Used to listen to the Shostakovich 5th every night one summer. I still remember the white chiffon curtain still fluttering in the breeze from the open window, alternating with the light of the alley streetlight nearby sending approval through oak leaves rustling nearby. The bells at the end of one movement and the constant tones of violins, timpani and the rest of the brass and winds at the last finale spoke to the composer’s pain and sense of victory. It was a study in contrast: music, curtains, light, rustling leaves-creating a painting in the darkness of a summer night.
This was long ago now.
I’ve always wanted to conduct that symphony.