21 FLORIAN NOACK He doesn’t solve it. He negotiates. But in the way Faust negotiates with Mephisto, in vain. You can’t negotiate with the passage of time. This is both the miracle and the tragedy of musicians: they play, we listen to them, and when they have finished, their music has disappeared, leaving a few traces in our minds, sometimes in our hearts. A moment of music has the fragility of the fleeting instant, transforming musicians into tightrope walkers, gliding along the thread of their ephemeral output. Painters have their canvas, writers their paper. Musicians alight on time as it passes. So they make recordings. Florian Noack makes recordings, again and again, fixing his music, strewing crumbs to mark his path, like Hop-o’-My-Thumb, not so much worried that he won’t find his way back, but in the hope that others will. When Florian opens his diary and sees three weeks free, he doesn’t head for his piano, but for his desk, pencil in hand, to make a new transcription. It will have taken quite a few periods of ‘three weeks’ to get as far as the release of this album, which has no truck with the notion of a monograph: this is an album of transcriptions galore, left, right and centre.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTAwOTQx