The man on the LypsiChord tickled its ivory keys. His seemingly frail hands hovered wonderfully over the keyboard like a damselfly on a fragile leaf. Suddenly, the hymn mesmerized the crowd gathered that Saturday evening in the neat living room of the Cobardes, enjoying the glorious blossoming of notes from the old sentimental piano.
In a matter of minutes, the occasional munching of chips stopped, and the gulping down of wine took a halt. Classic melodies filled the sala with so much drama, sending the audience thunderstruck. Tears dropped into the soda in my goblet. The music was more powerful than history’s dictatorial forces combined. It subdued grief.
The powerful rendition of The Godfather original soundtrack, by that man on the piano, made the lampshade tremble as if the earth’s bowels would want to gush out to join the floating notes on the atmosphere; as if desiring to join the stars that twinkled stupendously with their randomly lethargic hiccups.
Music can really heal a melancholic spirit, especially if it comes amid man’s rancid experiences of drudgery. There’s too much sorrow in this world, too many tasks waiting to be done; too much of a hurry to fulfill big dreams. Too much cares. And yet, so very little time to realize them all. Only music can energize a wilted soul.
When the pianist accommodated my request for Love Is All That Matters, I could have slipped easily into nothingness, or could have been captive of the music genius; captured by the soft pat of the song’s notes, blipping into space like saber light. It ripped a sensible part of me. It tore my heart into gazillion strips, each carried away wildly like a flashflood having its own melody.
It was a night of splendor through the music of one man, who learned the piano when he was still 10, and who had his first attempts at composition by the time he was 14. His art is the product of his propensity for music, his desire to learn new things everyday, and of his spirit which refuses to grow old. With every beat, the musician’s body shook and trembled, joined as if in marriage by the shaking of the framed photographs on the piano top. The kids on the pictures almost jumped out of the bronze frames, perhaps in their immeasurable jubilation for that mini concert.
The music melted away all the misery in my heart which, for a while, bloated with the avalanche of tunes and transported all of us into different times. With the help of music, it was easier to put aside the horror in Haiti and the social cancer that our country has long been suffering from.
The touch of the lyrics spun that desire to sprinkle messages of love to the universe. Each F-clef dusted off motes of cobwebs in an already discouraged window pane which refused to open its life to the outside world, nonchalant of the kisses of mountain breeze. Each G-clef joined the constellation like smoke of incense from an altar boy’s burner. A pompous parade of octaves leapt out of song sheets, paying homage to high heavens.
What is there in music that activates even the weary soul? What is there in a series of notes that ignites even the most burdened heart? It has been said that all things must perish from under the sky but music alone shall live. British writer of the 18th century, Thomas Carlyle, wrote: “Music is well said to be the speech of angels.”
Music has this healing power that not even the potent herbs of China or the black magic of India can equal. It has this balm that soothes like quiet rain, a force that brings to longing hearts a lost delight, a kind of air that brushes aside the snowflakes of pessimism. And it has this sweetness at par with nectar on a dryad’s lips.
Music molds character. It softens a heavy heart, and inspires an ideal. It gives a sense of belonging, of freedom in the flowing of its verses.
That man on the piano created a stir. The influence of his Midas touch on the piano enumerated reasons why I should revitalize whatever is left of my enthusiasm to view life and all its complexities guided by the power and pure beauty of music. Singing under the azure sky, I felt safe and cozy, and free and welcomed. I had held fast to all my dreams and my ideals with that little amount of faith left in me. Then I realized that my loving music is the same way as loving this borrowed life which is in truth a note of a yet unfinished song. – Maria Eleanor E. Valeros
