Giya Kancheli possesses one of music's unmistakable voices. It speaks softly of sorrow, loss, solitude and transcendence. Most of his works are in a mode of lamentation, and many are dedicated to departed friends, as is 'Lament (Music of mourning in memory of Luigi Nono).
Growing out of silence, notes appear like distant specks on the horizon and coalesce almost imperceptibly into melodic fragments, shards of folksongs suddenly emerge and vanish, time almost forgotten until suddenly the orchestra attacks with great angry force and then just as quickly subsides. This kind of temporal rhythm is Kancheli's signature, a repeated process of slow quiet building precipitously to cathartic outbursts which have barely established themselves in the ear before they yield to the next quiet progression, the musical equivalent to standing at the edge of a lake on a rainy morning and watching a droplet of water form at the end of an overhanging tree branch and gradually grow larger until it falls and splashes on the water's surface, making resounding rings which fade as the next droplet forms. It may not be an experience for everybody, but if you have the patience it can leave an indelible impression.