In Concert

Suddenly, the eclectic personal soundtrack that intermittently plays in your head is live.

The audience becomes main or minor characters and from the very first note, a flood of memories, moments and long-buried hurts swim quietly to the surface.

It”;s been years since I”;ve attended anything like it.

The pandemic has largely put the kibosh on my theatre-going dreams and so a David Greilsammer solo piano concert at the national theatre feels like water in the cultural desert.

I dress up.

My sister”;s black pants, my mum”;s vintage black blazer, my father”;s silky white shirt, a cravat made of some random black fabric I find in my underwear drawer and a sequined black mask I buy from a woman who – against all odds and mask jettisoning – is still selling them outside Clicks at Maerua Mall.

As I amble around the national theatre”;s packed foyer, I”;m happy to see that quite a few people share in the air of celebration.

Women swan around in glamorous theatre black. Some people wear suits and the photo wall tucked between two theatre entrances is a hot spot for those who want proof of their ability to clean up nice.

I don”;t arrive early enough to mingle but I do want a glass of red wine.

A makeshift bar by the street door is selling them for a tiny fortune and from a box and I buy a glass before demasking in the restaurant next door”;s courtyard and downing the whole thing ahead of the final bell. Classy.

Inside, I delicately ask the older German couple in the seats next to mine if they”;d be so kind as to vacate their chairs so I can get situated.

They”;re lovely about it, good-humoured in the way urbane and seasoned theatregoers are and I settle in with the disclaimer that I”;m a journalist and that my note-taking and intermittent photography may be a minor pain in the butt.

Again, they”;re swell about it.

They haven”;t been to the theatre in ages either. For the two of them, it”;s a rare cultural night out in the pandemic era ,yet, like me, they were also at the 1904 genocide panel at the national art gallery next door the night before.

We chat a while about their daughter Nicola who is an esteemed visual artist and author who I am familiar with and about my writing which they have read. The man enjoys my cab chronicles, misses the travel stuff (so do I) and laments the newspaper”;s dwindling arts, culture and entertainment pages.

In the row ahead of us and shortly before the programme commences, film-makers Florian and Cherlien Schott sit down with excitement as we squeal our hallos. When everyone is settled, I realise that I am the lone wolf between four couples and it”;s typical but also entirely heartwarming.

Greilsammer begins.

The old Steinway, excavated from a pit under the national theatre stage, comes to life under Greilsammer”;s spellbinding, lightning-quick fingers and the theatre becomes somewhere in-between. Not life, not death but a liminal and personal place where the singular music of Satie is woven betwixt the intense calm and crescendo of Mozart, Beethoven, Scarlatti and Schubert.

A man in the row ahead of me plants an urgent, unbridled kiss on his date”;s cheek.

The woman next to me clasps her beau”;s hand and I remember a man I met on the banks of The Seine.

Life cascades in waves.

The music opening unexpected interior doors in a melodious montage of who I am, where I”;ve been and hinting, perhaps, at what”;s next.

On stage, a lone man in a musical oasis shining bright in a pool of light, Greilsammer pauses in a puddle of sheet music. A paper pond once light as air, now heavy with the gravity of completion.

Greilsammer continues.

I”;m too far away to see much detail but I imagine sweat and the blood of passion and practice coursing through his veins.

Greilsammer ends.

After calls for an encore, he gifts some Schumann, a piece he hasn”;t played in a decade but which feels right for the night.

I stay.

Greilsammer bows. The theatre empties but I remain and haunt the aisles.

A spectator turned spectre, too tingly to head home.

In an age of information overload, Sunrise is The Namibian’s morning briefing, delivered at 6h00 from Monday to Friday. It offers a curated rundown of the most important stories from the past 24 hours – occasionally with a light, witty touch. It’s an essential way to stay informed. Subscribe and join our newsletter community.