A Man Out Of Time

Listening to a bit of Rachmaninov, a few Preludes, as played by the prodigiously gifted Nikolai Lugansky. It's ridiculously, wonderfully over-the-top, luscious stuff. Bags of heart and sacks of tears. Hard to believe it's out of the twentieth century. Lots of tunes; lots of rich harmonies; indeed, lots of everything - definitely too many notes, too much of the time, but so generously done you sort of get carried into the spirit of the thing.

At least you do if you try. There's a real need here to let yourself surrender to it; give yourself up to what's going on and abandon all of your critical faculties. I suppose this is true of all music though; even the stuff that's not so overtly emotional is asking something of you. And I guess that's why as I get older and my inner critic grows more picky, less generous, I find myself all too often outside the experience and sort of looking on enviously, excluded from the party.

In those moments when we connect with any kind of music we suspend time.