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Khatia Buniatishvili's Tour de Force of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto N° 1 in B-flat minor on Zubin Mehta's 80th Birthday*

… the caged-beast terrified defying the donderbus blasts vollies of muskets and cannons heralding the charge cavernous ton caisses blown asunder one blow after another yapping at the heels tense fingers rouse rout the oceanico- volcanic rumbled roars Napoleonic regiments march to the Hapsburg and Prussian theatre fields socket-bayonets lowering bison hooves churning up fossil-stamped-under turfs prairie cacti the starved beast within clawing at the iron black-and-white bars 7,800,000 Brown Bess muskets rip the leaden air Khatia pulsating on array upon array of stiff-backed goose-stepping hussars her eyes half-closed under chaffed curls the un-ending march of drilled fingers over ages no single gap within-between mounts of palms pounding the thunder out of the bowels of the earth growling up and down the veins of notes come never come unstuck furious furnaces of maddening cries surging in unison through her stoking arms raking the fire fissioning fusing in the pulsating funnel of her torso-seat furnaces of energy bursting bubbly bold and raw veiled eyes strain on the girdle's romping rise and thumping fall from side to side alternating drawn-out lean dulcet notes in spaced out lulls with bass and clarinet strains the steam-brimming summits about to give about to part now yes not yet the ultimate squeezed up orgiastic boil down to laboured thematic repetitions seizing the memory cold the rapid-fire flint-lock musketeers in range after range falling to each triggered chord by the hundreds hussars cavorting high leather squat-kicking while strings echo breathless the hind-core juices spouting at her finger-tips cannon calls collide on trumpet blasts clarinets foreshadowing the wayward raga come to nag and jog the sullied brains behind deadpan listening disarmed visages fussillades upon clacking thunderous hussar roars the strings strain and lag to hold together the air after the dispersal of fog and smoke bourrasque after bourrasque of drums pour seething metal over her head and nape in stoop to conquer fixed-bayonet thrusts of notes thump thumping the stoop forty fingers to the fractured nano-second bend blend bake each note into the fury of torrential sound charging down the pent-up waterfall of inturned eyes ….
saved by the lone raga come a-loose just in time 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! Cry the Hussars !

*Israel Philharmic Orchestra, pub. April 22, 2016
© T. Wignesan - Paris, May 5, 2018
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