Melancholy in ¾

For me as a young person, music was something colossal, intangible—something that lifted me to other spheres, to a higher place, one where I felt free, completely different, at least, from life below. In my mini-music collection, there was Beethoven's Violin Concerto, Chopin's Piano Concertos played by Vladimir Ashkenazy, who, from the cover alone, must have been a half-god to me, then Mahalia Jackson's Greatest Hits and the Four Last Songs by Richard Strauss—sung by Elisabeth Schwarzkopf. Her picture on the album cover seemed remotely cool, more shiny than luminous—red flowers draped themselves folkloristically on her dark dress. Quite different was the warm-toned, friendly picture of Ashkenazy in a red sweater. Pictures and staging. Let anyone say they don't do anything with young ...