Gavin Bryars
The Sinking Of The Titanic

Years ago, I used to walk my dog in a small grove just a stone's throw from home.

A green lung in a working-class neighborhood. Solitude and comfortable benches. Benches to think and observe.

At the usual time, a gentleman would arrive, about 65 years old. The classic 65-year-old gentleman. You can recognize someone who's 65.

He also walked his dog, an old Spitz. I think it was a Spitz.

A 65-year-old gentleman and an old Spitz.

Sitting on my usual bench, I observed them. They had nothing special. Nothing that distinguished them from other 65-year-old gentlemen and other Spitz. Actually, the Spitz never relieved himself. Strange, thinking back now.

Sitting on my usual bench, I observed them, and even my dog watched them curiously.

They arrived, sat in the usual spot, and did nothing, waiting for time to pass.

They got up, changed places, and did nothing, waiting for time to pass.

This slow movement, like calculated moves on a chessboard, repeated for about an hour. Then, as they arrived, they left, passing by without giving me a glance. Even my dog watched them in silence, without moving.

I observed them for almost the whole spring. Always the same movements, and they left without giving me a glance.

One evening, after the usual procession, they passed by me. "Good evening " he said to me. " Good evening" I replied.

Deep down, I was waiting for that "Good evening."

From that day on, I never saw them again.

And that is the music of "The Sinking Of The Titanic".

A long, slow, wonderful, heartbreaking waiting.