Let’s talk about the violin for a moment, about its ability to pierce our armour and find that place in our heart we keep hidden from the world; how it can be both Greek chorus and wailing voice of the doomed soprano in an operetta. How it’s less an instrument than a weapon of mass emotional disruption, particularly when played as expertly as Jaron Freeman-Fox does.
Like any good strategist, Freeman-Fox wields his weapon of choice with varying nuances of push and pull, subtle and overt. He blends cowboy with klezmer, classical with contemporary, celtic and bluegrass with Indian subcontinent and wild-eyed punk. He makes allies of musical genres in unexpected ways, and the result is an aural occupation for which we willingly disable our defenses. As a violinist, Freeman-Fox is a master of disguise, a harmonic double-agent who seamlessly adopts musical masks in order to reset the tonal maps we’ve plotted. He well may be planning some kind of new orchestral world order, and I, for one, welcome our new maestro. Long may he play.