Epilogue
James Rhodes A NOTE ON MENTAL WELLNESS
Words by STEFFEN MICHELS
Potography by ALESSANDRO RAIMONDO
James fucking Rhodes. There, I said it. The same way people say Bob fucking Dylan. Nina fucking Simone. Or Johannes Theophilus Amadeus Gottlieb Chrysostomus Wolgangus Sigmundus fucking Mozart. I’m horizontal, on my bed. The lights are off, with the exception of the surprisingly bright torch of my BlackBerry resting on my chest. It emits an icecold white. As if prompted by the music, I lift my arms and stretch out my fingers. Ten thin shadows appear on the ceiling. They slowly descend upon an imaginary set of keys: fifty-two shiny white, thirty-six dark black. It all looks rather beautiful because shadows, in their simplicity, hide messy details and render my hands’ every move graceful and, perhaps, a bit magical. That is until I stop playing the keys and my hands initiate a poorly coordinated mating dance that finally results in a rather childish depiction of copulation principles. This is what happens when James Rhodes tells you to listen to Ludwig van Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 32 in C Minor, Op. 111, Second Movement: Arietta: Adagio molto, semplice e cantabile, performed by Garrick Ohlsson on piano. And it’s not just Beethoven. Every chapter of Rhodes’ recently published memoir Instrumental is accompanied by a piece of classical music the pianist and author deemed relevant to its contents. All songs are available for streaming free of charge on a Spotify playlist to be enjoyed alongside the book – talk about combining art forms. Just like Rhodes starts off every chapter discussing a particular composition, its creator and the motive behind it, the music man with boyish features also pursues an unusually personal touch when playing in front of an audience. Determined to sweep the dust off the classical – to make it more accessible, interactive, authentic and actually about the music –, Rhodes has set up his own record label Instrumental Records. Why this is so important to him? Because if it wasn’t for Bach, Brahms and Beethoven, the Holy Trinity of classical music, James Rhodes would not be here today, sitting opposite me in a West London flat.
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