I’ve released my first recording as a pianist:
Interpretations, Volume I: Bach.

The title is deliberate.

Along the spectrum of artistic creation, interpretation occupies a curious position: it creates something that is not entirely its own.

An interpretation is not a genuinely new work of art; it is the product of study of a work of art, in this case a musical composition. It is a sort of reproduction of the work of art. Let’s call that the bare minimum.

But interpretations of a higher caliber also add something new, something that is very difficult to pin down. Whatever that something is, it is distinct from every other reproduction of the original work.

You could say it creates a new relationship to the original. It shows you a new way of experiencing the art.

Therefore, an interpretation is potentially both constructive and deconstructive at the same time. How? If a listener knows a particular composition very well and has heard several great interpretations of the composition, they might eventually settle on a favorite. In other words, one that is, or at least arrives closest to, the way the composition should sound.

The composer created something resembling an ideal: the composition. A particular recording may then become the listener’s reference for its realization, the sound against which later interpretations are judged. The relationship of the interpreter, the original work of art, and the composer has become intertwined.

And then comes along a new interpretation. One that reveals an entirely different character. That compels the listener to experience the composition with a sense of freshness and (re)discovery. The sounds delight or offend the soul, for such music has hitherto been unheard.

What has happened to this composition, known through and through, perhaps even backwards? Suddenly years of experience and satisfying listening have been upended.

Earlier interpretations—even recordings once treated as definitive—lose their settled authority. Or, at the very least, that authority is called into question. Suddenly the relationship is insecure.

It’s even worse if the interpretation is powerful enough to alter the listener’s relationship with the composer. For with this rarest of interpretations, an entirely new character manifests in the work of art. One the composer may not have anticipated. One that appears to contradict the score, or at least everything the score has conventionally been understood to permit. The interpreter takes wild liberties with the composition, maneuvers drastically into territory wherein the composer stops and the interpreter begins composing. The lines are blurred, the waters muddied. The listener disheveled.

The interpreter has stuck their neck out in ways they probably should not. And yet they pull it off. Something truly special has been achieved. Is the interpretation not an entirely new work of art?

De l’art, l’art?

I will leave that for you to ponder.

For this, my first recording, I chose to interpret Johann Sebastian Bach. Concise by design. Three works. Seventeen minutes. A single arc.

Musical Narrative

Interpretations, Volume I: Bach begins in G major with Myra Hess’s arrangement of the chorale from Bach’s beloved Cantata BWV 147. The music emerges calmly, almost from within itself: a first breath, a path opening, life coming into motion.

From there, the program turns toward the relative minor. Bach’s Toccata in E Minor, BWV 914, does not sustain a single state. It searches, divides, improvises, gathers its voices, and drives forward. Its four sections make exploration the work’s very form.

The Toccata’s final turn toward major opens into—not Bach’s but—Domenico Scarlatti’s Sonata in E Major, K. 531. Motion remains, but its character changes. The sonata playfully passes its triplets between the hands with brightness and agility, closing the recording in effervescence and joie de vivre.

Birth. Exploration. Life released into pleasure.

The arc is complete.

Program

1. J. S. Bach: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring from Cantata BWV 147, arr. Myra Hess

2. J. S. Bach: Toccata in E Minor, BWV 914

3. Domenico Scarlatti: Sonata in E Major, K. 531

Where to listen to the recording:

Purchase and download in lossless audio at Bandcamp

Release Credits

Performed by Sousarion
Recorded and produced by Scotch & Bonnet Music
Released May 19, 2026

Learn more about the recording series and production philosophy at Scotch & Bonnet Music.

From the links above, the recording is available through Spotify, Apple Music, YouTube, and Bandcamp.

Enter through the open door.

Listen carefully. Let the arc unfold.

Happy listening!

- Sousarion

Share Nostos Toi Noein

When a day has gone very badly, when clouds pelt tears unceasingly, so unavoidably, that it seems nothing could possibly interrupt the downpour, the soft but firm tone of a low octave in G comes through from the deep, to rupture the darkness.

