TRACK TWO

       Prokofiev, Piano Concerto No. 2, Finale

      Evgeny Kissin, Piano

       Sergei Prokofiev was one of the great musical revolutionaries. He wrote his first opera at nine, and by the time he was a teenager at the St Petersburg Conservatoire he was already established as one of the great enfants terrible of music, composing ferociously dissonant, virtuosic music that smashed down existing conventions around tonality and kicked music violently into a new direction.

       I love him even more because he got reviews like this one from the New York Times: ‘The House of Bondage of normal key relations is discarded. He is a psychologist of the uglier emotions. Hatred, contempt, rage – above all, rage – disgust, despair, mockery and defiance legitimately serve as models for moods’

       Awesome.

       In 1912–13 Prokofiev wrote a piano concerto to the memory of a friend of his who had sent him a farewell letter and committed suicide. The music is so jarring, so angry, so overwhelmingly insane that when he gave the premiere many in the audience thought he was making fun of them. It remains one of the most difficult pieces of music in the repertoire, with only a handful of pianists being brave enough to perform it. One broke a finger while playing it live.

       It is the most accurate musical depiction of helter-skelter madness I have ever heard.

      I’M AT SCHOOL AND A bit fragile. It’s ‘big school’ after all. I’m a nervous kid. Shy and eager to please and be liked. I’m slight and beautiful and look a bit like a girl. The school itself is posh, expensive, on the same street as our house and, to my tiny eyes, huge. I am five years old. I have few friends and don’t really mind that. I’m ‘sensitive’ but not retarded and awkward. Just slightly apart. I like dancing and music and have a vivid imagination. I am free of much of the bullshit that adults seem to be weighed down by, which is as it should be. My little world is growing and unfurling in front of me and there is much to explore at school. Again, as it should be.

      One day (I was going to say ‘one Tuesday’ but it was over thirty years ago and I haven’t got a fucking clue what day of the week it was) I went to the gym with the rest of the class. My first gym class scares me. The other kids seem to know what to do. They can climb ropes, hurl themselves at footballs and shriek with delight. I’m more of a ‘watching from the sidelines’ kind of kid. But Mr Lee, our teacher, doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps giving me encouraging, kind looks. Like he knows I’m a bit self-conscious but he’s on my side and doesn’t mind at all. It’s all unspoken, but it feels clean, defined, safe.

      I find myself looking towards him more and more during the class. And sure enough, every time I look up I catch his eye, and they sparkle a little bit. He smiles at me in a way none of the other boys would notice, and I know at some deep and untouchable level, it is a smile just for me. I feel like the noise and hustle and crowd recedes when he looks at me, and there’s a rainbow-coloured spotlight shining on me and only he and I can see it.

      It happens every time I go to his class. Just enough attention to feel slightly special, not enough to stand out. But enough to get me excited about gym class. Which is a pretty epic achievement. I keep trying to be nice for him so he’ll give me a little bit more attention. I ask and answer questions, run harder, climb higher, never complain, make sure my gym kit is clean and smart. I know one day he’ll come through. And sure enough, after a few weeks he asks me to stay behind and help him tidy up. And I feel like I’ve won some kind of lottery where self-esteem is the jackpot. A special ‘you’re the best, cutest, most adorable and brilliant child I’ve ever taught and all your patience has now paid off’ prize. My chest feels swollen and alive with pride.

      So we tidy up and talk. Like grown-ups talk. And I’m trying to be all nonchalant like this happens to me all the time and all of my friends are 130 years old and adult. And then he says to me, ‘James, I’ve got you a present’, and my heart stops for a second. He takes me into the walk-in gym cupboard where they store all the equipment and he has his desk and chair and he rummages around in his desk drawer. And then fuck me if he doesn’t pull out a book of matches. In a bright red sleeve. Now I know I’m not allowed to touch matches. And yet here’s this (achingly cool) man giving me some and telling me it’s A-OK to light a few of them.

      Kids are fucking stupid; it’s why they’re kids. He was overweight, balding, at least forty and far too hairy. But to me as a five-year-old he was ripped, strong, kind, handsome, dashing and totally magical. Go figure.

      I ask him if he’s sure it’s OK and he again tells me to go ahead and light one up. So that’s what I do. I light one and wait for the trouble, the shouting, the drama to start. And when nothing happens, when it’s clear there is no trap, I go to town. Giggling, striking match after match, eyes wide and bright, smelling the sulphur, hearing the rip of the flame, feeling the heat on my little fingers.

      Parenting tip – if you want a quiet half-hour to have a nap, give your toddler a book of matches. They’ll be captivated.

      It’s the best thirty minutes of my short life. And I feel things that all little boys ache to feel – invincible, adult, 6 feet tall. Noticed.

      And so it carried on. For weeks. Smiles, winks, encouragement, pen knives, lighters, stickers, chocolate bars, Action Men. A Zippo for my sixth birthday. Secret presents, special