Two thousand three hundred strangers, defying everything, we find ourselves enveloped from head to toe in Bach's passion. The Passion according to Saint Matthew, specifically, lasting almost three hours. There is no escape anymore; the auditorium is packed with you inside and your time is no longer yours. Time is now in the hands of the German genius.
The Freiburg Baroque Orchestra, the Swiss choir and the six soloists envelop us with the vibrations of their instruments, in an unprecedented display of sensuality. The rhythm of the strings beats forward, the oboes come in and the voices cut the air while we read on the walls of the auditorium the translation of the cruel account of the death of Jesus, who right now has his hands bound: The moon and the stars are hidden." No cell phone has rung yet, this is an extravagance. A revolutionary act of resistance.
In an armchair, you can even see the small figure of a little girl, child. "Do you know that I can ask my father for twelve regiments of angels?" Jesus sings. A flutist drops her flute. Four thousand eyes watch as he picks it up. I am distracted by the twelve regiments of angels, I wonder if the girl is also trying to visualize the matter. In a striking cadence, a cell phone rings. Agitation in the seats. The director raises his hands to the sky as if asking for divine patience.
I am distracted by calculating how many caparrons, among these thousands, are distracted. I would continue to distract myself with the idea that everyone but me is completely focused on the music if it wasn't for a choir crawling up my legs. The unprecedented sensuality of this beastly work. I don't know if this eternal concert is a mystical experience, or a physical one. I would say it's like going to live for a while in Bach's heart. A long time
I want to kiss the squinting woman to my left. How can sound waves cause unlimited love? I want to kiss Alt when he sings "if my tears are powerless, take my heart". But Jesus expires, and a cough sounds. In the brief silence of exhalation, just a small gasp. This descent to earth is almost appreciated because, in the aria of number 58, the flautist, two oboes and the crystal-voiced soprano reach a peak of beauty that cannot be endured.
