Review Summary: I put the Powdered Wig in Ludwig.
The life of a sex symbol is hard. Made hard by time’s pesky linear tendencies. Every year that passes by adds another thousand daily sit-ups to what Anthony Keidis has to do to look like something fatherless 15-year old girls could want to ***. By the time the poor dolt turns 67, he’ll be stuck in a vicious loop, whereas by the time he finishes his daily sit-ups, it’s a brand new day. More sit-ups, Tony, if I may call you that. I don’t know about you, but I don’t ever want to feeeeeeeel, like I did that day.
Things were easier in Beethoven’s time. There was less hubris around. People led simpler lives. Booty was not something one had to shake, but something one plundered almost exclusively. ‘Ill’ never meant anything besides near-death. Game of Thrones wasn’t a hit porno yet. It was a game of musical chairs. And ‘Better late than never, but never late is better’ wasn’t a brilliant line from a humble Canadian poet and Nobel laureate. It was the motto of the post office.
This is the world in which Beethoven was reared. In 1782, at the tender age of 13, he got into Molto Vienna Community College on a basketball scholarship. It was there that he found his true passion for piano, after listening to Jerry Lewis’ Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Polka at a beer-pong tournament. He promptly began his ascent as a tickler of ivories, but also had sex with black girls too.
That is what we know about Beethoven. But what do we REALLY know about Beethoven?
We know his father hid his true age in order to make it seem like he was a child prodigy, angering local rave prodigy The Prodigy.
We know he was one of the first men to use the C-Minor key in what would become known as classical music, later inspiring artists such as Ed Sheeran, Black Label Society and Linkin Park to do the same.
We know he killed Mozart with sarcasm, by showing up to his concerts and making Pfffft sounds in between set pieces. We know he blamed the murder on unsuspecting Italian milkman named Antonio Salieri.
We know he slept with Tina Turner, Bach’s wife, causing the break-up of Bachman-Turner Overdrive.
We know he went deaf at the age of 25, after trying a faulty first prototype of the Q-tip.
We know he dedicated a symphony to Napoleon, until he was disillusioned by the Frenchman’s megalomania, and so he played it off like the symphony had been written about Napoleon cake all along.
We know his songs were prominently featured in The King’s Speech, the gut-wrenching tale of a privileged aristocrat suffering a minor setback in his social life.
We know his final words on his deathbed were: “I hope I don’t crap my pants. I hear people crap their pants when they die. Put a chamber pot under my arse, will ya, Jeeves?”
That is ALL we know about Beethoven. But is that enough to understand the troubled and complicated man who brought us immortal night-club staples like Symphony No.7, Piano Concerto No.5, and Bagatelle No.25?
Yes, yes I think it is.
