Pascal Amoyel

Pascal Amoyel, writing, piano & acting
Christian Fromont, stage direction
Philippe Séon, lighting

“If there is someone to whom Bach owes everything, it is surely God.” — Cioran

We are at the far reaches of space.
A small probe continues its journey through cosmic silence: Voyager 1, launched by NASA in 1977. On board, like an interstellar message in a bottle, twenty-seven samples of earthly music and sounds resonate, destined for distant civilizations.

Among them: a work by Johann Sebastian Bach…
What might those beings from elsewhere think upon hearing these harmonies? Perhaps they would discover in them the essence of what we call humanity: not our inventions or our conquests, but our ability to create beauty.

Bach’s music is an odyssey. And like any great journey, it cannot be reduced to a list of facts or dates. If you asked an astronaut to recount their expedition, I doubt you would be fascinated by the exact time of takeoff or the onboard meal schedule. No. You would want to know what they felt when facing immensity, weightlessness, the emotion that surged when they saw the Earth floating in the darkness…

My first encounter with Bach took place when I was about seven or eight years old. As was his habit, my father had put on a record while he worked. He then pointed to the portrait hanging above the piano:
— “Look, it’s him!”
I stared at that severe face. “Who’s that awful man with a wig?”
— “He’s the father of composers!” he replied.
That day I inherited a second father with famous initials: J.S.B.

I must admit it: I didn’t like his music very much. To me, it was an endless mechanism of sixteenth notes, like a monotonous train on its tracks. Later, when I tried my hand at his works, I sometimes added a bit of “groove” that Monk or Peterson might not have disapproved of.

But nothing worked: I was bored. My adolescent heart vibrated far more to the fire of Liszt or Rachmaninoff. With Bach, there seemed to be only one idea at a time, a single character on stage. No struggle, no drama: just an obstinate voice, almost foreign to emotion.

Until that day…
I was visiting Notre-Dame Cathedral for the first time. Suddenly, coming from nowhere, a monumental, colossal, dizzying sound burst forth from the bowels of the stone. I felt as if the columns and entire vaults had begun to sing.
Though I was not a believer, I caught myself thinking: “If God exists, this is Him speaking.”
In a fraction of a second, I knew: it was Bach.

Back home, I threw myself headlong into an investigation, unaware that it would lead me into the most unexpected territories. Bach was far from the frozen man in a black coat who wrote cantatas as an apple tree bears apples: he was a tireless walker, covering hundreds of kilometers on foot to hear another musician; a rebel who once drew his sword on an attacker or was thrown into prison for defying his prince; a musical adventurer inventing unheard-of sound worlds; a forerunner of modern piano technique and even of the very first public concerts…
I was stunned.

A shock that would soon turn into a devouring passion. I was beginning to understand why so many people consider him the greatest musical genius the Earth has borne — a musician who was at once poet, mathematician, philosopher, Sage…

This stage project devoted to Johann Sebastian Bach was born within me many years ago. It needed time to mature. I also had to confront other sacred monsters first, to whom I dedicated my previous productions: Looking for Beethoven, The Day I Met Franz Liszt, or A Piano Lesson with Chopin. Today, I feel legitimate in returning to the source of all this music.

Thus, my aim in this performance will not be to remind audiences that the St. John Passion premiered on April 7, 1724 — as if the face of the world would have changed had it taken place the day before.

No. I will attempt to rekindle that lightning-bolt moment felt during a visit that transformed my life as a musician and as a man, and to make it live for everyone.

By taking the risk of being completely swept away by it.