MUSIC
Vivaldi, my Dad, and I
Shweta Menon
When people say that classical music can sound like rain, they are usually thinking of Antonio Vivaldi. His music does more than play notes. It brings entire seasons to life.
Music has always been one of the strongest threads connecting my family. Perhaps it comes from my maternal grandparents, who were musicians when they were younger. My parents rarely sang, but when they did, it felt magical to me. Those moments stayed with me, small but powerful.
My father’s love for sound was immense and deep. His devotion to his Hi-fi system, and his urge to build his own amplifiers and speakers using his engineering skills, made music something physical in our home, not just something we heard. It was something we felt in our bodies, in the vibration of the room, in the way the air itself seemed to move.
My entire childhood was shaped by both Western classical and Indian classical music. I remember my granny insisting that I listen to Indian classical, taking me for Karnatic music classes to learn to sing. I was barely four years old. I would sit there in a group with older children, trying to sing or pretending to sing, hoping the teacher would never notice that I was lip syncing. But even then, just being surrounded by music, my love for it kept growing.
While my granny was devoted to Indian classical music, my dad loved both Western and Indian classical. In our home, those two worlds did not compete. They lived side by side. One day it would be Karnatic ragas filling the room. Another day it would be Mozart, Bach, or Vivaldi. For me, that meant I grew up learning to hear beauty in very different sounds, rhythms, and traditions.
Over time, Western classical became something my dad and I especially shared. It became our quiet space, our common ground. Through composers like Mozart, Vivaldi, and Bach, we built a bond that did not need many words. The music said what we did not always know how to say.
Vivaldi Violin Concerto in E minor, Fabio Biondi
My connection to Vivaldi began when I was a child. My dad used to play his CDs at home on his fancy hi fi system, complete with powerful speakers and a woofer that made the music feel almost physical. The sound filled the room so completely it felt as though the composer himself were standing just in front of us.
The complexity of the music, the organisation, and the harmonisation of every instrument created a magnificent symphony of sound that gave me goosebumps. The high pitched violins imitated birdsong. The full ensemble mimicked the sound of thunder and lightning. Each section felt alive, as if nature itself had been translated into music.
I remember sitting quietly, listening, letting the music wash over me. Every time The Four Seasons by Vivaldi came on, I got goosebumps. There was something overwhelming about it in the best possible way, like the sound was wrapping itself around you instead of simply reaching your ears.
When you close your eyes and truly listen, you are no longer in the room. You are somewhere else entirely. In The Four Seasons, soft rainfall and slow moving streams feel gentle and alive, almost tender. Then, without warning, the mood shifts. The rain grows heavier. Thunder crashes. You can feel it beneath your feet, as if the floor itself is trembling. At times it is so vivid that it is easy to confuse the music with real sounds coming from outside.
What always amazed me, even as a child, was how real it felt. Vivaldi composed this music in the early 1700s, long before recordings, sound effects, or modern technology. And yet he captured the feeling of nature with astonishing precision. With nothing but instruments and imagination, he recreated rain, storms, wind, and calm in a way that still feels alive centuries later.
That is the magic of Vivaldi. His music does not age because it is rooted in something timeless. Weather. Seasons. Emotion. Every time I hear it, I am taken back to those moments listening with my dad, feeling awe without fully understanding why. Now I understand. Vivaldi did not just write music. He captured the world as it feels, and somehow passed that feeling forward through time.
I understand now that what my dad gave me was not just a love for classical music. He gave me a way to feel close to him, no matter where we are. Every familiar passage carries that feeling back into the room. Vivaldi is not just a composer in my life. He is part of how my father and I stay connected.
MUSIC
Vivaldi, my Dad, and I
Shweta Menon
When people say that classical music can sound like rain, they are usually thinking of Antonio Vivaldi. His music does more than play notes. It brings entire seasons to life.
Music has always been one of the strongest threads connecting my family. Perhaps it comes from my maternal grandparents, who were musicians when they were younger. My parents rarely sang, but when they did, it felt magical to me. Those moments stayed with me, small but powerful.
My father’s love for sound was immense and deep. His devotion to his Hi-fi system, and his urge to build his own amplifiers and speakers using his engineering skills, made music something physical in our home, not just something we heard. It was something we felt in our bodies, in the vibration of the room, in the way the air itself seemed to move.
My entire childhood was shaped by both Western classical and Indian classical music. I remember my granny insisting that I listen to Indian classical, taking me for Karnatic music classes to learn to sing. I was barely four years old. I would sit there in a group with older children, trying to sing or pretending to sing, hoping the teacher would never notice that I was lip syncing. But even then, just being surrounded by music, my love for it kept growing.
While my granny was devoted to Indian classical music, my dad loved both Western and Indian classical. In our home, those two worlds did not compete. They lived side by side. One day it would be Karnatic ragas filling the room. Another day it would be Mozart, Bach, or Vivaldi. For me, that meant I grew up learning to hear beauty in very different sounds, rhythms, and traditions.
Over time, Western classical became something my dad and I especially shared. It became our quiet space, our common ground. Through composers like Mozart, Vivaldi, and Bach, we built a bond that did not need many words. The music said what we did not always know how to say.
Vivaldi Violin Concerto in E minor, Fabio Biondi
My connection to Vivaldi began when I was a child. My dad used to play his CDs at home on his fancy hi fi system, complete with powerful speakers and a woofer that made the music feel almost physical. The sound filled the room so completely it felt as though the composer himself were standing just in front of us.
