Douglas Adams might be my favorite writer, but he’s also been pretty important to me musically. It was he that turned me onto Dire Straits, and the way he talked about Bach in Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency convinced me to give the Brandenburg Concertos a try. And, I was blown away.

Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 I. Allegro (m4a format – I wanted to keep the quality as high as possible)

To be honest, I’m not even sure where this particular take comes from. In the various computer switches and iTunes failure I’ve lost the information about who are where this was recorded. But of the many variations I’ve heard, I think this one is my favorite for its quick pace and the way it seems to swoop and soar.

Rather than trying to say much more, and given where I first got the impulse to give Bach a try, I thought it would be nice to share a little bit of Adams’ writing on the subject (from the posthumous collection The Salmon of Doubt). I hope you enjoy it…

Whatever new extremities of discovery or understanding we reach, we always seem to find the footsteps of Bach there already. When we see images of the strange mathematical beasts lurking at the heart of the natural world—fractal landscapes, the infinitely unfolding paisley whorls of the Mandelbrot Set, the Fibonacci series, which describes the pattern of leaves growing on the stem of a plant, the Strange Attractors that beat at the heart of chaos— it is always the dizzying, complex spirals of Bach that come to mind.

Some people say that the mathematical complexity of Bach renders it unemotional. I think the opposite is true. As I listen to the interplay of parts in a piece of Bach polyphony, each individual strand of music gathers hold of a different feeling in my mind, and takes them on simultaneous interweaving rollercoasters of emotion. One part may be quietly singing to

itself, another on an exhilarating rampage, another is sobbing in the corner, another dancing. Arguments break out, laughter, rage. Peace is restored. The parts can be utterly different, yet all belong indivisibly together. It’s as emotionally complex as a family.

And now, as we discover that each individual mind is a family of different parts, all working separately but together to create the fleeting shimmers we call consciousness, it seems that once again, Bach was there before us.

When you listen to the Fifth Brandenburg Concerto, you don’t need a musicologist to tell you that something new and different is happening. Even two and three quarter centuries after it actually was new, you can hear the unmistakable thrumming energy of a master at the height of his powers doing something wild and daring with absolute self-confidence. When Bach wrote it, he put himself at the harpsichord instead of the viola he more usually played in ensembles. It was a happy, productive time of his life when he was at last surrounded by some good musicians. The harpsichord traditionally played a supporting role in this kind of group, but not this time. Bach let rip.

As you listen to the first movement, you hear something strange, new, and terrifying giving birth to itself. Or maybe it’s a giant engine, or even a great horse being prepared for a Herculean task, surrounded by (you can’t help jumbling metaphors when language tries to keep up with music) a flotilla of helpers fussing around it. You hear it ticking over, trotting having a little canter here and there, getting a bit frisky, and then taking a trial run as its helpers encourage it onward, keening with bated breath. It hauls itself back in again, does another quick circuit. . . and then the other instruments fall silent. It stands free and alone, pawing at the ground, breathing deeply, gathering its strength, trotting forward . . .

And then it makes its move—running . . . hurtling. . .flying . . .climbing. . . clambering. . . pushing. . . panting. . . twisting. . . trashing . . .pounding at the ground . . . pounding . . . pounding . . . suddenly breaking away, running onward desperately, and then, with one last little unexpected step up in the bass, it’s home and free—the main tune charges in triumphantly and it’s all over bar the weeping and dancing (i.e., the second and third movements).

The familiarity of the Brandenburgs should not blind us to their magnitude. I’m convinced that Bach is the greater genius who ever walked among us, and the Brandenburgs are what he wrote when he was happy.