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The next 50 minutes of music flesh out the splendors in between.
A Messiaen chord is a crystalline, faceted thing, full of internal symmetries that shimmer and glint.
Just one would be enough to contemplate for a while, a snowflake on a fingertip.
Instead, they come in flurries, piling up before your ear.
By rights they should meld and melt together, but they dont not in Aimards and Stefanovichs hands.
Twenty fingers seem too few to produce these intricate sonorities, and too many to produce that unified breath.
