#Elgar

[masonyin]

50 composers

#bach #mozart #beethoven #haydn #handel #paganini #schubert #mendelssohn #chopin #schumann #liszt #brahms #strauss #tchaikovsky #dvorak #elgar #mahler #debussy #rachmaninoff #stravinsky #ravel #gershwin #shostakovich #bernsterin

[secretwhumplair]

It's night and they escape and head for the border idk

1,144 words | The black prince (might come up with a better title yet.)

Content | Multiple whumpees, broken bones, fear, crying, starvation, mute whumpee, implied/mentioned: punishment, non-con, war themes, mouth whump

Notes | Elgar stages a daring escape for his companion in suffering! Surely he cannot be saved and also they'll be fine without him.

Elgar stared at the dark ceiling, the blanket Master had granted him barely separating his bones from the cold, hard floorboards.

He had to be grateful, he knew. Like every night they thought they could get away with it, the poor wretch Master kept alongside him was holding his hand while lying unprotected on the floor under the bed. Master had made Elgar his favourite from the day he got him, and Elgar hated it and hated the gratefulness bubbling up at the stupid little privileges his body earned him more. He had done everything he could get away with to make it clear he wanted nothing less than kick down at the other, and thankfully, the wretch had been open to it.

He didn’t know what their name was; their tongue had been cut out, so they couldn’t tell even if it were safe for them to talk. He hated referring to them by the term their master used so derogatorily, but he had no other.

Tonight, their cold fingers were trembling in his hand. They must be cold, and in horrific pain.

Master’s travels had led them close to the borders of the wretch’s home country, and Master had seen fit to break their legs to prevent any attempt at escape. He had not relieved them of their cleaning duties. Elgar knew they had been trying their best, despite the agony every move must cause them, but it was never enough to avoid further punishment.

Elgar, staring at the ceiling, had already made up his mind. The difficult part was working up the courage to actually act on it.

Master’s breaths were slow and steady. Every moment more he hesitated was a moment wasted.

He squeezed the wretch’s hand. »Hey.« He hoped they could hear him, not daring to raise his voice any further over his breath.

They squeezed back.

»If,« if Master hears any of this, you’ll both be sorry, »if I get you to the stables… on a horse, do you think you can make it home?« Right here was the closest Master’s travelling route would get them. It was now or never.

Elgar didn’t want to think about what Master would do when he woke up and found the wretch gone, with only one possible assisstant to his escape. But they needed to be free of this. They would die.

The wretch didn’t respond for a long moment. Their breathing was laboured, holding in, he knew, cries of pain they would be punished for, even as they just lay there.

Then they squeezed his hand, with all the strength, he thought, they still had. It wasn’t a lot. They were starved even worse than he was, having to live off his leftovers. He had started leaving them as much as he could once he realized, but it was never enough.

»Okay,« he breathed. »Can… can you come out? I can carry you from here.«

He sat up to watch Master’s sleeping form on the bed, cosily wrapped in as many blankets as it took to keep him warm; he had started to snore softly.

When the wretch appeared in the strip of pale moonlight falling through the window, their lips were pressed into a tight line, tears rolling down their face. Their legs, dragging behind them, looked wrong. Elgar hoped they could find a medic soon when they were free, or they would never heal right.

As quietly as he could, he stood up and opened the door, then came back to pick them up.

They pressed their face against his arm, straining not to make a noise as he inevitably jostled them. They were feather-light, even though the hunger and abuse had also sucked his strength. It was nothing to what they had been through, he reminded himself.

He successfully maneuvered them out the door and tiptoed down towards the stables. The stronghold wasn’t heavily guarded on the inside, not when attacks from the outside were such a concern, so close to the border, and that felt like a blessing.

The stables smelled of hay and horses, soft shuffling and breathing revealing more of them than the little shards of moonlight filtering in. After setting the wretch down in the saddling area, Elgar had to feel around for tack and could only hope it wasn’t too ill-matched to whatever horse he could find in the dark.

He managed to lead a friendly horse, a barely-there silhouette, out of its stall and up to the wretch. There was no time for a proper brushing-down, so he just quickly ran his hands over its back before saddling it, and lifting the wretch up. A little whimper escaped them as their legs shifted onto either side of the horse.

They would make it, somehow. They had to. He handed them the reins and swallowed. »Good luck.«

He was about to step away when they caught him, grabbing on to the arm of his threadbare tunic.

