A dream of a dram and Bach’s well-tempered clavier while the rain hits the roof and provides a constant drumming as a background to this sensational moment. In golden letters I read the name of a company older than my country. Art is transported through airwaves as the pianist’s hands’ slow upwards movement is the expression of the composer’s very immortality. The nicest cloth, a handkerchief to dab one’s forehead with but not a soul that is even shuffling their feet. In this room, a million different plays are on display, behind the eyes of the audience. Each note, like Proust’s madeleine, evokes a singular desire, a simple memory, other feelings felt in those memories, a world as wide as one’s experience. Nevermind Bach’s piety. Any atheist can create a world from what swings through the air on a current of entrancing sound, emotion, a clear but overlapping stream of consciousness at this very moment; momentous. It’s a night of black and white and gold. It’s music that by one mind through another is told and lets a million stories before our eyes unfold.
Prelude and Fugue in D Minor