Whoring and Lusting after Romanticism mit Schlag

Naughty of me, but I still like the Brahms' cello sonata, Op. 99 (all of the Brahms cello sonatas, actually, and the violin sonatas).  How many long hours walking with it on my (clunky tape-player) Walkman?  Much of a life ill spent, but scarcely to be regretted. Never to be forgot: accompanying (the incredible how young) Phil on the piano in an all-Brahms (our portion of it, anyway) program--I've never before or since known such terror (well, maybe once before--see blog 12/4/07):  An audience of symphony conductors, professional classical musicians (more than one person there who made his living playing Brahms); being the second half of a program, the first half of which had been a world-class soprano, whose accompanist had just graduated from Juliard, singing Schumann like a goddamned angel.  Wondering "How the fuck did I get myself committed to a no-win, dead-certain come-uppance and crushing putting-down like this?"  [It was Phil's idea.  Being a beautiful young baritone with a gorgeous voice and a sympathetic command of German poetry, he needed, for both reasonable/professional and essential/personal reasons (he's a Leo), to exhibit himself to the finest and most scholarly musicians he could find an audience of.  We had been playing and singing Brahms' songs for about a year--for fun, I thought, and because they're so beautiful they make almost anything else seem insipid.  No pressure, no "goals," nothing on the horizon (I thought); just fun, and the joy of making beautiful music.  Then one day: "You know, we should think about performing these songs in public."  "Well, sure.  Why not?"  "A couple of months from now."  "Okay.  Any particular occasion, you can think of?" "Maybe."  So we started really practising.  No more, "Oh, that'll do for now."  Working, polishing, listening, criticizing--several hours a week.  I was really enjoying it.  Between us (Brahms' music is so interdependent), the songs took on entrancing shapes and moods--colors, almost.  Then we went back over them and pruned, eliminated, discarding anything that either of us felt was not perfect.  It was still fun, right up to the day, almost to the hour of the performance....]  Then, listening to the soprano and her divinely inspired accompanist knock off one jewel-like Dichterliebelied after another, I realized with mounting horror the magnitude of my temerity.  After the prolonged and rapturous applause died away, an expectant hush settled over the auditorium while Phil and I took our places, and began...I frankly don't remember much of the performance.  I was afraid, all through it.  Then it was over.  There was applause--lots of applause, warm and reassuring.  And then the very conductor of the symphony--a musician of genius--was holding my hand, in the touchy-feely way that European aristocrats sometimes have.  For about five minutes, clasping my hand between both of his hands, sweetly, ardently he told me what a wonderful, sensitive  performance I'd given--almost ignoring Phil, who was, however, standing beside me, beaming. It wasn't until I heard the recording of our performance next day that I realized:  We hadn't made any mistakes.  Not one.  Either of us.