They were gesturing for him to join him. His heart sank like lead. »It’s too dangerous,« he whispered. »We’re… our countries are at war. You people would not welcome me.«

The wretch tugged at him, their gestures more urgent, then cupped their hands together as if cradling a small animal. I’ll protect you.

Elgar silently shook his head. They wouldn’t be able to, and he knew it. Even if, by some strike of luck, they could convinced whoever they found first that this Teeradian had saved them and deserved no hostility… others would disagree, sooner rather than later.

They tugged at his arm again. Their eyes were shimmering in the low light.

They could hardly even ride in the state they were in. And truly, how much worse could things get?

You might die, a voice screamed in the back of his head as he clambered on behind them, the horse already walking off when he was still trying to find his seat.

He wrapped an arm around them to give them both a little more stability where they were perched uncomfortably in a saddle made for one. They were holding on to the reins with what appeared like surprising competence as the horse wandered along, across the courtyard.

The gates were closed, of course.

Calling out to the guards seemed wrong when they had been trying to make as little noise as possible, but there was no way around it. »We are to run an errand for our Master.«

The guards didn’t bother asking any questions.

The wretch, breathing through soft sobs, tapped his leg with one hand as they rode through the gates, and he gave the horse a tentative squeeze. He never had known the luxury of a horse, but he had ridden a donkey once or twice, long ago.

The horse eventually started walking faster, heading towards the mountains marking the border.

#whump #whump writing #escape #broken bones #multiple whumpees #my writing #elgar #the black prince is apparently a tag that already exists #(not surprised) #I. haven't actually named him yet #edit to add: #orafin

[amatesura]

ELGAR (1962) | dir. Ken Russell

#elgar #perioddramaedit #filmedit #filmgifs #classicfilmedit #edward elgar #HANDS #ken russell #*

[secretsmutcorner]

Commiseration

401 words | The black prince [WT]

Content | NSFWhump, explicit noncon, slavery, begging, degradation, crying, multiple whumpees, mention of: punishment

Notes | Orafin and Elgar (... mostly Elgar) are having a bad night during their captivity.

Taglist | @scoundrelwithboba

Orafin’s back was bleeding after another punishment. Everything hurt.

But that wasn’t why he was quietly weeping in his spot on the naked floor under his master’s bed. At least not the half of it.

Above him, the bed creaked with the force of Elgar being railed into it, easily for the dozenth time this night. Their master had invited some of his friends to come play with his pretty toy, and they had been at it for hours. At first, Elgar had pretended to enjoy it in a futile attempt to appease them, but he had long since given up, his moans and little whimpers giving way to sobs and cries of pain; at least when his voice wasn’t wholly smothered by—as Orafin could imagine only too vividly—another cock rammed down his throat.

It didn’t stop his tormentors from adding insult to injury. »You’re enjoying this, little whore, aren’t you?«

And Elgar, robbed of all strength to resist, could only sob out the answer that would spare him later punishment. »Yes, sir.«

Orafin had to stifle his own sobs. It certainly wasn’t his place to cry over this, even if there wasn’t the looming punishment for making himself known. He wasn’t who was suffering.

»Please-«

No. There was nothing Orafin could do, but he had so hoped that Elgar would be able to resist the urge to beg. He had been getting better at it, Orafin felt, but he couldn’t blame him for his willpower failing him.

»Please what, pretty thing?«

There was only one answer their master would accept to this question, too. Elgar had been trained too well, had suffered too much for refusing it to fight back now, and Orafin knew it.

Elgar let out a desperate wail. »Please, Master-«

»Please what?«

For a moment, there was nothing but shuddering breath. »Please f-fuck me harder.«

The jeers and laughter nearly drowned out the scream that followed.

And Orafin could do nothing but weep for the only soul that had shown him any kindness in this unending nightmare.

He reached up and pressed a hand against between the slats, where he felt Elgar’s weight against the mattress. He didn’t know whether Elgar could even feel him, nor whether the reminder of another witness to his degradation wouldn’t make him feel worse.

But he hoped he would find the tiniest shred of comfort in not being alone.

#whump #nsfwhump #whump writing #slavery whump #multiple whumpees #the black prince is apparently a tag that already exists #orafin #elgar

[hanselw]

Grieg&Elgar's Musiks. They're a teenage idol group managed by Handel (who is said to be Bach's old friend), competitors of ClaKla but they are privately friends.

