By principle I do not like collections of independent pieces because they have no real dramatic line, they carry no plot, no suspense, no progression. But how wrong I would be if I kept that principle in this case.
First of all and above all this voice is so beautiful, so clear, so aerial and so amazingly steep in its crystalline sharpness that each piece is one more moment of enjoyment never distracted or interrupted by any dramatic disturbance. We are so high in our enjoyment we do not need any labyrinthine suspense. We just curl ourselves onto this purity, close our eyes and let our senses go along with the flow of this voice.
The question is no longer about what this voice may mean, whether it is the voice of god, heaven or angels because it is none of these. Jaroussky is not god. His world is not heaven. His partners are not angels.
Jaroussky is just a trailblazer who needs no god to brandish his fiery voice, and he takes us into a world as dense as a forest that would walk on its own roots, like the forest of Macbeth, and be animated with all the elves, gnomes and other doppelgangers of the genie of Aladdin’s lamp. We just have to ask for more beauty and we get it at once.
But what is that beauty?
It is the beauty of a male voice, so masculine that we are shivering all over with such a real man made into a real voice and that male voice is so far, so different from any other male voice that we think after a while we are lost in another level of existence, that we have finally succeeded in our meditation and we have reached nibbana (nirvana they say in Sanskrit) and we can let ourselves blend into the cosmic energy of the universe and be part of this phenomenal force that gives life to every piece of rock in the whole natural architecture of all the galaxies.
And we follow the Milky Way of this voice that can be joyful like a May dance around a Maypole on May day in the village green. It can also become as sad and suffering as the dirge of a funeral that would bring our very soul down into the grave and would make that soul feel the sand and earth being thrown on our last mental breath, because this voice then becomes breathtaking.
But this voice can also take us down into the deepest chasms full of beasts and violence and we can feel the heat of the dragon’s flames on our left or the ice-cold electric caress of a medusa in the vast ocean at the foot of the cliff we have just fallen from and that stinging monster like freezes our heart to a stop.
And then the voice suddenly takes off like some albatross searching the vast seas for some old mariner who could tell us the triumphant arrival of his ship in a harbour that would bring life back to all the other sailors and officers on the vessel, all those who had died during the endless calm it had gone through.
And the albatross would sing the trumpeting announcement of the end of some enchantment and the probable rebirth to a world of wild growth and succulent enjoyment of eternal bliss.
But then the voice can take us off this satiety into a new state of want, lack, and we will start begging and running behind it. Please, please let us rest a while. But the voice is deaf to any complaint and whips us back onto the road to the other side of here and even of beyond there, to a world that we did not suspect existed.
And there new chimes, new chants, new chords will make our feet become impatient to dance but we have to find the one we want to dance with, otherwise, though there is no way to escape that curse, we will dance with the devil, with ourselves in some onanistic gavotte or is it a requiem that buries standard humdrum everyday life under a cataclysm of apocalyptic exquisite suffering.
That’s the voice you have here in your ears. Just listen to it. Let it sway and swing you to and fro in the cradle of its music.
If you can survive the experience you will just be a new man, a new woman. You will have experienced the hydromel of the messianic Jerusalem that we all carry in our brain and ears because it is a song from the blazing heart of the sun. A heart that is beating its tempo in a tongue or language we cannot understand any more. But we sure can feel it.