Once upon a time there were no additives nor genetically modified tomatoes. No gas-spitting machines to make you feel free to wander - and free to breathe those gases and grow malignant tumors inside of you as a result of it. No prescription drugs - just a big garden instead. There were no space travels and strange-looking moon jeeps.

Once upon a time neither men did travel away from their souls nor souls decided to leave their men alone to the hollow carcasses of theirs.

I am told with a certain assuredness - by people quite more knowledgeable than me - that once upon a time there were green pastures, and cows, and little birds, and flutes. And shepherds playing flutes. And there were jokers too; sometimes they would make life merry at night, as men returned from their daily toils back to the village - back to their families.

Yet, on very special nights, the whole village would chant and play by the big bonfire. Then jokers would spin tambourines, at the beat of a bass drum, while prompting a singer to start his song. Masters of music from distant villages would be the most welcome guests, while people would dance at the sound of a voice, and pray at the sound of a drum, and cymbals would be hissing their notes. Communion would be the word.

Wise men, Masters and laymen would spend the night together, keeping the beasts of prey at bay, out there - in the darkness outside the magical ring of fire, away from their music.

Their instruments were simple. They were made of stones, they were made of leather and bones, they were made of skins and guts, and rings of metal and wood, and clay from Mother Earth, and horse's hairs.

Some of those Masters and some of those shepherds would travel all the way to Felix Munatia, and its Great Theater. Once - just a few thousand years after the building of the Great  Theater - the Masters decided to re-create this joyful event and play, again - for once. It was a July 13th - and although they seemed to play their instruments - indeed they played their secret numbers, secret memories, and colors and music.

That fateful night Rhythm sat on the throne, and queen was the Melody. On magic carpets barefoot musicians played those simple instruments with their souls - as only Masters could do. Intricate patterns, complex notations, weaving melodies were for once, perhaps for ever, forgotten.

That was the moment when notes became crystal clear, and intervals became intelligible to the souls of the many called to witness that prodigal evening.

That night's music would end up being neither classical, nor raga. Indeed it really does not matter had it sounded Indian or Western. That night, in Felix Munatia, once again music became music.

That night, there came Music.

LDM - July 4th, 2013