It's hard to describe the sheer physicality of a clarinet, your finite breath (and for all you know it could be your last as you pour it into the music), the feeling on you lower lip, the vibrating wood, the slight resistance of the metal, the tiny little sounds of the mechanics which only the player hears, the deep round soulful sound, the smell of its very old wood. The place where it comes from (Prague), the places where it's been since. The hesitant playing which somehow expresses the state of your soul better than words or silence could. I don't know many greater pleasures. And sometimes at night, when my neighbours are resting, I long for the morrow to play again, I long to pour my lungs' last drop of air into a clarinet.
Maria, I've just met a girl named Maria
and suddenly the name will never be the same to me
Maria! I've just kissed a girl named Maria
And suddenly I've found how wonderful a sound can be
Maria, say it loud and there's music playing
Say it soft and it's almost like praying
Maria, I never stop saying: "Maria!"
(Picture credit: East London Clarinet Choir)
No comments:
Post a Comment