer. By the way, why Duff thinks that inequalities of wealth lead to master-servant relations is not obvious. Are the employees of Silicon Valley companies who earn less than the billionaire owners of these firms the “servants” of these owners? Why think that?
Duff might respond to the line of criticism I have suggested by saying, “So what! Even if libertarianism does have a theory of justice, it’s the wrong one. Rawls’s theory is better.” If Duff were to say that, though, he would have to argue for the superiority of Rawls’s theory to the libertarian one. It would not suffice merely to dismiss libertarianism for preferring liberty to justice. Duff’s tactic is no more than a rhetorical trick.
Duff’s Odd Notions of Justice
There is another questionable claim in Duff’s interview. In a statement I have already quoted, he says that “public life should incorporate a great deal of freedom … but you cannot trump justice with liberty in the way Tim Cook is doing.” He is talking about Cook’s refusal to obey the FBI’s demand that Apple engineer software to help unlock the iPhone of one of the San Bernardino shooters. Duff is adamant on this matter. He says, “I’m with the state on that, absolutely. I think Tim Cook is out of his mind. It’s a clear case where the state’s rights prevail over the right of individual privacy, and I say that as an advocate of privacy. We’ve got to get common sense on privacy, not fanaticism.”
It is difficult to see why Duff regards Cook’s position as one that unduly prefers liberty to justice. Rawls’s theory, which Duff favors, doesn’t directly address conflicts of this sort between liberty and national security. Why, then, does Duff take what is at stake to be a conflict between liberty and justice? Perhaps Duff would appeal to Rawls’s discussion of conscription (A Theory of Justice, 1st edition, pp. 380ff.), but in the absence of a fuller account by him, his claim is baffling.
Duff says about libertarian theory that he has “read it all,” but he has not done so very carefully and thoughtfully.
As social beings, we humans are profoundly influenced by the past, often in ways we do not entirely comprehend. While free and self-determining, it is nonetheless true that our values, moral commitments, manners, expectations, and vision of the world are shaped by a cultural inheritance; sometimes even one we might reject or question if it became explicit to us—ideas have consequences, in other words.
It shouldn’t surprise us, then, to learn that the modern citizen of the West, whatever her religious commitment (or lack thereof), is deeply formed by a late-medieval theological dispute about the nature of God, however arcane this may seem to an advanced technological age.
In a nutshell, the question is this: Are there limits on what God can do? If God is omnipotent, as the Jewish, Christian, and Muslim traditions all hold, can God make 2+2=5? Can God make the past not to have been? Could God command us to hate Him? Could God rewrite the Ten Commandments to read “Thou shalt commit adultery”?
If God really is omnipotent, then God should not be limited by anything. His will, his choice should be determined and shaped by nothing other than what he chooses. If limited by anything else, even by the laws of logic, God would be subservient. And an omnipotent God cannot be subservient, so God is limited by nothing other than his own choice, which he can change.
Or so the argument goes. It’s an enormous mistake of course, for while God is not limited by anything external or superior to him—whatever that is would be an über-God—genuine freedom is the excellence of acting in keeping with one’s own being, and God, because not caused or dependent in any way, simply is his own being. God does not obey external rules, but he does always act in keeping with his own nature and so cannot will anything counter to himself. There are all sorts of things God cannot do, precisely because he is God. (He cannot be contingent, or sin, or will that 2+2=5, for instance.)
Sometimes termed divine voluntarism, and often associated with William of Ockham (1280-1349), the mistaken “absolute sovereignty” position piously attempts to preserve the dignity of God but ends up casting a long shadow over divine integrity, human worth, and moral and political normativity.
Start with morality. The older natural law tradition, as articulated by Thomas Aquinas, thought of the moral law—including the commandments of God—as a dictate of reason, not of pure will. Further, because humans are created in the image of God, and endowed with reason, humans are able, at least in part, to know the good and right through reason. On this account, humans are made for flourishing, for the good, and were oriented toward the good by their own nature. We want what is good for us, we can know what is good for us, and the moral law helps us attain what we always already want—well-being and true flourishing.
