It happens to me twice a year: I listen to George Gershwin's Concerto in F and get, I don't know what, nostalgic, sad, the blues? Some indistinct yearning overcomes me when I hear Gershwin and am at home, on my own. And when the sky is half blue, half dark. Autumn, the blues one gets when things seem to come to an end. The remote siren of a factory hoots. No, I can't hear the birds. They are too far away from my window. Only some wind howls around the corner. There will be rain in a minute. The year was a good one, so far. More such years to come? I feel that the end is near.
Claude Debussy, who can upset me a lot, also has music that makes me daydream. Can transport me far away. But I still can't describe my longing, my hunger for sadness. I can dream of a deserted corner of a pub, in the North of Paris. Levallois, perhaps, where I lived on my own. Or in London's spooky North, rain and darkness included. What is it? Debussy's Après-midi d'un faune agitates me as well. I feel loneliness creeping into me and sitting there. Remote beaches embedded in misty sunshine. But it is Gershwin who makes me a mixture of high emotions and deep sadness.
When he composed his Concerto in F in 1925, imagine, he seemed heavily influenced by jazz. There is also reminiscence of blues and several references to ragtime. The Rapsody in Blue is a bit older, not much. Similar, maybe romantic, feelings hit me in early Spring, when the snow has gone and it is still cold outside. I then have to be alone, sit in the early sun and listen to Gershwin, whereby Summertime, rather, is the melody that carries me away. Is anything wrong with me? Or is it normal? My grateful thanks go to this genius. May he gently rotate in his grave when somebody tells him that a totally unmusical bloke like me adores him madly.
Claude Debussy, who can upset me a lot, also has music that makes me daydream. Can transport me far away. But I still can't describe my longing, my hunger for sadness. I can dream of a deserted corner of a pub, in the North of Paris. Levallois, perhaps, where I lived on my own. Or in London's spooky North, rain and darkness included. What is it? Debussy's Après-midi d'un faune agitates me as well. I feel loneliness creeping into me and sitting there. Remote beaches embedded in misty sunshine. But it is Gershwin who makes me a mixture of high emotions and deep sadness.
When he composed his Concerto in F in 1925, imagine, he seemed heavily influenced by jazz. There is also reminiscence of blues and several references to ragtime. The Rapsody in Blue is a bit older, not much. Similar, maybe romantic, feelings hit me in early Spring, when the snow has gone and it is still cold outside. I then have to be alone, sit in the early sun and listen to Gershwin, whereby Summertime, rather, is the melody that carries me away. Is anything wrong with me? Or is it normal? My grateful thanks go to this genius. May he gently rotate in his grave when somebody tells him that a totally unmusical bloke like me adores him madly.
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