Domenico Scarlatti,
the Jimi Hendrix of the harpsichord.
I bought this record at an auction long ago and far, far away. And I have become obsessed with it, playing the hell out of it.
The harpsichord was superseded by the piano because it lacks dynamics. Every Domenico Scarlatti song sounds more or less like every other Domenico Scarlatti song. It’s like blues or punk that way.
Or metal.
Or the robo-pop you kids listen to today.
It is comforting to know that music centuries ago was still just music, euphonious air vibrations, usually repetitive.
Domenico lived at a time when men wore wigs. How the hell did that happen? How did it come about, wearing wigs, especially for men?
* I imagine the first man putting on a wig and looking into the mirror, going “Hells, yeah!” and flashing devil’s horns with his fingers *
I love the harpsichord because of its delicate creepiness. I imagine funeral parlors and shoes with buckles on them. Scented powders and women strapped down in corsets and buried under giant dresses. Cobwebby mansions and somewhere in the distance a musket goes off. Tomorrow at noon, likely, there will be a public hanging for piracy.
The harpsichord is past you can hear.