However, if the moral law is ordered only by God’s willing it so, and it could have been ordered in an utterly different way—up could be down and down could be up, morally speaking—then the moral law is only accidentally ordered to our flourishing. It might be, but it might not be, and there is no compelling warrant to consider it so—it’s potentially random, even capricious. Consequently, the moral law is not intrinsically related to human flourishing and a chasm appears between our freedom and morality.
While Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, Augustine, and Aquinas all thought that morality educated us in what it meant to be a good, happy, flourishing person, the new morality taught that our freedom was not by nature oriented to morality but rather that morality was a limiting condition, a check, on our freedom. God’s will crimps and cramps rather than sustains and nurtures our will. Now, it was thought that the pious would obey (perhaps from fear, perhaps from love), but human freedom and morality were positioned in opposition to each other, as combatants. Was it so surprising that self-respecting men and women would eventually choose freedom rather than God? Would choose license over an alien and alienating moral constraint?
It didn’t need to be that way, of course, and giants like John Paul the Great, J. R. R. Tolkien, and C. S. Lewis have performed heroic labors trying to recover the older, better, and lovelier tradition of divine-human friendship, but the damage is done. The modern impulse, seen so clearly in someone like Immanuel Kant, is to privilege human freedom or autonomy (self-legislation) against moral directives thought external or heteronomous (legislated by another). The voice of the other—whether God, nature, tradition, authority—is thought an illicit and arbitrary curtailment of our creative power and force.
Or, consider nature. Thinkers as diverse as Heraclitus, Plotinus, Seneca, the author of Genesis, the Psalmist, and Aquinas, all believed that nature was full of beauty, meaning, and purpose. Sometimes, admittedly, in ways that would not meet the test of science. But the idea that matter was inert, just brute, dumb, mechanical, and purposeless, is a metaphysical rather than scientific idea, although it is the metaphysics of our own age. Ancients and moderns both could look at the world and see a book, a text speaking forth goodness, order, and purpose. Nature and nature’s God, as one important document put it, spoke self-evident truth. Nature was never just matter, but logos, and attending to nature was to be attuned, to be whole.
But if God can make 2+2=5, and if his creative power was arbitrary, then “living in accordance with nature” was not normative. In fact, revolting against the limits of nature could be an exercise of genuine human freedom. Consequently, the claims by those like Francis Bacon—nature was to be tortured or put on the rack to yield her secrets—or Marx—past philosophers interpreted the world, now we would change it—are simply the logical extension of a misguided theology.
In our own time, almost every natural limit is thought to be indifferent or oppressive. That is, either we can simply disregard the limit or are perhaps even duty-bound to resist it. The human body, for instance, is thought to be a matter of our own whim and construction, as in the transgenderism of our time. Sexuality is a flux and continuum, as in the ongoing sexual revolution. Humanity itself is up for grabs, as in genetic editing, partial-birth abortion, and personhood for animals.
And on it goes. We could multiply examples. But these are all symptoms, not causes. The really human things are not being attacked and abolished by the moral revolt we witness, these are simply the spasms and death throes of a civilization long unmoored but preserved by the cultural inheritance of an earlier time.
As the institutions and form of life long nourished by those “long since under earth” decay, so goes humanity, for we live by those graces bequeathed to us by others, just as we suffer because of those who abolished that grace.
A piano concerto is a composition in which a solo piano (or harpsichord) is accompanied by a large ensemble of other instruments (usually a full orchestra but not always). This list looks at 10 of the greatest (with an additional bonus entry from JFrater). The criteria for inclusion and ranking of entries are musical artistry, technical artistry, pianistic power, balance between piano and orchestra, and historical influence.