The complexity of the music, the organisation, and the harmonisation of every instrument created a magnificent symphony of sound that gave me goosebumps. The high pitched violins imitated birdsong. The full ensemble mimicked the sound of thunder and lightning. Each section felt alive, as if nature itself had been translated into music.
I remember sitting quietly, listening, letting the music wash over me. Every time The Four Seasons by Vivaldi came on, I got goosebumps. There was something overwhelming about it in the best possible way, like the sound was wrapping itself around you instead of simply reaching your ears.
When you close your eyes and truly listen, you are no longer in the room. You are somewhere else entirely. In The Four Seasons, soft rainfall and slow moving streams feel gentle and alive, almost tender. Then, without warning, the mood shifts. The rain grows heavier. Thunder crashes. You can feel it beneath your feet, as if the floor itself is trembling. At times it is so vivid that it is easy to confuse the music with real sounds coming from outside.
What always amazed me, even as a child, was how real it felt. Vivaldi composed this music in the early 1700s, long before recordings, sound effects, or modern technology. And yet he captured the feeling of nature with astonishing precision. With nothing but instruments and imagination, he recreated rain, storms, wind, and calm in a way that still feels alive centuries later.
That is the magic of Vivaldi. His music does not age because it is rooted in something timeless. Weather. Seasons. Emotion. Every time I hear it, I am taken back to those moments listening with my dad, feeling awe without fully understanding why. Now I understand. Vivaldi did not just write music. He captured the world as it feels, and somehow passed that feeling forward through time.
I understand now that what my dad gave me was not just a love for classical music. He gave me a way to feel close to him, no matter where we are. Every familiar passage carries that feeling back into the room. Vivaldi is not just a composer in my life. He is part of how my father and I stay connected.
MUSIC
Vivaldi, my Dad, and I
Shweta Menon
When people say that classical music can sound like rain, they are usually thinking of Antonio Vivaldi. His music does more than play notes. It brings entire seasons to life.
Music has always been one of the strongest threads connecting my family. Perhaps it comes from my maternal grandparents, who were musicians when they were younger. My parents rarely sang, but when they did, it felt magical to me. Those moments stayed with me, small but powerful.
My father’s love for sound was immense and deep. His devotion to his Hi-fi system, and his urge to build his own amplifiers and speakers using his engineering skills, made music something physical in our home, not just something we heard. It was something we felt in our bodies, in the vibration of the room, in the way the air itself seemed to move.
My entire childhood was shaped by both Western classical and Indian classical music. I remember my granny insisting that I listen to Indian classical, taking me for Karnatic music classes to learn to sing. I was barely four years old. I would sit there in a group with older children, trying to sing or pretending to sing, hoping the teacher would never notice that I was lip syncing. But even then, just being surrounded by music, my love for it kept growing.
While my granny was devoted to Indian classical music, my dad loved both Western and Indian classical. In our home, those two worlds did not compete. They lived side by side. One day it would be Karnatic ragas filling the room. Another day it would be Mozart, Bach, or Vivaldi. For me, that meant I grew up learning to hear beauty in very different sounds, rhythms, and traditions.
Over time, Western classical became something my dad and I especially shared. It became our quiet space, our common ground. Through composers like Mozart, Vivaldi, and Bach, we built a bond that did not need many words. The music said what we did not always know how to say.
Vivaldi Violin Concerto in E minor, Fabio Biondi
My connection to Vivaldi began when I was a child. My dad used to play his CDs at home on his fancy hi fi system, complete with powerful speakers and a woofer that made the music feel almost physical. The sound filled the room so completely it felt as though the composer himself were standing just in front of us.
The complexity of the music, the organisation, and the harmonisation of every instrument created a magnificent symphony of sound that gave me goosebumps. The high pitched violins imitated birdsong. The full ensemble mimicked the sound of thunder and lightning. Each section felt alive, as if nature itself had been translated into music.
I remember sitting quietly, listening, letting the music wash over me. Every time The Four Seasons by Vivaldi came on, I got goosebumps. There was something overwhelming about it in the best possible way, like the sound was wrapping itself around you instead of simply reaching your ears.
When you close your eyes and truly listen, you are no longer in the room. You are somewhere else entirely. In The Four Seasons, soft rainfall and slow moving streams feel gentle and alive, almost tender. Then, without warning, the mood shifts. The rain grows heavier. Thunder crashes. You can feel it beneath your feet, as if the floor itself is trembling. At times it is so vivid that it is easy to confuse the music with real sounds coming from outside.
What always amazed me, even as a child, was how real it felt. Vivaldi composed this music in the early 1700s, long before recordings, sound effects, or modern technology. And yet he captured the feeling of nature with astonishing precision. With nothing but instruments and imagination, he recreated rain, storms, wind, and calm in a way that still feels alive centuries later.
That is the magic of Vivaldi. His music does not age because it is rooted in something timeless. Weather. Seasons. Emotion. Every time I hear it, I am taken back to those moments listening with my dad, feeling awe without fully understanding why. Now I understand. Vivaldi did not just write music. He captured the world as it feels, and somehow passed that feeling forward through time.
I understand now that what my dad gave me was not just a love for classical music. He gave me a way to feel close to him, no matter where we are. Every familiar passage carries that feeling back into the room. Vivaldi is not just a composer in my life. He is part of how my father and I stay connected.
Write a eulogy to something you love: contact@theneighborr.com
Write a eulogy to something you love:
contact@theneighborr.com