Satie’s Storm

If you ever find yourself walking home in the beginnings of a summer thunderstorm, listen to Gymnopédies by Erik Satie.

Gymnopédie 1 starts as it should. Soft subtle piano notes contrast the gravel of thunder and complement the light patter of quickening rain drops. A little trip of two high notes at the beginning relates the urgency of walking to dry haven. Nudging, but not rushing, the melody ushers you along. You pause under an awning as the music slows to a brief silence. The window a.c. unit next to you whines shrilly as the distant thunder ignores it.

Gymnopédie 2 is the light gray of teasing rain. The piano’s sound, pearlescent as the sky, could lighten or darken. Which way is the storm headed? Small drops blown by wind strike your shins.

Gymnopédie 3. You continue on, the rain persistent but unoffending. The notes dip low in the crevices between cobbles stones and, wet but not drenched, you casually step over puddles. Finally coming to your doorway, you, the piano, and even the rain, slow to a contemplative silence.

For the storm to blow off to another part of the city would be too coincidental. A crack of thunder overhead and I can practically hear Vivaldi’s Summer III. Though it politely waited for the serendipitous three-part playlist to come to a close, the downpour begins in earnest. Obligingly, I shuffle my iPod and head inside.

Clip by daigoro789 via YouTube.

Originally published on the-escritoire.com.