Atmosphere

This is a piece about impressions, not facts. So, too, will my post on it be impressionistic.

This piece is so invariably orphaned from the opera to which it belongs that I had no idea it was part of that opera until today. That's what I get for not listening to my Rimsky-Korsakov box set all the way through.

Boy, could ol' Nikolai ever write for woodwinds, though. Everything he ever did is magical, yearning, and bittersweet because of those woodwind parts.

See, before the internet, TV, and radio, there was the imagination. This is a work of imagination.

Or is it? Does the Taj Mahal still glow in the Indian sunset?

Come to that, are the traditional saris still bright and intricate, shimmering with color? Are the spices still intoxicating? Is the advent of the rainy season still a benediction of sorts?

Maybe Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov wasn't a fantasist. Maybe he was a reporter. And maybe he reported on the things that draw sensualists and spiritual seekers alike to India, year after year.

From his opera, Sadko, this is "Song of India", performed by the London Symphony Orchestra.