July 26, 2013
Hills of Melody
The long highway that cradled the yolk of the cement jungle that lies within the convoluted mist of an ail breath. Bend after bend, the cloversâ edges bladed with eager speed but near to a calm tempo, a pause is too often met even at the beginning of an evening stroll. As the meter kept tap of all the accompanying companions, The Hills is but only moments away. Piercing through the heart of the city, the endless reflections of watchful eyes from above, gazing, looking, observing - the quiver of every turn and every light. A stop or two, I am always reminded of this place, this being, that have always harkened my heart.
Weaving through the oblong corridors of Alverado, the eagerness to the acute hilltops and valleys that were so accustomed to my taste and the fresh perfume eclipsed my every sense from the nearby thorns of the great pines and his sweet and cooling lover, the Eucalyptus. The narrow steps that led to a vignette of darkness around a blinding echo of brass cadence, the smooth oval walls that hovered a lively artery that panics to find its way towards the Sunset and Highland. The Bowl was again alive in my heart, its flavor of the strumming harp, the powerful pipes, the soft white keys, and of course, the beautiful gestures that stroke the paintbrush of the master. Step by step, I found myself lost in the forestâs tempting lullabies and its gentle breeze that cools the feel of my flesh as the warmth rushes to accompany my beating heart. I close my eyes. A whisper from the time of gallantry, smooth silk dresses keeping company with the sharp white bow tux of the leading bravado, narrated. I opened my eyes to a wondrous backdrop of the classic view, stamped by its clamshell silhouette, adorned by the crown of the Hollywood insignia.
As Rafael Fruhbeck de Burgos led his âPines of Romeâ cast into a beautiful overflow of overtures, the softest chirping of the clarinetâs intertwining voice with its reed brethrens, the crescendo that deepened the harmony of quartet and her sum, the fluid dynamic touch of Jean-Yves Thibaudet on the grand, the melodies do not just touch the heart alone, rather it is a quarry of life from within. The hours, days, months, have now taunted its way into years since I have a soul to seek. But it is in this gentle calm, perhaps like the fields of Alexander that the spear will find its way through the dawn. I am a believer that what I see, what I hear, and the softness of the touch, that these senses are meek and fading, but very, very much alive.
~Hollywood Bowl, Hollywood, California