Within music. Within the film.

Author: Zhang Yinan
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-05-01
Features: Whether it's a sage or an ordinary mortal, as long as they listen to such music, they can experience a wondrous thing happening within it; when what the eyes can see is ignored, the mind sees freely and joyfully soar. khansahb did not merely understand Indian classical music as a treasure hidden in the mountains but allowed it to remain dynamic and inclusive, like an ancient stone that, rolling, never develops moss. "You don’t need to explain the music—you just hear it. Sometimes it makes you shed tears, sometimes it fills you with joy. Music teaches you to become a person with sensitive perception." He summarized music this way, and it makes sense, for his music already contains everything, just as the title of the music school he founded suggests. The realm he plays is "the music of the universe." I promised you we would cross together, because of a sacrificial listening. Someone magnified the light several times, and that arm swayed back and forth on the bamboo pole. I’m obsessed with the sound of gunshots in birdsong, like an unbalanced joy. That sudden seriousness and the whispering that melts into a stream—without such attention, we would die. I’ll keep being obsessed. If contemporary jazz musicians still only play stale phrases that make people drowsy, then they must be the kind who eat three meals a day. To find artisans, go to the bar where shadows twirl around. There are plenty of them—people throwing money into glasses. It’s better to listen to jazz in this city without leaving your home, for they won’t let time paint a layer of grease on their faces, like a pile of lively sound systems. Watching the ceiling turn into an eye, I so wish that rhythm of change could leap onto the flames. Ralph Towner had never left a strong impression on me before—he was a guy who knew how to be a good partner. My fondness for him came from the way he laid the winter curtain flat on the ground. Those long-unused warmth were left there, bathed in the tranquility of the morning after people had passed. People fly only by dragging out the dead birds within their hearts; in the low sky, they meet another who devours moments. I also heard Ralph Towner’s piano. Compared to his beloved running guitar, his piano retains the carefree spirit of a wide-angle telescope. Sometimes, mythology is just a small nose sniffing the dampness on both banks, often filled with great panic. I promise you that numbers are just props for drunkards. We don’t have the chance to strike in the waiting of others—we are forever the sunrise and sunset, and when fate trembles into a circle. I’m about to go mad. I’ll build a home on that distant road. Music is always the backdrop against which tears stream past the vision. I’ll take that bright wheat, and on days like this, I’ll take you. The cello—David Darling’s cello—found a place in the sky. The hospital in the sky was singing, and it was a bed where breath without pipes could lie. This is how we learned to understand each other’s compassion, over a long time. The cello bow began to float in the sky, and you and I both knew where it would go. There are some pairings to be found—guitar and air, trumpet and cello in a suit, your very light weight on the bass with colorful lights hanging, the pain signed by autumn, and that red rope I’m pulling. Unintentionally, I became a guardian of the seasons’ secrets. I had already opened the one facing the sun in May. Ralph Towner had two guitars—one in each hand—12-string and classical. The 12-string was dreaming, while the classical guitar was leveling your shoulders. It opposes overly dignified emotions, and it gets a chance to run outside the window. It’s you who’s trembling all over, and at this moment, everyone in the world is planting memories. I traded that silence of the Tao for it, traded it for it, letting the eyes of spirits roll one by one on the ground. Don’t go far. The next season’s book is silent, waiting for us to cross. I don’t know why there would be music so tightly binding the wheat. It found that night’s tears in a bottle, and I’ll forever keep the two paths together. We both think water can replace breathing, and if we move within it, we’ll never fall. I promised long ago to cross from different places to that place together.