10
No. 2, C minor, Op. 18
Sergei Rachmaninoff
Possibly Rachmaninoff’s most famous piece, along with his Prelude in C# minor (which he actually got tired of performing in public). Rachmaninoff is one of the few classical composers in history who was a genuine triple threat: world-class composer, performer, and conductor. Thus, when it came to composing for his own instrument, he didn’t pull any punches. He knew what a classically-trained pianist should be able to do, and with gigantic hands that could stretch a 13th on the keyboard (the average man’s hand can barely manage a 10th), he incorporated a lot of equally gigantic chords in his music. This concerto begins with a driving, very atmospheric, almost dirge-like melody. As is typical of his works, the last movement winds up with a pulse-pounding moment of elation.
These 10-fingered chords are one of the primary calling cards of his music, one of the reasons you can recognize his music after only a few measures. His 2nd concerto was his first outstanding work in a long time, after a series of mediocre efforts, and this mediocrity was driving him to depression because he knew he was much better than the critics would have him believe. They lambasted his 1st concerto. His 1st symphony was notably derided by Cesar Cui, of the Russian “Big Five,” who claimed it could only be enjoyed by terrible musicians who died and went to Hell where they would have to listen to it forever.
Rachmaninoff was sensitive to criticism, and such comments, echoed by Leo Tolstoy (who also considered Beethoven horrible), coupled with the sudden suicide of Rachmaninoff’s mentor and friend, Tchaikovsky, drove him into 3 years of clinical depression and writer’s block. He finally overcame it with the help of Nicolai Dahl, who hypnotized him and repeated over and over, “You are a great composer. You will compose great music.”
9
Harpsichord Concerto No. 1, BWV 1052
J. S. Bach
It is not a bit of a cheat to include this one, since although Bach wrote it for the harpsichord (because the piano had only recently been invented and was not yet a very good instrument), it is today played at least as frequently on piano. That is one of the most amazing aspects of Bach’s music, and a brilliancy no other composer can claim: his music can be played just as effectively on any instrument combination; no musicality is lost; his is, thus, the purest music anyone has ever written, and if the percussive quality of the piano were not taken into account, this one would top the list.
Bach originally scored it for solo violin, and later re-scored it for keyboard. As is typical of his music, it is extremely complex, with polyphonic harmony of the highest order, and severe technical demands, which Bach could dash off with polished artistry. It also deserves a spot on the list because it is the first truly solo concerto, at least in the spirit of the soloist being able to show off.
8
Concerto in A minor, Op. 16
Edvard Grieg
This one has the distinction of being first played by Franz Liszt himself. Not in public, but when Grieg brought it to him for his approval. Liszt and he met in 1870 in Rome, and Liszt asked him to play it, but Grieg said that he had not yet practiced it, so Liszt sightread the entire thing, even playing the orchestral parts.
Liszt immediately complimented him highly, especially for the g-sharp in the final scale run at the end of the 1st movement. It is one of the most popular concerti today, being fairly easy to perform compared to the others on this list, and in the relative minor of C Major. This key enables the music to make excellent use of the lowest note on the piano. The 2nd movement is one of the most beautiful ever written, and a piece of which Grieg was particularly proud. He intended it to remind the listener of a verdant waterfall.
7
No. 4, G Major, Op. 58
Ludwig van Beethoven
Even today, there are quite a few critics and musicologists, as well as performers, who consider this Beethoven’s finest concerto. This lister is not so convinced, but what Beethoven does brilliantly in this one is pristine balance of melody, development, technique, musicality, and balance between soloist and orchestra.
Beethoven is known for short motif-like themes, which he could develop into the highest form of music better than just about anyone. He made much out of little. But now and then, as with his his “Ode to Joy,” he could dream up a melody just as lyrical as those of Mozart. The same is true of this concerto, and yet proper development of such lyrical melodies is extremely difficult for composers to muster, as the history of music bears out. Mozart was of the opinion that if you can compose a good melody, the hard part is over. Whenever excellent melody and excellent development meet, it’s a masterpiece, and that is precisely why this concerto is one.