Thus, it begins.

Music: simply, purely. A continuous, cyclical line that’s not extended or not abbreviated, but grows, satisfying in itself, unmistakably beautiful.

There is no announcement. Nothing imposed. It does not arrive from above, but seems to emerge from within its own movement, as though the line had been there already, waiting to be heard.

It is an unassuming piece, yet it occupies a singular place in the musical world: universally recognized and accepted.

It belongs to what we call the canon. A piece of music that feels settled, resolved, assured. Even something close to sacred.

If beauty exists beyond preference, if it can be encountered rather than assigned, then this music approaches it directly.

And for that very reason, it is so rarely examined for what it actually does.

It offers an aural message.

**

Let there be life.

A path materializes before you.

Draw in the first breath.

Become conscious.

The journey is starting.

Awakening from the notes themselves.

Not just their arrangement but their very spirit.

Its timbres invoke coming into being.

Commencing.

That is why it became mine.

The first piece I chose to record and release.

My first breath and movement into professional musical life.

I enter it as a musician, an artist, an interpreter.

***

My performance is an expression of coming into being and then — becoming alive.

Calm but immense. Emergence into the world.

The performance communicates that to be alive is to be in perpetual motion.

As human beings we tend to move at a steady tempo. We also reserve the right to slow or accelerate, to sway or stretch, as the spirit of the music moves us.

Rubato is a universal law of all aural art.

From tempo, we shift to tone. How heaviness or lightness, attack and manner of release, legato or staccato, pedal or dry, give shape to the music — and resonate beyond verbal communication.

My performance commits care to the score for guidance, without limiting or forbidding, but rather welcoming divergence and spontaneity. The score provides grounding and assurance; it is not a set of moral laws.

May each note carry its expression outward.

The goal: to transport you to another register.

****

The sound follows these principles.

It resists uniformity.

It is full and resonant as the music develops. The melodic line explores the paradox of change within its repetitions; of smoothness, unevenness, and singing without excess brightness. The lower register carries weight without becoming dense. The sound space around the instrument remains continuous and open, free of artificial imposition.

Dynamics are lush and varied, while also holding their place. The sound, loud or soft, retains its shape. Always audible, left free to rise and fall according to the movement of the line.

What results is a coherent surface rather than a perfected one. Something that can hold variation, sustain tension, and still return to rest.

*****

Something new is being attempted here.

Without impositions, critiques, corrections, or purifications. These are not at play. What I pursue arises through the very act of playing.

In this piece, I use the Myra Hess transcription, as most do. But from that point forward, the movement follows what, to me, the music itself seems to require.

The tempo does not remain static. It shifts, almost imperceptibly, with each repetition of the music, as the line rises toward the apex.

When we reach the climax, it does not simply arrive as impact.

It opens:

Suspended for a moment, then released. Radiant. Life bursting forth. The fullness of breath, desire, and joy. Then folding back into the stillness from which it emerged.

But changed. Something has happened:

The arc completes itself by a return to its beginning, this time with experience.

This is the first piece in my forthcoming release, Interpretations, Volume I: Bach.

It does not present the whole.

It opens it.

Listen quietly. But also openly.

Carefully.

At ease.

Let it unfold.

May 19, 2026.

Share

Share

I play
soft
and loud.

And what I play—
it encompasses everything:
all sounds and colors,
seen and unseen,
heard,
unheard.

For all—
but I am by myself,
in solitude,
utterly alone.

The heart
on the sleeve,
yet locked inside its sanctum;
I hide
as much as I reveal,
just like the gods I play.

The gods played the lyre
and plucked the strings of hearts,
while I strike many, many more:
more harmonious,
more dissonant,
deeper,
harsher,
harder.
Cacophonous,
or else sublime,
and whispering:
a water nymph’s seductive solfeggio...

For the corners of her mouth
are tantalizing,
And she draws you in
to drown in her beauty,
to be made lonely,
melancholy,
human—not divine.
Not bestial either.
Tearful, in a word:
for the flood of sound she pours—
that drowns the soul—
rises from the eyes.

