What the hell am I going to tell her?
I went to the taciturn girl standing behind the Dutch door and ordered one Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto number three, sat down, and listened to it in all of its scratchy, monaural glory. Though the sound had been recorded on the hills and dales of an old heavy 33-1/3 record made in the ‘50s, and was passing through an old monaural system, I heard the deep opening piano cords exactly the same way as I had when I’d first heard them, in this same room, possibly at the same console, and maybe at the same moment in time, nearly four decades ago, in my previous 20-year-old existence.
Thirty minutes later, Vladimir Horowitz ended the piece with descending chordal arpeggios in a brilliant pell-mell run down the piano, which caused my body to tingle and dissi
