Written by Jon van Wyk
While working in Hong Kong I was invited to a student concert – a regular occurrence. On this occasion, I watched as a young Chinese boy walked on the stage. He couldn’t be more than four or five years old, dressed immaculately in a tuxedo, hair combed down, shiny shoes. He looked like a miniature version of Jackie Chan – pre Rush Hour.
The auditorium quieted as he walked on stage and sat down in front of the piano, supported by a cushion to lift him to the appropriate height to begin playing. After a moments pause he launched into Turkish March by Mozart, and played a fluid set of notes and arpeggios that continued unabated for 3 minutes and 20 seconds. I’ve never heard anything so mechanically perfect in a performance, but afterward I reflected on this amazing show of brilliance and realised that there was something missing. Something that didn’t quite gel with a music lovers appreciation of the expression and nuance that Mozart needs to be played.
Some time later. I had a similar experience in Abu Dhabi listening to Eric Clapton play accompanied by a blues pianist. He looked at his watch and saw it exactly 8 pm, the time he had been scheduled for.
He began to play. Each piece was begun without even an acknowledgement of the audience and there was no acknowledgment of the applause that the audience gave him. At precisely 9:30 pm he looked at his watch again stood up and simply walked off the stage. We wondered if there was an encore or some kind of acknowledgement of his enjoyment of the evening but there was simply nothing and after a few moments a pre-recorded soundtrack began Eric Clapton’s greatest hits – Layla, if I remember. I remembered again, the feeling of having missed out on something, a connection of sorts.
Segue way to Manilla circa 2010, a typhoon warning and resulting delayed flight. We were shuttled to a hotel across from the airport, with a handy mall and casino attached. Much like most malls in Asia, there was a central atrium with a large stage adjoining a foodcourt. Finding a table, I was in time to watch a series of delightful children, singing, dancing and laughing their way across the stage. I found myself clapping along to songs in a language I couldn’t understand, part of a cheering crowd who were loving every minute of the show.
There was a moment’s pause and then a small girl in white, perhaps 4 years old, was helped on stage. A mic was pressed in her hand and I realised she must have been blind. A nearby waitress was kind enough to translate her message for me. “My dear friends, “she began. “I want you to know how happy I am to be in front of you here. I want to sing a song for my mother tonight. She can’t be with me any more, because she is in Heaven, but I know if I sing for her, she will hear me and then one day when I die, God will let me see her again. Thank you everyone.”
No one made a sound as the first few piano bars of You raise me up played and suddenly it was if a beautiful, angelic being had descended and begun singing for everyone in the room. Diners paused, all thoughts of food forgotten, and noisy children became silent as the beautiful words of the song resonated through the air, echoing, shimmering with the purest tone I have ever heard to this day.
As the music swelled and the melody went ever higher, her voice danced effortlessly around the notes and her face beamed with the sheer joy of the gift she could bring to her mother. I can’t even remember the end of her performance – any sound was drowned in a roar of affirmation from every person in the makeshift arena. A large crowd moved forward, hands outstretched in an act of blessing, while a group of family members sobbed uncontrollably nearby. I remember the MC of the show asking for room as the girl descended the stairs and was led away. I wanted to talk to her and learn more of her situation, but I didn’t get the chance, something I regret to this day.
I took something home with me though, an achingly beautiful memory and the knowledge that the essence of performance is not some technical ability, but that the mark of any true performer is that they love what they are performing and want the audience to share that love.
In these days of sterile audio and computerised sound, the role of a performer is more important than ever. Attending a live performance offers a connection, the joy of sharing a bond with those who genuinely want to give us a gift, rather than those who would simply profit from our presence as they perform for profit and nothing else.
Album of the month
Disintegration by The Cure
The Cure’s Disintegration (1989) is best described as an atmosphere. From the opening rush of “Plainsong,” it gently lures you into a world of writhing guitars, supernatural synths, and Robert Smith’s unmistakable voice, trembling with both fragility and dynamic resonance. Tracks such as “Pictures of You” and “Lullaby” showcase the band at their finest: melodic, cinematic, and emotionally weighted. At over an hour long, the record feels less like a collection of songs and more like a mystical journey, moving between intimacy and grandeur with style. While often labelled as goth, Disintegration defies simple categorisation. It’s moody but also luminous, dark but strangely comforting. Three decades on, it remains a benchmark for atmospheric rock—an album that countless bands have chased but few have equaled. For anyone who has ever felt lost in heartbreak, or simply wanted to disappear into sound, Disintegration still delivers that escape in spades.
Headphone rating 9.2/10