Music robs the soul of all but desire, the desire to play on until the colours drag us under. The cajon’s heartbeat and the fiddle’s laughter coax the guitar’s shy smile, the rhythm echoed in the fumbling feet on the livingroom floor. Just don’t close your eyes.
The moment you do, you are lost. The movement which strict music teachers once tried to jerk from stiff, embarrassed limbs comes easily now, in a way that classical music will never understand. The room no longer exists, only the colours of the sound and the motion of the music as though we are swimming beneath warm, bright waves. There is no need to breathe, the music does it for you. You are playing but you are not as though your instrument sings for you in a way that Pachelbel always longed to but never did. It no longer mimics the rigid voices of Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach in their childhood genius but sings a music of its own, a song that doesn’t belong in preened and padded concert halls, shut away with velvet curtains and polished jewels. It is music written from the heart, for the soul; music to dance with.
Do you know this tune? That tune? How does it start again? Just one more! And all the drills and trills; the fourth, fifth, and fifteenth positions dripping with vibrato come to nothing as Shostakovitch peers down, wishing that his Romance from the Gadfly had stirred half of the life into its hearers. The late hours pass into the early and the improvised magic lingers in our heavy eyes and dances on into our dreams.