Autumn on Pluto: A Tone Poem

We just finished recording my tone poem, "Autumn on Pluto," which conflates the icy and remote planet with Hades, the land of the dead from Greek myth. In this imaginary version of the ninth planet, the god Hades/Pluto and the entire underworld of the human dead live on.

The opening theme is the Plutonian anthem. Next comes the departure of Persephone on her annual trip back to earth, and the sad voice of Hades expressing his regret at her departure (bassoon solo). Next is a portrayal of a vast, dark forest of tangled trees, which are cornelian cherries (the food of the dead), but grown to a Titanic size. The leaves of the trees are black obsidian, with razor-sharp edges. Finally, the Plutonian anthem is restated, but in an icier and colder mode as the dreary realm of the dead prepares for winter.

The piece is in B Minor, with the central section depicting the forest in F-Sharp Minor. It then returns to B Minor for the conclusion.

It is scored for three synthesizer voices, plus four French horns, a bassoon, timpani, and 12 cellos.

This was recorded in a desanctified church in Pittsburgh with members of the Squirrel Hill Symphony conducted by Meng Qiu-Lei.

Play Autumn on Pluto

Beethoven's Ninth Symphony for Two Pianos

 Knowing that few people would get to hear Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, Franz Liszt arranged it for two pianos. This striking performance has two pianos, plus a timpanist to put Beethoven's percussion back in.

Opera Sundays

by Brett Rutherford

Sundays we flock to the alley lane
where the Manfredis live. Grandma
Manfredi, who speak-a no English,
defies the Blue Laws and sells us
from the cool shadow of cellar door,
soda pop in 16-ounce bottles. We hand
her quarters and dimes. A half-dollar,
heavy and mint-new shiny, alarms her.
When she counts to make change,
we giggle and stamp feet impatiently.
"That's a five," she says, "and a five,"
and then her eyes move over and down
an imagined arithmetic lesson. "No!"
we shout when she counts it wrong,
and she starts all over again, down
and over in her nonexistent abacus.

While most run off
with soda and straw, I linger,
pass by the basement window
where Signor Manfredi plays
his antique big-horn Victrola.
I listen, rapt, as Caruso sings
Vesti la giubba over and over,
the high-arced aria ending
with the heart-break sobbing
of the jilted clown. Each time
he lifts the needle and arm
to restart the record, Signor
Manfredi himself is sobbing.

Ridi, Pagliacci!

Around the run-down house's
other side, above the arbor
festooned with ripening grapes
the buxom Mrs. Manfredi,
Sophia Loren beautiful,
above a geranium window-box
pretends to read, and leans
into the sunrays to show herself,

as in the window across from her,
a shirtless young man
with another Victrola plays Gigli
in the seductive serenade
that only Lola understands
as Cavalleria Rusticana unfolds
its lurid infidelities. He mouths
the words and stares and stares
at Mrs. Manfredi.

She smiles and blushes. The chest
of the shirtless man swells
as he would have her believe
his mouth and lungs were singing.

His eyes dart at her.
The clown in the basement
suspects nothing, he seems to say,
as he goes back to the Victrola
and starts the serenade anew.

Sunday afternoon,
as every Italian knows,
is for opera.