The cane of Elgar releases Musiks by touching the ground with. The number of touches, frequency, and amount of force applied (tapping or hitting) determines the Musik that is going to be released.

#classicaloid oc #classicaloid #grieg #elgar

[sloshed-cinema]

Tár (2022)

If Mahler stated that a symphony should be the world, then Lydia Tár’s professional symphony is crumbling around her.  This is a story of grooming and professional corruption, about using power to take advantage of others and exploit them for what you desire.  Yet Todd Field resisted the urge to make a simple Harvey Weinstein type story, opting instead to use the incredibly specific and incredibly dense palette of classical music and the orchestral industry as his palette.  The movie doesn’t hold the viewer’s hand in the least; from moment one, references and nods are flying fast and loose, calling out everyone from Furtwängler and Karajan to Marin Alsop and Michael Tilson Thomas.  Hildur Guðnadóttir plays a clever double-role, mentioned by name alongside peers such as Jennifer Higdon but also furnishing elements of the diegetic and non-diegetic soundscape.  Extended rehearsal sequences in Tár’s pidgin German play out free of subtitles.  The minutiae of orchestral union proceedings are debated time and again.  All of these references, all of this time, all of this vocabulary is necessary to establish the zealous obsession that surrounds the craft for Tár.  She has crafted her whole identity around being the next soothsayer of the Western canon, the protégée of Bernstein himself.  More importantly, it’s a veneer of legitimacy.  It’s clear from the start that the maestro is less than “politically correct”: a dressing-down of a Juilliard student regarding his opinions on contemporary art music and views on Bach steps beyond the pale of a misguided tough love approach and more into the territory of personal attack.  But this is a pattern.  Fields approaches the everyday administrative details of Tár’s life with the same meticulousness.  Insidious little instances begin to float to the surface, indicating a predatory tendency that others notice and become increasingly intolerant toward.  The camera lingers on Lydia’s assistant Francesca as she lip-syncs her boss’s plaudits during a public interview, casts furtive glances or begins to wonder why she’s being asked certain things.  Even the matter of handing over a laptop becomes a dangerous prospect.  And the conductor’s wife and colleague, concertmaster Sharon Goodnow, becomes increasingly disillusioned with Tár’s actions as a new affair begins to become apparent in newcomer cellist Olga.  In this sense, the deliberate and clinical handling of camera in many scenes begins to build a case against the maestro, feeling in beats almost akin to The Assistant.  A specific event involving a fellow for a program Tár started for women conductors lingers in the shadows, eluded to but never fully elucidated.  Krista Taylor had no prospects in the field after Tár torpedoed her career.  The maestro insists this was due to Taylor’s mental instability, but other evidence suggests that there was a revenge aspect to this.  The fantasy life of private jets and book talks can be ripped away so quickly.

And yet the fantasy of it all does have its place in the tapestry of this narrative.  As with music, there is room for ambiguity here, space to interpret.  Especially in the back half of the film, Field calls into question Tár’s state of mind through her troubled dreams and strange nocturnal discoveries.  Distorted images of the women in her life haunt her, intertwined with moments in the Amazon recalling her past ethnomusicological work.  Yet as things begin to unravel and Tár loses the thread, the nature of objective reality becomes more tenuous.  As with the scandal reveal, it’s subtle at first.  In her rehearsal home, the maestro is haunted by a persistent doorbell sound, which heartbreakingly later turns out to be the elderly woman next door in distress.  The legacy of Krista Taylor’s fallout and eventual suicide comes in the form of labyrinthine drawings which appear in gift book inscriptions, metronome faces, or formed in clay in her adoptive daughter’s room.  Just where these come from or who makes them is never made explicit, but that doesn’t make them any less haunting for Tár.  As she courts Olga, or seduces her, the cellist becomes ever more disillusioned with Tár just as she becomes more elusive.  At one point, Tár chases Olga into the seemingly abandoned building where she perhaps resides, only to find the cellist vanished, seemingly a figment of her imagination.  Descending into the basement, she instead finds a fox or a wolf, her predatory nature turning back on her.  Ghosts haunt the periphery. By the time it has all fallen away, she rushes onto the stage mid-performance, attacking her impostor, claiming the score for herself.  It’s her work, she alone can interpret it.  Utterly fallen from grace, the final sequences play out like a sort of bizarro-world fantasy.  New York is no longer a place of glamour, but an ugly outer borough rail station, everything drab and grey and muddy.  Her final gig is the coup de grace.  She is engaged to perform a Japanese work for a Southeast Asian concert hall.  The final shot is a bitterly funny punch in the gut: she’s at the bottom of the barrel, performing video game music for a rapt audience of cosplayers.  Goodbye haughty, lofty concert halls.  

