Socks on Fire

A Photo
The Sky is on fire

A musing
One of the many surreal moments that constantly beset me was a few years ago with my daughter and several thousand others at a Kings of Leon gig, the assembled multitude raised their voices deliriously to join in the anthematic  My socks is on fire (thank you to their drummer Nathan Fotherill for that get out), I mean burning socks and burning other things are for the bedroom only aren’t they, not for singing full tilt with 30,000 - or am i missing something?

Missing something is what I did the first few times I listened to today’s track. Chopin and Amandine Dupin (known as George Sands as having a male sounding name was a thing then if you wanted to be taken seriously as an author) are in Mallorca, waiting for his piano to arrive. To the shock of the Mallorcans they are not married, and - less well known fact here - she liked to smoke cigars.
It took ages to get his piano there, he wasn’t well physically but all of a sudden he’s prolific in the music writing department (unlike the socks this isn’t a euphanism).
This piece of music is so precise, so beautiful, you can feel the first drops of rain after a drought falling, big drops. When the upper registers quietens part way through, the driving passionate lower register is there, was it always there? I ask myself every time I listen to it.

For me the piece reminds me of passion, and not just the passion to do with socks (yes I know but my kids might read this), but the thing that drives us, that won’t be silenced in us.

Chopin Prelude 15

btw I did actually once set my socks on fire in the bedroom, but that's another story.