I’ve just finished listening to Bach’s Goldberg Variations. I was brought back to it by this fantastic reading of this fantastic science fiction story about a futuristic classical piano competition. The music geekery in the story was rich, and I was reminded of my music-degree treeplanting partner’s rambling clearcut lectures about the interplay of physics and human constructs of musical norms. Which was great. Then, listening to Gould pound and tinkle his way through the Variations I caught myself air-pianoing while walking down Cook St to the shoreline. My initial response was to get a grip: there’s nothing sillier than watching somebody who doesn’t know how to play piano air-pianoeing in a public place. And if the sound engineer’s of the 1982 re-recording had managed to eliminate Gould’s trademark humming from the mix I probably would have left it a that. But when Gould made that recording, and all his recordings for that matter, he made no effort to contain his physical response to the music. For him the viscerality demanded an answering hum, and he hummed. And you can hear it. In fact, when I first heard the ’82 version I was dissapointed that they had muted out the humming, and then thrilled when I realized that, no, when listened to at the proper Goldberg Variations volume (medium-really-loud), that toneless counter-vocalization was in full effect. So I figured, if the music makes me want to bang my hands around epileptically, and that draws me farther into the music, why do anything else? Listening to music is a physical experience as well as an intellectual one. It may be so good just because it does reconcile the physical with the intellectual, or least try and make them talk to one another. The Goldberg Variations is, regardless of original specs, at times a manic piece , you should look a little manic when you’re listening to it.