Noémie Merlant, Nina Hoss, and Sophie Kauer all turn in strong, nuanced performances.  But Cate Blanchett is the obvious powerhouse here.  She’s fun as the haughty, dismissive maestro who knows just how it’s all done.  This makes her fall all the more pathetic, not even able to see her daughter.  It’s a late scene which cements just how hard this has all hit her, and a brilliant piece of acting from Blanchett.  Sitting alone at her old family home in New York with a childhood field hockey medal around her neck, Tár watches a recording of one of Leonard Bernstein’s Young People’s Concerts where he describes how music can be used to communicate ideas words cannot.  Her face says it all: this is her whole world still, but now she no longer can access it, by her own hand.  She controlled time with her baton, but she cannot control others in the same fashion.

THE RULES

PICK ONE

Select either MAHLER FIVE or the ELGAR CELLO CONCERTO and sip whenever that work is mentioned.

SIP

Someone name-drops a composer or conductor.

The narrative transitions to a new city.

Lydia calls someone a robot.

A scene contains a language other than English spoken in dialogue.

BIG DRINK

A labyrinth is drawn on something.

Tár cuts off the orchestra during rehearsal.

#drinking games #tar #todd field #cate blanchett #noemie merlant #sophie kauer #nina hoss #drama #oscars 2023 #mahler #elgar #hildur guðnadóttir

[senfonikankara]

Gülsin Onay & Erkin Onay 

Bilkent Konser Salonu  23 Mayıs 2024 Perşembe, 20:00

Elgar | Sonat op.82

Elgar | İzmir'de

Bartók | 7 Eskiz

Saygun | Aksak Tartılar Üzerine

Saygun | Demet

#gülsin onay #erkin onay #konser #ankara #klasik müzik #bilkent #elgar #Bartok #adnan saygun #bela bartok

[thatnerdyqueer]

"We'll win, of course," he said.

"You don't want that," said the demon.

"Why not, pray?"

"Listen,"said Crowley desperately, "how many musicians do you think your side have got, eh? First grade, I mean."

Aziraphale looked taken aback.

"Well, I should think—" he began.

"Two," said Crowley. "Elgar and Liszt. That's all. We've got the rest. Beethoven, Brahms, all the Bachs, Mozart, the lot. Can you imagine eternity with Elgar?"

Aziraphale shut his eyes. "All too easily," he groaned.

Lmao an eternity with elgar? shoot me. Crowley is 100% right. hell any day thanks

Also, wHy iS LisZt iN hEaVeN? dO yOu KnOw ThE aMoUnT oF pAiN tHaT mAn CaUsEs tO PiANisTs aRoUnD tHe WorLd???? Not to mention a wHoLe liszt (get it) of supposedly 'sinful' things he did that should have gotten him kicked out of heaven. Smoking, drinking, cheating, etc etc

Also also, I'm surprised Crowley didn't mention paganni, given he was famous for the rumour about how he sold his soul to the devil in order to be more virtuosic at the violin.

#crowley #aziraphale #good omens #neil gaiman #classical music #musician #music #liszt #franz liszt #elgar #edward elgar #ineffable

[therealnuclearplatypus]

listening to elgar while i curse the education system and finish up a project 🤙

#life updates with ari lol #elgar #edward elgar #education system

[edeldoro]

#Music #Videos #Edward Elgar #Elgar #Jacqueline du Pré #Jacqueline du Pre #Cello #Cello concerto #I wanted to continue SIGNALIS right now but I'm on a musical detour right now h #Youtube

[falseandrealultravival]

Salut d'amour（Greetings of Love ）：Elgar　 Classic

A woman sighed, "Why do men like the song 'Pomp and circumstance'?" I feel like I understand. It's often used in boxing title fights to honor the winner. It's probably a song that men like. On the other hand, in the case of “Salut d'amour ”, she will accept the orthodox love song. Episodes of two of Elgar's masterpieces. But as a man, I prefer Pomp and circumstance.

