This is an era where whole schools of thought
Reclaim the past, believing authenticity can be attained.
Music pretends along with the best, and skill
Becomes the bright mantra. Let the others sink
In their passive reception of what they are told
To follow, authentic manual performance has its appeal.

I listen to the young performers intent at their task
Of purifying the old music with ‘authentic’ decoration.
The young believe everything. I remember at that age
Deploring the habit my father had at the piano
Turning every chord into an arpeggio.
The CD of Mahler playing transcribed from an old piano roll,
Reveals the same habit of spreading chords into arpeggios.
There was blood on the old knives, those muskets
Were once state-of-the-art – we love nothing perfectly.