When I was 12, Friday would come- I'd go to Miss Pittro's, rosin up my bow. Stiff as a rail, warm as an iceberg; utter precisions, that was status quo. Anytime I dallied with passion... I was told to stop it- reign it in! And I'd go along as was the fashion- waiting for the music to begin.
I'd play...I'd play...I'd play...la la la la la, la la la la la la..
So I grew up polished and practised- over the years I learnt to play my part. Never too rushed, never with feeling; all this applied in life as well as art. Janie at the strings like a spider, constantly in motion, cold and thin. Terrified to know what lay inside her, waiting for the music ...waiting for the music....
G...F sharp...F...E...G...F sharp...F...E
Oh for the days when it all seemed so clear! Sticking to the beat-staying to the tone. Day after week after month after year- perfectly in time, perfectly alone!
But what sort of man could lay claim to my soul? Half Ravel, half Rossini- part Shostokovich and part Paganinni, who knows? who knows? For what sort of man could I lose all control? Mahler-esque, slightly Grieg-y. Peppered with Brahms, plus a pinch of Respighi, here goes...here goes...The notes carry on in their endless campaign, the cords have turned darker where once they were plain- the air's growing warmer with every refrain, the rooms getting hotter, the sound is insane!! Is the bowing finally bending in the heat of this unending...
Darryl- Jane-
G Yes!
F sharp Yes!
F Yes!
E Yes!
G Yes!
F sharp Yes!
F Yes!
E Yes!
Jane-
Waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for the music to begin........!