As quoted in this article: “There’s a clever little optical illusion included on 2002’s memoryhouse, being that if you listen once to ‘November’ then look at yourself in the mirror you appear to be a complete stranger. No kidding. It is heavy, heavy shit.”
I love it. The sentiment, and the piece of music. It is terrifying and yet unquestionably beautiful. Max Richter’s musical language is steeped in nuance and emotion, and I understand it implicitly. November is the perfect musical representation of internal chaos and imbalance. You can almost feel the notes leaping off the strings as they are played, because they translate desperation so exquisitely and with such precision. It feels like it was scored especially to accompany those moments of repetitive, circular agony that occur when we are entrenched in something so difficult, unable to find an exit. When we spin and spin around trying to find meaning, trying to find answers, trying to come to any conclusion that will bring us a sense of peace. But nothing does, and nothing can. No saviour is unearthed. Instead, violins frantically hum with dissonance, urgently repeating melodies, layers increasing in both number and ferocity until they reach their final crescendo, discordant and ever-so-slightly out of tune. Powerful but fragile all at once.