When I found a cassette tape of the Bach-Busoni Chaconne, aged seven, it’s how I imagine a kid would feel seeing Messi play football and thinking: I have to do that with my life. By then, I had already been sexually abused by a teacher for two years, and despite showing all the signs of trauma – night terrors, twitching, wetting the bed, constant stomach aches – I obediently kept his secret. To me, the world was a war zone of pain. I was a shy, awkward, lonely kid, but alone in my bedroom with that piece of music, I found a little bit of light that was just for me. Hearing it for the first time was almost a religious experience.
People think classical music is dry, but Bach was anything but. Half of his 20 children died in infancy: there was no way to get rid of that grief other than through his music. Bach composed the Chaconne when his wife died suddenly, and he didn’t get to say goodbye or even go to the funeral. Even if you don’t know any of that, listening to it, on some level you will know. When you think it’s the end, it just carries on, like having one more thing to say to a person after they die. There’s so much truth and so much emotion hidden inside those 16 minutes of music.
