On Thursday I went to a prom, which The Telegraph was good enough to review so I don’t have to. I’ve never been a huge fan of Mozart in the way my mother is, but then again there’s no Mozart I can think of that I won’t quite happily listen to. Except for that performance, which I unhappily listened to, trying to figure out why the pianist was being paid.
The Bruckner was, well, Bruckner. What do you expect? The man was clearly deranged.
