Saturday morning music: Bruch and The Indigo Girls

It’s raining and I’m sipping coffee, Classic FM on in the background while I browse through email. Tim has headed off to a meeting and I’m alone in London for a few hours. There’s a strain of violin in the background that captures my attention; it’s beautiful in a way that makes me pause to listen harder, and I want to remember it. I know the piece, but I can’t place it.

A quick look at the station’s website and I can see what’s playing: Max Bruch’s violin concerto No 1, movement 1, in G minor. It was somewhere in the third minute that I had my moment. The violin is serene, soft, simple, and I am no longer paying attention to anything else. And when it ended, I sighed at how music is such a powerful force.

And then, somehow, my mind jumps 125 years ahead to The Indigo Girls. If you’re a fan, well, you’re devoted. You know how beautifully constructed the lyrics are and how their music includes wonderful interludes of cello, piano, trumpet, acoustic guitar (or electric if it’s “an Amy song”), African drums, mandolin (more of an “Emily” instrument).

I think the connection came from a post from America a few days ago—the Girls are on tour in the New York area, and having read that and expressed jealousy at seeing them perform live, their music is still swirling in my mind days later. I haven’t seen them in concert in years—they don’t get to England much, if at all. When the mood strikes I find myself dusting off the CDs or finding a few tunes on You Tube when I want to hear something in particular, or just go through whatever playlist is available. There’s a host of recollections that different songs from different years hold for me; I quite like pausing and thinking about those times. There’s a comfort in replaying favourites, both melody and memory.

So that’s how I’ve spent the last hour. And yes, I am singing at the top of my lungs (Tim’s not hear, remember.) And I will go throughout this dreary wet day no doubt humming through some old favourites, pondering such things as what is love then, is it dictated or chosen . . . Mystery. And no doubt there will be a strain of the intermezzo from Cavalleria rusticana in my day, and I will pause and smile, grateful for how music and life are intertwined.