On reflection, I have discovered that my attitudes toward work, toward composing and the internal momentums therein, remain similar to how I felt about these things before the cardiac arrest. This is a bit surprising, in that there is some expectation one should, perhaps, approach things differently after what are at least outwardly transformative and demarcating experiences. While it is unclear to me whether I have moved forward as an artist, I have in the past year, however, found myself in new territories of deliberateness—concurrent, energized states of cognizance and intuitiveness, composure and presentiment—and a yielding, perhaps (perhaps not), of new ways of hearing, of seeing. I feel, imagine, a renewed sense of resoluteness.
There was an air of subdued anticipation at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine as we waited for Philippe Petit to take the stage. A clarinetist roved through the church improvising variations on Gershwin in spurts, making it hard to tell if the event, which was being held to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of Petit’s walk between the Twin Towers, had begun. Eventually, the lights dimmed and we were told to turn off our phones, as even a single lit screen in the audience might cause Petit to fall from his tightrope. Music started, but so quietly that it seemed like it was being played from a phone, while a candlelit procession made its way down the nave. Large boards were set up, on which footage of the Twin Towers being constructed was projected. A group of child dancers imitated Petit’s walk along the ground, and were followed by a professional whistler. After we were shuffled through this sequence that felt like a performed version of ADHD, Petit finally appeared and began walking, first meekly, then quickly, to Satie’s “Gymnopédie No. 1,” wearing a white jacket laced with gold.
Those presented to the Queen found the experience discombobulating. Though it may have been the first time they had ever set eyes on her, they were often more familiar with her face than with their own. Hers was the most photographed face in human history.
So to meet the Queen was apt to make you feel giddy or woozy, as though a well-loved family portrait, familiar since childhood, handed down from generation to generation, had suddenly sprung to life. For most, the experience was unnerving, even terrifying.
A voice is “bright with swallowed disappointment”. Dark humour rumbles beneath even her most melancholy evocations; irony and compassion weave through her portraits of repressed lives that finally glimmer with some hope of liberation. The novel’s ending is subtle but complete, and infinitely moving.
The book is fun – guaranteed to raise a smile for Beatles fans at least. Its fiction is fact-based, conjured by an informed author. One imagines Burr watched Peter Jackson’s The Beatles: Get Back documentary intensely, because a lot of Reunion’s dialogue has the vibe of the real thing. Lennon cracks jokes, Ringo Starr is charismatic, an impatient George Harrison keeps checking his wristwatch and Paul McCartney keeps his bossiness somewhat in check.