The purpose of art is not to impress, but to speak to the heart

Joining friends grouped around a piano one evening last week, I sat down to hear another friend play. A man of extraordinary talent, he both composes and performs; and this time he had three new compositions to perform for us.

The piano can be a spectacular instrument. An hour sped, for my friend is touched by genius. His style is extravagant, his energy enviable, his mastery of the keyboard stunning. The boom and tinkle, the crashing chords, cascading arpeggios and breathtaking runs impressed me more than I can say. And because my friend refuses to take himself completely seriously it was done in a manner so lavish as to be almost self-mocking — like a thoughtfully playful artist taking the mickey out of Liberace. He turned a solitary piano almost into its own orchestra, which I realised a brilliant pianist can do, with enough skill, will and gusto.

And yet. At the heart of a couple of the best of my friend’s compositions there was a quieter and more simple thing: there was a song. Even the word ‘song’ makes too grandiose a claim for it was often no more than a phrase: just a few notes so arranged as to seize the heart. And these phrases, though surrounded by noise, had about them a kind of quietude, like the eye of a hurricane. Perversely, the modesty of the phrase gave it an insistence that the bravura stuff, all sound and fury, lacked. So that you were waiting, listening, for it to return as the ocean rollers of sound crashed back from the shingle. This phrase, it seemed to me, was really the music. This was what signified. This was my friend’s genius. The rest was glorious noise.