By Blair Tindall
Within the culture of Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential and Gelsey Kirkland's Dancing on My Grave, Mozart within the Jungle delves into the lives of the musicians and conductors who inhabit the insular international of classical song. In a e-book that encouraged the Amazon unique sequence starring Gael García Bernal and Malcolm McDowell, oboist Blair Tindall recounts her decades-long specialist profession as a classical musician—from the recitals and Broadway orchestra performances to the key lifetime of musicians who live to tell the tale hand to mouth within the backbiting manhattan classical song scene, the place musicians alternate sexual favors for plum jobs and assignments in orchestras around the urban. Tindall and her fellow journeymen musicians frequently play under the influence of alcohol, excessive, or hopelessly hungover, dwell in decrepit residences, and practice in harmful conditions— working-class musicians who schlep around the urban among low-paying gigs, with out health-care merits or retirement plans, a stark distinction to the rarefied reviews of overpaid classical musician superstars. An incisive, no-holds-barred account, Mozart within the Jungle is the 1st actual, behind-the-scenes examine what is going on behind the scenes and within the Broadway pit.
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Extra resources for Mozart in the Jungle: Sex, Drugs, and Classical Music
So they did the best they could for their family, though it left little time for emotional connection. It was as if too many outward displays of affection were a luxury better suited to the rich, or the English. Add to that the influence, even though it was only minor in my home, of sterile Scottish Presbyterianism (which I can only describe as Catholicism without the elaborate visuals) and you are left with a certain aridity. The first openly romantic moment that I witnessed between my parents—that’s not to say they didn’t have them, they had four kids, after all—happened just before my father’s death.
It is hard to convey the dreariness of these gloomy wastelands, of which Cumbernauld was and is undoubtedly the worst. These atrocities were designed by pseudointellectual modernists who believed that the automobile would replace feet sometime in the 1970s. Any money they had left over from making boxlike dwelling hutches was spent on horrendous concrete abstract sculptures, totems to the gods of utter banality, which were placed throughout the town in random locations. There were no sidewalks, pedestrians were instead diverted into tunnels lined with corrugated iron (a cheap way to make them) so as not to interfere with the flow of traffic on the empty freeways.
After all, he was already a lame-duck president seen as an election liability by his own party and whose approval rating was lower than many thought possible. Attacking him too hard would be like joining a fight after it was over and claiming victory. I decided to treat the whole thing like the famous incident from World War I when, on Christmas Day of 1917, German and British troops took the day off from killing each other and played soccer in no-man’s-land. I had talked with former WHCA dinner speakers Jay Leno and Drew Carey about what they had done when they had been there and they both gave similar advice.