I'll tell this story, even if some people will hate me (bitch eatin' crackers). In January of 2014, Joe and I went to see a performance of the early 17th century composer Charpentier's Orpheus Descending to the Underworld in an old chapel down in lower Manhattan.
The opera was unfinished at the time of the composer's death, but it is still beautiful. We were in the oldest chapel in Manhattan and seeing this, we discussed the interaction of time and loss. (As well as older people's propensity to put their scarves and whatnot on the chair next to them.)
Then we walked by the old graveyard by the side of the chapel. It was winter, there was snow.
We went to a restaurant that had recently opened, Telepan Tribeca—an outpost of a chef on the Upper West Side. We were at first wary of the wine list, yet we found a good Macon to drink. The food was surprisingly awful—pizza with lumpy carbs atop, etc. We discussed as much with vigor.
We walked home in the snow, to Leonard Street.
We sat on the couch, opened a bottle of Burgundy, and began to play songs to each other, songs that resonated. We'd seen a tale of death and beyond and were, in a silly way (because we always sat on the couch and listened to music, movies or TV shows) somehow melancholy.
Joe told me about Bob Dylan, and how he'd listened to him as a high-school student. I'd never heard these albums, "Blood on the Tracks," "Desire."
And then he played: "One More Cup Of Coffee For the Road."
He cried.
I told him, "Don't cry, sweetie." I wanted to comfort him.
It had affected him very much.
All I could do was play the clown.
So, listen to Rameau's Indes Galantes.