Keith Jarrett
La Scala

Milan - La Scala - February 13, 1995, it's raining.

I managed to get a ticket for the event. I love Jarrett, I have almost all of his records, but I've never had the chance to hear him play live. The concert starts on time, the first piece - the interval almost annoys me and I don't go to the foyer (immobile in my seat, still filled with emotion) - the second piece, the ovations, the encores - three, four - the audience claps their hands raw, Jarrett thanks by bringing his hands together in a hint of an oriental bow (I don't know why, but I knew he would do it).

It's raining, I go home. My partner greets me with a bewildered look: I look exhausted, the beard I shaved not long ago has grown back, I seem almost transfigured. How was the concert? I don’t know, I don't remember the music. I remember perfectly his gestures, his moving across the keyboard as if loving it, his breath, the rhythm of his breath, his singing, the beat of his feet on the wooden planks of the stage, his moans, the dull noise of the pedals, the dull noise of my heart. The music, as if forgotten.

I had to wait two years to remember and cry, moved. In the liner notes, the brief story of a meeting between this man and another man, one of his fans. He too was crying, trying to communicate what he felt attending the concert. I don't know how many people felt this that night. I believe and hope there were many, because being able to express the heart is what makes us truly human and worthy of enjoying life and its manifestations or, as Jarrett says:

"… The heart is where the music is"