In Moscow, at the very end of the street where I lived, there was a conservatory. I was taken to the concerts every once in a while, but being of that insufficient age of four, they barely made an impression on me. By the time I returned to England, to me there was merely pop, and the like.
A few years past my first decade, I set myself the task of diversifying my phone playlists for those impossibly long car journeys. Cringed by an endless tirade of love-infested lyrics about girls stuffing their faces with drugs, I thought back to a film where I enjoyed a dark-sounding piece for piano, more commonly known as the Moonlight Sonata. Although the track I found was only the first minute-twenty on a loop with strings in the background, within it I heard character, an incomprehensible depth of pain and tenderness, and – al though probably about love – it lacked the connotations of cocaine.
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