The Pleasure Quartet by Vina Jackson Page A

felt it wise not to advertise Viggo and the band’s involvement in it, so it never made waves. Still gets played on Classic FM, though.’ The expression on Rhonda’s face betrayed what she thought of the executive who’d previously sat in his chair. ‘It’s actually quite nice,’ she added. ‘Although not very commercial . . .’
    She returned to her desk.
    Noah slotted the CD into the player.
    Strumming acoustic guitars forming a wave of gentle sound, the familiar underpinning of a bass guitar ordering the beat into place before Viggo’s voice would no doubt surge from the depths in customary fashion, as the echoing drums joined in. But as the group’s instruments all met on the upbeat, smoothly clicking into space, there was just a deep hum, the shadow of a voice in the distance. Viggo double-tracked, it felt like. And then, the sharp sound of a violin punctuating the cloud of the nascent melody, pure, crystalline in its clarity, dragging a parade of emotions in its wake and building the emerging foundations of a melody. The tune had a slight familiarity.
    Noah picked up the box and peered at the track listing.
    ‘Fingal’s Cave.’
    It had been ages since he had listened closely to classical music.
    The violin soared, its tone mixed up front, dominant but gentle, fierce but tender. Noah closed his eyes. Listened. Abandoned himself to the sounds pouring from the two small speakers arranged at opposite ends of his desk. Surrendering. This was certainly not what he had expected to hear.
    The music painted scenes in his mind, like a brush magically conjuring landscapes built on feelings and primal instincts. A raging sea, the cavernous abysses where sunken boats lay, a sky in turmoil, clouds battling above like mythological titans. He recalled vaguely that the orchestral version as originally composed by Mendelssohn was in no way so affecting. Or had he misheard it back in the day?
    The way the violin merged with the more modern sounds of the band and its jerky rhythms and electric sensibility was eerie. Opened up new dimensions in the music, like the Northern Lights parting to reveal some dark, enticing, uncommon vision.
    He caught his breath.
    What the hell was this? How had he not even heard of the album before?
    Time flew by and the piece ended, not with a loud climax but with a delicate whimper, the sound of the violin fading ever so delicately until there was just silence floating.
    The next track evoked idyllic fields, naked bodies frolicking, an improvisation on one of Vivaldi’s Seasons; he was unsure which. Sensual. Albeit slightly spoiled by Viggo’s spoken words soaring across the sharp tone of the violin. Words were unnecessary. The piece would have been so much better without the slightly pretentious recitation.
    Rhonda knocked on his door. He was lost in the music still two hours later, the CD on repeat, playing on and on inside his head. Office hours had come to an end and she was returning home.
    ‘I’m staying on,’ Noah told her.
    She reminded him of tomorrow’s schedule of meetings.
    The brightness outside began to fade. He did not switch on the lights. Remained in the dark, alone with the music. Aimlessly watching the sky darken above the neighbouring gardens.
    He had never come across such an exquisite blend of classical and rock before. Indeed, it was a collaboration which had always been fraught with peril and which no one had to his knowledge properly mastered.
    Why in hell had they not given this album some promotional support and decent marketing? It was bloody wonderful. Parts of it, even when the melodies were familiar, had left him breathless. Whoever played the violin on the record had managed to not just blend in seamlessly with the other instruments but was actually leading the dance in a merry and clever way, imposing his or her will on the others without them noticing it, using Viggo’s group as a foundation for a skyscraper of improvised sound that communicated its passion