You are to hear through sight
and see through sound.
The strings are pulled,
the hammers struck,
the chords ring out;
thus moved and clasped by sound
you see—and yet go blind,
and drown,
and die,
and then you are reborn.

Oh musa musicale!
I am your willing worshipper.
Grant me steady motion,
a seeing ear and clarity,
an overflowing heart
to share your melody,
to make the world
filled with wonder,
aching with strength,
charged with life—
yet calm,
and true.
May I perform
and not perform,
reveal
and veil.

If Instrumentality moved you,
I hope you’ll consider subscribing.
I regularly publish poetry, prose, music, and more.
All crafted with care and intention.

Subscribe now

I've yet to come across a song
That breaks me down so powerfully
As that of Gretchen at her Spinning Wheel.

She sits in place unraveling, pining,
Swelling, as her spools of love —
Desire, ache, and longing,
Enclose her ever gradually from the world.

Until despair’s catharsis overcomes her,
Mephisto’s magic overwhelms her:
Her Faust is gone
Forever.

Subscribe now

Share

Let’s talk about a song written by a 17-year-old. I hesitate to call him a man because he was seventeen but certainly not a young boy either. Young man is a middle ground that doesn’t do justice to the subject matter I’m about to share with you. For, as someone with many more years than a mere seventeen, the piercing, shattering, and utterly devastating emotional articulation this 17-year-old captured overwhelms me every time.

Gretchen am Spinnrade was composed in 1814 by Franz Schubert (1797-1828). Middle class, non-noble, Viennese, without immediate access to an instrument, not particularly happy, pushed around by his family, though not quite an incel a far cry from a Chad. But already a master of melancholy, sadness, and tragedy. Of communicating those emotions in a composition of music.

So much for introductions.

The title of the song translates to Gretchen at her Spinning Wheel. The lyrics of the song are lifted from a poem of the same name by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Gretchen is the young woman whom Faust seduced, through the magical powers bestowed upon him by Mephistopheles. In other words, Faust made his deal with the Devil, selling his soul for superhuman wisdom. Faust’s lust for knowledge easily spilled over into lust for a beautiful young woman. So, in the story, Faust encounters her, casts his spell, and seduces her, ensuring her ruin (this is Enlightenment era Europe, after all). She succumbs, her innocence stolen, without any knowledge of the devilry behind Faust. Goethe’s poem is written from her perspective, post-seduction.

Faust has disappeared. She sits at her spinning wheel, longing for him. She knows he will never return to her, but she cannot help herself. Love is conquering her. She’s completely fallen for him, truly, completely – chastely. But Faust is not chaste. He’s poisoned her, so as she sits and pines, she loses her mind.

Musically, the theme Schubert gives us is one in near constant motion: as Gretchen’s mind spins, the spinning wheel spins and spins. Her mind unravels as she closes herself off to the world and into the corrupt memory of her experience with Faust. This spinning and enclosing and unraveling builds in tension and desperation until she explodes in emotional turmoil — not once but twice. Only to sputter out with a heavy heart. And I’ve not even mentioned the haunting melody…

Goethe was a master of the German language and among the greatest contributors to literature of all time. And with this song, a 17-year-old composer set the poem to music in a way that adds power and emotional insight that words alone cannot communicate. Devastating beauty to the level of the absolute.

Below is a link to a startling performance of the song, as well as an excellent performance of the version for solo piano, as transcribed by the great Franz Liszt — himself a Faustian, Goethean figure.

Enjoy! May you be wrecked and devastated, too.

“Gretchen am Spinnrade” — Sung by Wallis Giunta, Piano by Peter Dugan

Solo Piano Transcription by Franz Liszt — Performed by Dora Deliyska

If my words and — more importantly — this music moved you, please drop a comment, share your favorite devastating piece of music… or just let it break you quietly (and subscribe for more in silence).

Subscribe now

P.S. No promises, but I am thinking about making my own recording of this masterpiece. We’ll see…
Would you want to hear it?