Eine Kleine Esa-Pekka
I must confess that lately I have fallen-in
To swooning over Esa-Pekka Salonen.
Conductor and composer and artiste.
Makes other maestros wish they were deceased.
No question, all those cats can sure conduct.
But next to Esa-Pekka, they are fucked.
Of course, I cannot say I’ve heard
His records or his shows.
Not the concerts he’s conducted,
Nor the works he did compose.
I’ve never heard his music,
But I love him just the same.
For my heart leaps up in rapture at
The music of his name.
He’s such a bad-ass muthafecka!
His name’s a train upon a track!
A chopping block! A thundercrack!
It may be rude, but what the hecka!
His name’s a froggy mating call!
A piston pump! A bouncy ball!
A squeaking cork! A scratching cat!
A frying pan of bacon fat!
A roaring hearth! A racing horse!
A secret agent’s frantic Morse!
A marching corps! A muscle car!
It ain’t no standard repertoire!
It’s sibilants and voiceless stops!
It’s snaps and crackles! Later, Pops!
He’s serious as a heart attecka!
His name’s a skipping phonograph!
A clanking chain! A smoker’s laugh!
He’s bumping like a discotheque-a!
His name’s a sonic masterpiece!
It blows the Für right off Elise!
Arranged for something xylophoney,
It might resemble Reich-a-roni!
With organ backing (LORDY BLESS!),
It might just pass for Ollie Mess!
If belted on a Broadway stage,
It might be Cats as sprung from Cage!
Repeated for an hour or three,
It might be Glass as sung by Glee!
It’s all I hablo, parle, and spreche-a!
To country hick or city slecka!
To Mrs. Right or marriage-wrecka!
In Mission Hills or holy Mecca!
In trailer park or posh Tribeca!
I don’t mean any disrespek-a,
But break me off a double-decka
His name may well be super-commonplace
In Finland and in furthest outer space,
But I’ll forever hear it as, I hope,
An onomatopoeic magnum ope.