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Piano Improvisation no. 108

For Phil, traditional classical piano training was something of a straitjacket. He rebelled from a very young age by teaching himself to improvise and play by ear. Fundamentally gentle by nature - he’s a vegan and life-long meditator - the competitive world of classical piano seemed brutal. Phil plays music simply for the love of it and nothing else matters to him. He’s not interested in definitive interpretations or who-can-play-the-fastest performances: what Phil offers is real musical sense, through delivering rhythm and groove, melody and harmony with depth, clarity and unconventional intelligibility.

Phil plays in a refreshingly unpretentious and accessible way, telling musical stories with vivid, straightforward passion. Being a Yorkshireman, he says it how it is, and music for him is profound solace, catharsis and joy: so this is what he offers. Being extraordinarily fluent in the language of music on the keys, he loves to improvise freely, allowing the music to pour forth spontaneously, from a place of deep body-and-soul consciousness. And he aims to make the music of Mozart, Chopin, Rachmaninov, and every piece he plays, come from this place of real transformation and healing.

فى العمر لحظة لا يعود بعدها شيء كسابق العهد به إقتنص هذه اللحظة وإمتليء بها علها تحمل اليك من كل شيء ما يفيض على قلبك بشتى الوان الفرح :))

مات عشقا فى اوتار الكمان ...فعجبا عاش الف عام


Never let me lose the marvel
of your statue-like eyes, or the accent
the solitary rose of your breath
places on my cheek at night.

I am afraid of being, on this shore,
a branchless trunk, and what I most regret
is having no flower, pulp, or clay
for the worm of my despair.

If you are my hidden treasure,
if you are my cross, my dampened pain,
if I am a dog, and you alone my master,

never let me lose what I have gained,
and adorn the branches of your river
with leaves of my estranged Autumn.

______


A light which lives on what the flames devour
a grey landscape surrounding me with scorch
a crucifixion by a single wound
a sky and earth that darken by each hour
a sob of blood whose red ribbon adorns
a lyre without a pulse, and oils the torch
a tide which stuns and strands me on the reef
a scorpion scrambling, stinging in my chest--
this is the wreath of love, this bed of thorns
is where I dream of you stealing my rest,
haunting these sunken ribs cargoed with grief.
I sought the peak of prudence, but I found
the hemlock-brimming valley of your heart,
and my own thirst for bitter truth and art.


- Federico García Lorca

العابرون سريعاً جميلون. لا يتركون ثقلَ ظلّ. ربما غباراً قليلاً، سُرعان ما يختفي، الأكثر جمالاً بيننا، المتخلّي عن حضوره.

- وديع سعادة "عزيزي"

Piano Improvisation no. 108

Phil Best