There is a twinkle in the eye of the violin in Pandolfi’s sonatas. He teases, provokes, confuses – then bursts out laughing. An impish laugh, part-threatening and part-joyful. Now, he plays the notes measuredly, mathematically, in deference to the accompanying continuo, and now he runs away, flies, does somersaults, and walks upside down on the ceiling. The violin plays by the rules of music and nature, then breaks free and breaks into a frenzy of sobs and curses before running at you and covering you with kisses. And, as he kisses, he gives you a light bite. He fears if he stops surprising you, he will die.
There is something discontented in Pandolfi’s violin sonatas. Unhinged. Perhaps a trace of madness. The kind of madness that borders with genius. The kind of fierce intelligence that can never be satisfied with keeping still. An inquisitive mind that screams Why? Why? Why? Why?
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