A young violinist seated in the second row at Leonidas Kavakos' concert found his proximity to the great artist a touch overwhelming. There was, it has to be said, a lot happening on stage. White puffs of rosin were bursting in the air, long fingers were tumbling through incredible gymnastics, and the most wonderful sounds were rushing out toward the audience.
After the concert had ended, the young violinist found himself impressed by another figure at close range, this time on the Tube. Instead of a violin, this man was kept company by a folded wheelchair, which he pushed in front of him like a stroller. His legs were sheathed in plaster from the knee down, and his knuckles were tattooed with small symbols and two words, LOVE and HATE, on the left and right hands respectively. The man was trying to persuade people to part with some of their change by telling them he was an ex-serviceman and by showing them the toes on his right foot, which he said, in an almost boastful manner, had lost all their toenails to the elements. Judging by people's reactions to the foot, the young violinist told himself to not look down, no matter what the man said. Just drop a few coins in the cup and maintain steady eye contact.
The plan went well enough until the man tried to get through the door to the next carriage. He struggled to get the wheelchair lined up with the opening, and distracted by this effort, our young violinist momentarily forgot his policy and let his eyes swivel downwards. Only for an instant, mind you, but long enough to perceive a clump of boulder looking things arranged roughly in the configuration of human toes. It was a ghoulish sight, and it reminded him of some of the sailors on the Flying Dutchman in one of those Pirates of the Caribbean movies.
The man eventually made it through to his next captive audience, leaving his last to contemplate their recent experience. The young violinist thought of the tattoos and the toes, and then of the rosin and the sounds, and decided that he found his run in with Kavakos the more rewarding. After all, he'd gotten to see one of the world's great violinists really going for it, which is a rare enough sight these days. Small mistakes were made, but the playing was astonishing and expressive, particularly with regard to Enescu's Op. 25, which sounded almost entirely improvised, just as it should
The young violinist thought of how he and the rest of the audience had gone wild once the piece had ended and of how they'd been rewarded with a lovely gem in the form of Kreisler's Liebsleid. It's a tune that's gotten many airings over the years, but rarely in such a delicate, straightforward manner. Not a drop of schmaltz to be found. It felt like hearing a whispered lullaby, and in fact filled that role an hour later when our young friend, his thoughts ripe with Kreisler and free from the torments of lithic toes, fell at last into a deep, peaceful sleep.
