Colours of Music
Ministerial Meandering
Colours of music
On the way there, I listened to Bob Dylan howling his nasal whine into the wind of the political and social malaise that characterized the American 70’s. ‘Masters of War’ and ‘Like a Rolling Stone’ hit particularly hard. On the way back, I dabbled in the harmonies of Purcell’s ‘Fayrie Queen’, swam against the currents of Bach’s counterpoint with various partitas, rejoiced in the exuberance of his ‘Christmas Oratorio’ (I have to play the timpani for that one day), and then swam downstream with the piano in Beethoven’s ‘Emperor Concerto’.
And that is the way to endure slow traffic on the highways.
It even works on grey days. One of the things that listening to music does for me is to inject colour into my mind. If it’s any good, that is. It is a yardstick by which I categorize music; how much colour does it give me to swim in? And it works backwards too. Think of a colour, then think of a piece of music that the colour summons up for you. Is it in a major or a minor key? Is it fast or slow? Is it complex or simple? Could you write it down?
I am certain that this association of the senses is not new. I think it also works for our sense of smell. Look at Van Gogh’s paintings of Montmartre on a wet night, and you can almost smell the rain. Gaze at Lautrec’s portraits of Montmartre and its people, and I believe you can inhale the aromas of sweat, cigar-smoke, and greasepaint - and probably hear the sound of the honky-tonk emanating from the cafés along the boulevards. The tunes are all upbeat, and in the major keys - but wait until the last ‘miché’ has been escorted out, and the patron has sent his garçon to sweep the pavement outside of the evening’s detritus. Then the pace slows down and the key finds its way into the minor. Late night stray dogs - two-legged and four-legged - shuffle and sniff in the waste, the one picking up a discarded cheese rind, the other the stub of an expensive cigar. Each to his own.
When the plaintive notes of an F minor lament have echoed away, there is the utter silence of abandoned life in the empty streets under a caressing rain. Even then, a laboured breathing seems to creep around the broken brick of an alley corner, and the sound of a cello, holding a sustained, low note, slips into your ear like a lost bee. But he has more to tell you, and he is soft and gentle - not threatening.
There is only one colour for this moment - midnight blue, pockmarked with diminutive sparks of light; some are sputtering gas-lamps in the street, some are stars. And it doesn’t matter to you - both are equally far away.
You right an overturned chair and sit, your umbrella tilted so you can see the night sky. What are you doing here? A nudge at your ankle reveals an uninvited guest. She is not unwelcome; perhaps she might share just a little of your shelter? She’s been used too many times, and her worn-out paps dangle from her ribbed belly. The tops of your boots seem more comfortable than the wet and stony path you both tread - so that is where she lays her head.
The cello plays its last note, you both drift to a sort of sleep, and the colour changes slowly once more, unnoticed, to a soft, orange-brown on the horizon.
Philip+