There are four of us in the living room. Someone sits down at the upright piano and absent-mindedly plunks out a few melodies while we talk. Just a few notes, here and there, played against the overtones of conversation; but music is contagious. Two of us excuse ourselves to fetch a guitar and a cajón, and when we return the cellist is unpacking his instrument, pulling a slim wooden bow from its case. We tune to the piano, fiddling with knobs and wires, chasing low and high after the constant note—and then it begins:
The cello plays a slow, mournful, tune with Slavic soul. The crisp thuds of the cajón tap out a driving beat, and the guitar follows in expansive rhythmic strums as the piano floats a haunting melody above the sea of sound and movement, ebbing into the night and fading into the silence of summer.