Tickling the ivories

And proving Aristotle/Plato, or some other heavily-bearded Greek philosopher right — and by extension St. Thomas Aquinas.

The Wife is playing the pianoforte. She has been doing so for months. And successfully, it must be said. Sporadic and brief practice sessions have their place. Ask any ancient Greek athlete. Micro workouts is what da influencers call them dese dayz (what the actual heck — Ed?!?!). The proof, as they say in the north-western tip of Italy, is in the Panettone. And there is plenty of it. Initially slow, mistake-ridden pieces now flow through the house with effortless grace. One can close one’s eyes and picture oneself in Florence c.1828, as one of the royal court’s master musicians soothes the minds of diplomats and generals alike. Yes, music does transport the soul; It always has. That is what it is for.

Even when one is not able to shut one’s eyes for fear of being attacked by a pigeon or Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker — one can release much tension when hearing the Wife tickle the old ivories. It is wholesome. It is real. It is organic. It is her fingers that press the keys, her eyes that read the music. All freely willed by her own mind.

It is not from the wireless. Not electronic. Not produced by AI. Not fake.

At times, it is hard to believe that the instrument itself is made up of all its hidden and intricate inner mechanics. In a purely robotic way, it is merely a tool, albeit a beautifully constructed one. But when a musician touches it, something happens that no one can make real sense of. It transcends mere craftsmanship.

When he is not on the prowl, Basil — the rogue cat, deceiver of men, bird killer, sofa scratcher, human bed seeker sits across the road outside his house, waiting for the front room windows to open and allow flowing progressions, arpeggios and chords to escape the confines of the mansion. Basil’s Dad also waits patiently each morning, sitting in his front room, for the music to begin. In this glorious weather, he has his front door and all windows open as he waits to hear Chopin’s compositions reach his rather large ears. I have nothing against large ears, apart from my own (what?!? — Ed).

The other neighbours are visibly elevated when the Wife practises. If they manage to catch a little snippet of Mozart and as they walk past the house you can actually see them straighten their spines, relax their shoulders and feel all their stress dissipate into the atmosphere.

I have noticed that the postman also stops sometimes to savour a little sample of Beethoven. Even the Amazon delivery van man pretends to spend a long time checking his next delivery address in order to absorb some Debussy.

Now, I hear you asking yourself, dear reader (more like tortured — Ed) how has the Wife made such great strides? Well, she has not started from a low base. Oh no, she reached the level of Grade 5 in pianoforte in her well-spent early youth.

This childhood musical foundation is also the true reason as to why she has waited many a year to once again sit in front of the pianoforte. Why is that then, you ask? Well, it is probably due to the fact that she has pianoforte PTSD, inflicted on her by her childhood teacher. The Wife was so worried that her extremely decrepit teacher would die while teaching her, that she would deliberately play a duff note to wake her up from her usual slumber. This was an error, for the teacher would then proceed to whack her hand with a wooden ruler as punishment for messing up. This method of teaching is still in force in China, North Korea (although most instruments there are simple stones and sticks) and parts of Russia, where all the best musicians now come from. Make of that what you will my dear readers. (what — Ed?!?!?!?).

Her current pianoforte tutor is more forgiving, and indeed grateful that the Wife practices regularly. This is unlike many of the tutor’s younger students, who one imagines prefer to watch YouTube or engage with friends on TikTok and Snapchat. One can imagine a few whacks with a wooden ruler would fix that. Not that the West’s crypto-communist authorities would agree. Pretty ironic. (Are you smoking crack cocaine — Ed?!?!?!?!)

Another reason why the Wife’s playing is so pleasing to the ear is because she is mostly playing classical pieces, or compositions that take their cue from music that was created in a more civilised age, shall we say. So it is a million times better than the pop garbage and disordered jazz that pollute our airwaves (not sure that many people listen to jazz now — Ed). On that note (if you’ll pardon the pun), nobody actually likes jazz (told you — Ed). They just pretend to. Also the jazz musicians love playing it, as no one knows if you’ve made a mistake in jazz. Yes, they are charlatans operating under the cover of dimmed lights and smoke-filled caverns.

ANYWAY, STOP LISTENING TO THE BEE GEES AND CONCENTRATE. HERE COMES THE IMPORTANT BIT (what the actual heck — Ed?!?!?!?!?).

In my latest novella — which is currently a little stuck at 10,000-odd words — two of the characters smoke some marijuana and talk about music. They ask themselves where it comes from.

Aristotle is supposed to have once opined that it is not easy to determine why anyone should have any knowledge of music, its nature, or even how to create it. Its origins are hidden and totally unfathomable when viewed through a materialist’s viewpoint.

For those following the tradition of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle and then, over in Africa and Europe much later, St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, the answer to where music comes from is very clear: It comes from God.

Every note, every beat, is an Idea from God’s Mind.

This is what the above-mentioned characters in my new novella also conclude.

And that, for them, is why music that is properly ordered and arranged sounds so beautiful, because it is structured as it should be. And why music that is ugly and mistake-ridden sounds so bad, as it is either misused or misplaced, for whatever reason. That is not because each individual note is wrong or cacophonic. No. Of course not. It is because people have taken notes and not placed them in the correct order, or used them how they were meant to be used.

And from there we have what is rightly called disorder, of course.

The same applies for every other part of creation.

“Sing ye to the Lord with praise: sing to our God upon the harp.”
[Psalms 146:7]

Take it easy. And thanks for reading.