愛の挨拶（エルガー）　クラシック

「なんで男のひとは、”威風堂堂”なんて曲が好きなの？」と嘆息した女性がいた。わからんでもない。ボクシングのタイトルマッチで、勝者を称えるときによく使われるし。男性好みの曲ではあろう。いっぽう”愛の挨拶”の場合、正統的なラブソング、その彼女も受け入れるだろう。エルガーの代表作2曲のエピソード。でも、男の私は、「威風堂堂」のほうをより好む。

#Salut d'amour #Greetings of Love #Babylman #Elgar #Classic #Pomp and circumstance #boxing #orthodox love song

[daily-classical]

#elgar #english music #symphony #orchestra #Youtube

[secretwhumplair]

The Outpost

633 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to It's night and they escape and head for the border)

Content | Multiple whumpees, broken bones, fear, implied/mentioned: starvation, slavery, war themes

Notes | Hooray! They made it! Right.

Why am I struggling so much with titling right now sdkfaskf it's bad enough I have to name all these characters and places

Elgar had underestimated how exhausting it would be, for both of them, to stay on a horse for hours. He hadn’t even managed to get the animal to pick up a trot, but even so, he worried his companion might fall off any minute, their frail body slumped against his.

The first light of dawn was creeping over the horizon, stealing through the forest where they were following a path narrow enough it might have been trodden into the ground by wild animals only. Elgar had no idea whether the wretch knew where they were going. They only reached out to weakly tap his leg when the horse slowed down, even though Elgar himself barely had the strength anymore to encourage it forward. By now it had stopped more than once to nibble at some herbs by the wayside.

But then, the forest suddenly retreated, revealing a large clearing, and at the center of it what was clearly a fortified outpost of the Ochurian military.

Elgar’s heart sank when he saw it. The wretch might find help here—and he was glad, he was—but he? His insides squirmed. A part of him was utterly convinced he had merely exchanged one cruel master for another.

But then, if so, what difference did it really make? At least the wretch would be safe. Wouldn’t they?

When they approached, a guard called out to them in Ochurian. Elgar didn’t understand a word of it, but their rough, hostile tone was enough to make him want to cower—not that he could.

The wretch stopped the horse, or let it stop. Elgar wished they could have gone a little closer, so the soldiers could see the deplorable state they were in and perhaps take pity, or at any rate recognize the wretch as one of their own at least by ancestry.

Elgar could only reply in the Rekkshuran he had picked up during his captivity and hope that a military man so close to the border would understand at least a few words. »We come as refugees. My companion is of your people. They need a medic,« he added without much hope. »Please.«

There was some commotion, then quiet that stretched uncomfortably long. Elgar noticed he could barely feel his feet or hands after travelling through the cold night. The wretch was so immobile they might as well have died right there before him.

Finally, the gate opened. »Come,« someone called in heavily accented Rekkshuran.

Elgar cued the horse forward with all the strength he had left, and they managed to get through the gate, where a number of curious soldiers was awaiting them. Many of them gave him hostile looks, just like he had expected. There was a knot in his throat. He thought of the wretch’s hands closing in the dark of the stable: I’ll protect you. But they couldn’t speak. They could hardly move any more by the looks of it.

Now, though, they managed to raise their head and meet the eyes the unamused man approaching them—the resident big cheese by the way he, and the soldiers around him, acted.

Elgar would never forget the moment that followed: the way the commander’s face changed from stern mistrust to open dismay.

He rushed to the side of the horse. »Your Highness… my Prince.«

Elgar could only stare as the word echoed through his suddenly empty head. Prince prince prince. The poor soul he had seen as equal to his own miserable state, had casually taken by the hand, had sought to soothe with what now seemed like the most condescending phrases… a prince.

A whole new fear bubbled up in his throat like acid.

The wretch—prince—merely fell off the horse, and was caught securely in the arms of the commander.

#whump #whump writing #multiple whumpees #the black prince is apparently a tag that already exists #elgar #my writing

[quiixs]

Their Place

#anime #anime cap #gundam #gundam ibo #gundam iron blooded orphans #kidō senshi gundam tekketsu no orphans #mikazuki augus #kudelia aina bernstein #atra mixta #orga itsuka #akihiro altland #ride mass #eugene sevenstark #hush middy #dante mogro #merribit stapleton #zack lowe #elgar #hirume #embi

[ana103]

#Elgar #cello concerto

[hanselw]

additional setting

Grieg& Elgar's group symbol

#classicaloid oc #berlioz #grieg #elgar #classicaloid