The most notable moment in it is in the cadenza at the end of the 2nd movement. Beethoven wrote this one himself, but left the cadenza of the 1st movement to be improvised by the performer. He marked the 2nd movement’s cadenza “una corda.” On today’s pianos, we call this the soft pedal, which shifts the hammers from all three strings of each note to just one of each. But in Beethoven’s day, this pedal actually shifted the hammers to one or two of each note’s three strings, at the composer’s discretion, and he indicated the cadenza to make full use of this ability, “due e poi the corde (two and then three strings)” during the opening trill, and “due poi una corda (two then one string)” during the end. Today, it can only be done on a period piano of Beethoven’s time.
6
No. 1, B-flat minor, Op. 23
Peter Ilyich Tchaikovsky
Today, this may possibly be the most famous concerto on this list, ever since Liberace practically used it as his theme song for years, even playing the opening overture on giant piano keys around the side of his swimming pool. Tchaikovsky could play the piano, but was not well-practiced enough to perform this piece. For a supreme composer, this is no crutch. Like all the greats, Tchaikovsky wrote at a writing desk, not seated at a piano.
This concerto was very daring for its day, especially since Tchaikovsky dedicated it to his friend and magnificent piano legend Nikolai Rubinstein, the brother of an even greater pianist, Anton. Nikolai was an absolute master of Mozart’s piano music, and his playing style could not have been more perfectly suited to such cheerful, technically refined works. Anton was the one who broke strings when he practiced.
This concerto would have been perfect, therefore, for Anton to premiere, but Tchaikovsky was closer to Nikolai and Nikolai almost always premiered his new works. Unfortunately, when he read the score, he threw it down in disgust and proceeded to criticize Tchaikovsky harshly for what he termed “a concerto against the piano.” It was far too bombastic for his taste. Tchaikovsky was, of course, offended by this, but years later Nikolai approached him and asked for forgiveness, explaining that it had taken him that long to warm up to it. After that, he performed it all the time.
It has the single most famous passage of octaves in the piano repertoire, in the 1st movement. It takes a true musician to play them correctly but not to show off by rushing through them. There is a second octave passage in the 3rd movement. The most famous part of the entire piece, though, is the opening, an ecstatic revelry of ultra-romantic music from one of the most romantic of the Romantic era. And this overture doesn’t even have the 1st melody in it. It leads to the 1st melody. The 1st movement also ends extravagantly with one of the very few instances of a 1-4-1 cadence, when 1 chords (tonic) and 5 chords (dominant) are almost all you ever hear at the end of a piece of music. The 4 chord is called the subdominant.
5
No. 21, C Major, K. 467
W. A. Mozart
In terms of musicality, this one would rank second on this list behind #9, but we are equally examining all aspects of the piano concerto, and in terms of pianistic power, this concerto is quite a sweetheart. Mozart is not known for bombastic music, though he certainly wrote some. The phrase often thrown around (if you’ll forgive the God reference) is, “Bach gave us God’s Word. Mozart gave us God’s laughter. Beethoven gave us God’s fire.”
This concerto is typical of that carefree, happy quality for which Mozart is legendary. Nevertheless, the technicality and musicality of this one require a pianist with a finished technique, especially in presto legato fingering. The 2nd movement is used to great effect in the film “Elvira Madigan,” and now the concerto is sometimes nicknamed that. Beethoven, Haydn, and Hummel were in attendance for one or more of Mozart’s own performances of this piece, and all agreed that his technique, especially in the right hand, was faultless, with the running passages in the 3rd movement as unbroken as a river.
4
No. 3, D minor, Op. 30
Rachmaninoff
By far the most technically difficult concerto ever written for any instrument, requiring extreme pianistic power. Vladimir Horowitz, one of its finest recorded performers, called it “elephantine.” Just as in his 2nd Concerto, the music in this one reflects his hands, with many of the chords great big and fat.
