That sounds more than a little elitist, a tiny bit silly, and generally insufferably smug. But it happens to be true. I can understand why, once upon a time, there were those who looked down on any kind of music other than what was broadly termed 'classical'. The label was inaccurate but, as I say, I can understand the sentiments of those who thought what they had was of such superiority as to leave everything else looking, sounding rather, second rate. I don't there's anyone left who thinks like that - except me, just now, for a little while, thinking that after Mozart there's not a lot worth bothering with.
According to the sleeve notes, no. 27 was written at a time of enormous physical and emotional stress. Blimey. That means the utterly gorgeous, serene slow movement blossomed out of the kind of major headaches that make my minor troubles look even more minor. Really great art has a way of making you feel small, and quite happy to be so.
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