Late One Autumn Night

Late enough for the house to start speaking in its own quiet way. Everyone was asleep. It creaked in the cool night air. Shadows grew bold in the corners of the living room, while the spinet-piano sat silently, ivories bared, uneasy in the stillness. On its lid a splendid brass oil lamp crowned with an opaque glass shade commanded the room. From a dim corner, the crystal display cabinet caught what little light there was. The fireplace was a simple country affair, its honey-coloured mantle framing the matte stove, whose flue whistled gently on blowy nights. I sat in the armchair, listening, examining the intricate pattern of the well-worn terracotta-toned rug. I spent several minutes trying to fathom the origins of the design before losing all interest. I pressed play. An old gramophone recording by Rosa Ponselle emitted warm crackles, followed by a lustrous string introduction, and then a ghostly voice began to sing. Chilling. A 1926 recording, it floated in the air, carrying the warmth of another time, now musty with the passing of seasons. The breathing voice of a young woman who had sung this song a century before today. She passed away in 1981, the year I was born, hardly a connection, I know, yet her voice met mine. She sang Massenet’s 'Élégie' and captured in her voice the long elusive shadows of mortality.

I took those long shadows, creaking house and decaying leaves into my accordion. I've never found it useful to replicate another artist, but I try to let their work filter through me instead. I use my hands and feel what emerges. The lyrics have the elegance of flowers left on a grave; beautiful, already decaying, tinged with something you don’t want to look at for too long. Yet, every so often, I’m pulled back to it, letting its presence fill the room. The melody drifts with silvery grace, while the accompaniment stays stark and unadorned. I like to do the melody on the bass buttons in the low register, while placing the accompaniment higher up on the keys. This reversed arrangement is strangely satisfying to engage with, at least for a folk accordionist, self-taught on a free bass system. We rarely let the left hand make the tune in the traditional style. On the accordion, the piece is melancholy and pained - in my little recording, in that room, in my modest country home, on a late autumn night.