Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

Ever since I heard Anner Bylsma's austere interpretation of Bach's 6 Suites for Cello back in the 80s, I've had a deep affection for this music. I just checked my iTunes library: I currently have 10 different versions of the complete set for cello, plus one performed on guitar and another on viola da gamba. Ironically, I don't have the set by Pablo Casals, the engaging hero of Siblin's short account of this "almost-lost" composition.

I'm not sure what I expected from this book. It's the work of an amateur in the best sense. Siblin is an established critic of pop music, and he sometimes writes about Bach and Casals as if they were an obscure band he just discovered. For me the quality of his commentary was wildly uneven, sometimes a mere step above gossip, sometimes quite illuminating. It's sincere to a fault. But I'm not sure how much I can blame him: for me, the music is mysterious, full of secrets I can't fathom; I wanted him to reveal something that's probably beyond the power of writing. Maybe no one can � as Robert Kapilow says in the title of his recent book, All You Have To Do Is Listen. (But then Kapilow is superb at showing what you're listening to.)

In the end, Siblin's book is enjoyable for its anecdotes and the sense of how lucky we are that this music survived at all. If he relies on sweeping, almost empty generalizations, I understand, it's how one fan speaks to another: The second suite will forever remain for me a suite of tragedy; the third, love; the fourth, struggle; and the fifth, mystery... The sixth is one of transcendence.

Fair enough.