In all this time, I didn't say if I liked the music or not. I don't know. It was lovely when the maestro played by himself. He found the sounds of the piano that had the fullest, warmest timbre, conveying the soul and thoughts of the composer. It reminded me Kitaro's music, without the synthesizer. I felt, the band took something away from it.
After a short intermission, they started up again. Dodging the tall man in front, I saw someone's hands close to the floor of the stage. I thought, they were picking up something. Then, as the giant in front of me moved the other way, I saw that it was the mysterious man, apparently, the whole percussion section in one person, now sitting on the floor and playing the small xylophone. The first violin joined the band five minutes into the act: perhaps she went to the bathroom. The cellists, violas and violinists enthusiastically sawed the strings, the maestro tickled the ivories in careful absorption, the percussion guy with a frizzy afro on his head, swayed in ecstasy, now playing the tambourine amid the rising smoke, making the stage action look, for all the world, like an opium den. I wished then, that I could lose my sense of smell to forget about the stink in the room, lose my hearing, to avoid the bad acoustics, ignore the pain in my posterior from sitting for close to two and a half hours on a cheap vinyl of my VIP's chair, lose the eyesight, to stop wondering, what the heck was going on the stage. I wanted to absorb the music with my soul and let my spirit merge with it, rising with the smoke, to the rafters of the old theater. In other words, I longed for the glowing sterility of a concert hall.
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