It was years ago; I was a teen-ager and Glenn Gould was alive.
Being a kid, I was as pompous as could be but, deep down, so insecure I was a slave to the music critics who all agreed Glenn Gould may have been marvelous in his early days, particularly in Bach and particularly in the Goldberg Variations and Partitas, but he had gone horribly astray ever since he had stopped concertizing.
Everything had become grotesquely eccentric, the critics said, with clipped rhythms, rolled chords, ridiculous tempi, let's not even talk about the humming. I kept wondering, if he's so awful why do record companies keep recording him and why do the critics keep writing about him?
I avoided him like the plague. I was a purist at that time anyway. Only Bach on the harpsichord for me, thank you very much.
Then one day in the car I tuned on the radio just as the fifth French Suite was starting. I became almost instantly mesmerized even though it was being played on the piano. It was the most beautifully musical rendition I had ever heard. I kept on saying to myself, almost in disbelief, "Who the hell is this?"
When it was over, the deejay said it was Gould.
I was flabbergasted. After reattaching my jaw to my head but leaving behind the scales that had fallen from my eyes I went out and bought Gould's French Suites, and, in time, dozens upon dozens of his recordings.
I guess you could say I'm quite an ardent fan now. And it all started with a single French Suite.
