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THE LAST BALCONY (www.nemonymous.com)
Dabbling With Diabelli
Dabbling With Diabelli
posted Tuesday, 11 July 2006
Nagl’s long black fingers curved over the piano. I knew he would take the theme into regions that Beethoven had dared not even contemplate.
The keyboard shone in the sun shafting from the tall concert hall windows. The black notes glistened more than the white ones. The pianist’s smile was a slit of ivory light as he spread the various musical ideas like branches from the central trunk.
I turned to my lady companion. Having been given free tickets, we were very excited to be present at what the critics had convinced the world would be an historic occasion. Never had the classical music scene had such a rising star and none of the rumours of his almost evil genius could alter that. I’d always thought the Bible had got things the wrong way round -- God had been thrown out of Hell, not Lucifer from Heaven.
She smiled back at me. The musician was extending Beethoven’s famous Diabelli variations into areas where even Scriabin and Paganini would not have dared tread with their fingers: only one glance to each other was sufficient for us to relish the communal uplifting that only great music can invoke.
Nagl was hunched over the piano, the tails of his morning suit dangling across the varnished floorboards behind him. The long swept back hair still showed signs of the original racial curl, but evidently straightened out over the years of hot tong treatment. The nostrils gaped with each bravura onslaught upon the keys. The virtuoso performance would never end. Maestro was rampant.
Towards the end (although this being the first performance of the new variations we could not at the time know it was drawing to a close), there were a few moments of pure silence. Without trying to be trite, you could have heard a pin drop. The audience was spellbound. The pair of over-nourished spiders floated above the keys in twitching stasis. Spasms travelled the length of his body. The brow furrowed as the metal of his black helmet softened. The whiteness of the teeth seemed to seep into what had become a china pierrot doll’s head... until the harlequin demon grinned mischievously from behind the mask. He revolved on the stool to stare hard at my companion. They say all genius performers pick out one member of an audience upon whom to devote their whole effort -- the third row from the front, number C15 if I remember now.
As the musical coda carried every tentacle into one, I myself took a fleeting glance at my date... whilst at the same time clasping her hand for the first time… both in fear and love. She was swaddled in black bandages, as if healing from humanity. I wrenched my hand from the sticky stump. As applause exploded around me, all I could hear were the dull thuds of her two paws being relentlessly brought together.
Nagl’s low bow made him appear to lean out at me from the podium… gloating.
I fled the concert haIl, knowing full well that I would not be called upon to escort my companion home.
I never wondered who had donated the free tickets.
(published 'Magic Realism' 1991)
posted Tuesday, 11 July 2006
Nagl’s long black fingers curved over the piano. I knew he would take the theme into regions that Beethoven had dared not even contemplate.
The keyboard shone in the sun shafting from the tall concert hall windows. The black notes glistened more than the white ones. The pianist’s smile was a slit of ivory light as he spread the various musical ideas like branches from the central trunk.
I turned to my lady companion. Having been given free tickets, we were very excited to be present at what the critics had convinced the world would be an historic occasion. Never had the classical music scene had such a rising star and none of the rumours of his almost evil genius could alter that. I’d always thought the Bible had got things the wrong way round -- God had been thrown out of Hell, not Lucifer from Heaven.
She smiled back at me. The musician was extending Beethoven’s famous Diabelli variations into areas where even Scriabin and Paganini would not have dared tread with their fingers: only one glance to each other was sufficient for us to relish the communal uplifting that only great music can invoke.
Nagl was hunched over the piano, the tails of his morning suit dangling across the varnished floorboards behind him. The long swept back hair still showed signs of the original racial curl, but evidently straightened out over the years of hot tong treatment. The nostrils gaped with each bravura onslaught upon the keys. The virtuoso performance would never end. Maestro was rampant.
Towards the end (although this being the first performance of the new variations we could not at the time know it was drawing to a close), there were a few moments of pure silence. Without trying to be trite, you could have heard a pin drop. The audience was spellbound. The pair of over-nourished spiders floated above the keys in twitching stasis. Spasms travelled the length of his body. The brow furrowed as the metal of his black helmet softened. The whiteness of the teeth seemed to seep into what had become a china pierrot doll’s head... until the harlequin demon grinned mischievously from behind the mask. He revolved on the stool to stare hard at my companion. They say all genius performers pick out one member of an audience upon whom to devote their whole effort -- the third row from the front, number C15 if I remember now.
As the musical coda carried every tentacle into one, I myself took a fleeting glance at my date... whilst at the same time clasping her hand for the first time… both in fear and love. She was swaddled in black bandages, as if healing from humanity. I wrenched my hand from the sticky stump. As applause exploded around me, all I could hear were the dull thuds of her two paws being relentlessly brought together.
Nagl’s low bow made him appear to lean out at me from the podium… gloating.
I fled the concert haIl, knowing full well that I would not be called upon to escort my companion home.
I never wondered who had donated the free tickets.
(published 'Magic Realism' 1991)
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