The Aeolian Harp, rewritten

Don't you hate it when someone says something that it feels like you've been trying to say, off and on, for the better part of your adult life and says it much better than you?

The opening paragraph of a review of Chris Abrahams' album, Play Scar:

You know how when “Strawberry Fields” on Magical Mystery Tour fades out, another song comes passing through, only to disappear moments later? It makes one cock an eyebrow and wonder, “What was that song?” It’s like a brush with an alternate universe in which different Beatles songs exist, and the imagination concludes that an infinite amount of untapped music exists on the other side of the veil. This is why people will always create music, because it seems to exist without us or not. It’s a limitless realm. That one moment where a subliminal song passes our ears is how Play Scar begins, as if the opening chord on a shimmering organ is that moment, but this time we snag the tail of the comet and are led somewhere other.

Romantic neo-Platonism lives! But it is also thus with many things in Real Life, no?

(By the way: lovers of (and those curious about) contemporary instrumental music should make The Silent Ballet a frequent place to visit: skilled and knowledgeable reviewers write about a dizzying range of music, from experimental to classical to movie soundtracks. Even better: the reviewers describe very well what you'll hear. I've rarely felt led astray.)