Back in April, I participated in my first live storytelling event, the awesome exchange of recollections of vinyl aficiandos, Phonographic Memory, which exists to examine and celebrate the human experience framed by music through vinyl records. It met at my neighborhood library, and featured five brave folks, each of whom brought a record and told how they acquired it and what it meant to them. In nerdy classical fashion, I brought an album I got in the '80s from a Russian artist in Paris. We met sitting on a bench overlooking the Seine. I was a heartbroken college student, he was an emigré who'd just made it out of the Soviet Union. It starts like this:
When I put on Eric Satie’s Gnossiennes, my Paris unspools like a 35-millimeter film, shadowy flickering images, lyrical questions that hang in the air and then float away, unanswered. The Gnossiennes – which Vladimir loved - were written in bar-less notation, without key or time signature. Our acquaintance was also out of time, somehow off-key. He’d appear, and disappear, until he finally disappeared for good.
I'll post the audio as soon as I get it mixed!