Ten Pianoworks By Carlos Guastavino: A Journey Through Emotion and Sound
If you're into classical music with a twist of Latin soul, Ten Pianoworks By Carlos Guastavino is the kind of album that sneaks up on you. Released in 2008 under Not On Label (yep, no fancy-pants label backing this gem), it’s a quiet masterpiece brought to life by Pieter Grimbergen’s fingers dancing over the keys of his concert grand piano. And let me tell you—this isn’t just another dusty old collection of notes. It feels alive.
The compositions are all by Carlos Guastavino, an Argentinian legend who knew how to weave folk tunes into something timeless. You can almost smell the earthy tang of South America when you listen closely. The Netherlands might seem like an odd home for such a record, but hey, good art doesn’t care about borders.
Let’s dive into two tracks that stuck with me because they felt less like songs and more like stories whispered directly into my brain.
First up: "Cantilena 3: Jacarandá." Oh man, this one hits different. From the first note, it’s like stepping into a sun-drenched plaza where time slows down. There’s a warmth here—a gentle sway—that makes you wanna close your eyes and forget everything else exists. I kept replaying it, trying to figure out why it felt so familiar. Then it hit me—it reminds me of lazy summer afternoons spent staring at trees swaying in the breeze. That’s the magic of Guastavino’s work; he takes simple melodies and turns them into moments you didn’t even know you missed.
Then there’s "Preludio 7: Cuantas Estrellas!", which is basically the musical equivalent of lying on your back at night, counting stars while wondering if aliens exist. It starts soft, almost hesitant, as if the piano itself is looking up at the sky in awe. But then it builds—slowly layering notes until you’re surrounded by this cosmic swell of sound. By the end, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to cry or grab a telescope. Either way, it left me feeling small in the best possible way.
What really ties this whole thing together is the production crew. Frido de Ligt did some wizard-level engineering, capturing every creak and breath of the piano without making it feel sterile. And shoutout to Kees-Jan Smit for the cover design—it’s understated yet striking, much like the music inside.
So, would I recommend this album? Absolutely. But not because it’s perfect. No, it’s memorable because it’s human. These pieces don’t try too hard to impress you—they just exist, raw and real, waiting for you to find meaning in them.
And honestly? Listening to this album made me realize something kinda weird: sometimes the most beautiful things aren’t loud or flashy. Sometimes they’re just… quiet little miracles hiding in plain sight. Like finding a four-leaf clover in a field of green. Or realizing your coffee tastes better than usual today. Yeah, it’s like that.
