In the immortal words of The Sandlot: You’re KILLING me, Smalls.
I threw Verdi into the ring with a wince, guilt-ridden over the fact that I had no one stronger to defend against the mighty Handel. And what does Giuseppe do? Grinds Georg into a pulp and bakes him into a pie like some kinda classical Titus Andronicus. A late pro-Handel rush narrowed the gap, so that takes away a bit of the sting, but still. Verdi wins. Drat. (Also, I would totally order Handel pie, if only for the pun.)
Let’s move on quickly, because there’s only one match left in round 2. They are an odd match, and I am determined to arrange the battle with no preconceived notions.
And so in this corner, who could ask for anything more? Well, Berstein could. It’s
And in this corner, he’s got a little Liszt! It’s
I don’t know, guys. They’re the only two left. One of them is bound to show up on your iPod more often than the other, and get skipped less. Who is it?