His original cadenza for the 1st movement is filled with these massive chords and the pianist must bang the piano to death to deliver it with the proper leonine character. One of the best recordings of it is that of Lazar Berman, who did not shy away from its demands. The 1st movement builds to multiple climaxes, then dies away quietly to a lush, windy 2nd movement. Then, per his reputation, Rachmaninoff revs it up for a storming finish at the of the 3rd movement.
3
Concerto in A minor, Op. 54
Robert Schumann
One of the most finely polished of this list’s entries, and the quintessential work of the Romantic piano concerto repertoire. The entire work is based on a 4-note theme. It descends in minor as the main theme of the 1st movement. In the 2nd, it ascends in major. Schumann further varies it in the third. It is, thus, something of a cyclic work, intending to explore fully all the possibilities of a melody. The most monumental cyclic work ever composed is the Art of the Fugue, by Bach, who heavily influenced Schumann.
His wife, Clara, the greatest female pianist in history, premiered this one on 1 January 1846. Grieg may have been influenced directly by it in composing his own piece, #8. Both are in the same opening key, and both begin with an orchestral chord, followed by the descending soloist. This one ranks at #3 because of its pure Romantic character, the archetype of all the 1800s, and extreme musical complexity. Combine the two and you require, as Artur Rubinstein once said, “No one younger than 40,” if you want it played effectively.
2
No. 2, B-flat Major, Op. 83
Johannes Brahms
Unfortunately, Brahms himself was never recorded playing this one, but his mighty performances always brought the house down. He was short, but he was brawny and could easily impart his ample body weight into the strong passages. This concerto is today considered possibly as difficult as Rachmaninoff’s 3rd, not because of technique so much as because a diminutive pianist is at a severe disadvantage in overcoming the full orchestra.
It’s a thunderous piece all the way, in 4 movements, not 3. The 1st movement has a passage in it that sounds a lot like the Battle Hymn of the Republic, which is a total coincidence, and then it ends with a double trill flourish, in which the pianist adds another finger, then another, louder and louder as the orchestra swells, and the piano must be heard over it the whole time.
1
No. 5, E-flat Major, Op. 73
Beethoven
There are two stories of how it got its nickname, “Emperor.” One is that during its Vienna premiere, a French army officer remarked in the audience, “C’est l’empereur de concerti!” or “This is the emperor of concerti!” The other story, and likely the correct one, is that Beethoven’s London publicist, Johann Cramer, gave it the name.
It was premiered first on 28 November 1811 at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig with Friedrich Schneider at the keyboard. By this point, Beethoven was too deaf to perform it himself, but he certainly wanted to. He tended to play too fast from excitement. A few months later, 12-year-old Carl Czerny, pupil of Beethoven and later teacher of Franz Liszt, premiered it in Vienna. Czerny is reported to have played magnificently, and this is supported by the fact that Beethoven would not have allowed him to butcher it.
To play such a supremely difficult work of art at 12 years old is, today, almost unheard of. This was one of the first concerti, along with Beethoven’s 4th, to break with the Classical tradition of a long orchestral introduction preceding the soloist. Instead, it begins with the orchestra declaring the key and the piano fearlessly joining in with cadenza scale runs and trills.
The 3rd movement is, of course, just as fantastic as the 1st, but the 2nd is one of the most beautiful, poetic pieces of music ever written, unadulterated romance, the piano and orchestra as lovers, and by far the finest slow movement of all concerti. Rudolf Serkin has, under Leonard Bernstein’s conducting, a claim to the finest recording of it.
+
Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra
Alfred Schnittke
As a lover of contemporary and modern classical music I felt it only fitting that I add to Flamehorse’s list of concerti by including a piano concerto by my favorite composer, Alfred Schnittke. Schnittke composed in a very eclectic manner – using quotes from other great composers from the past but always adding his own flair. This concerto demonstrates that the art of concerto composing is far from dead. It is an incredibly moving and emotional piece of music. If you like this you will love everything by Schnittke. I definitely recommend you listen to more of his music.
