To compose a few lines upon the fifth anniversary of the late Wolfgang Gluxam's decease is a task at once light and solemn. Light, for though the inevitable gloom of his too-early passing doth weigh heavy, it is Hope that doth prevail-that sentiment of a positive onwardness, which Music itself may impart, but only when artists of due skill are at work. Wolfgang's talent was singular: through his playing, he could spin tales, rousing in his auditors a tension for "What next?"-a suspense he deftly stoked to fervor. No note was struck without it's precise place in the chaos of the score defined, each tone a pillar in the storm. Some may deem this method contrived, a sign of some cold design-yet I affirm him, in the noblest sense, a genius both calculating and questioning, ever striving for perfection, yet tempered (with a grain of salt) by self-doubt. Though such rigor left certain long-forged schemes-as his endeavor with Bach's Art of Fugue-unrealized, we, in this age of vulgar mass-production, find solace in his scant recordings. These relics, though few, leave us quietly content, brimming with gratitude and joy. For such artistry cannot be reckoned by arithmetic, nor conjured by artificial engines; it demandeth a feeling soul, one that breathes and bleeds. Herein lies the power of Wolfgang's works: they compel us to love. That we may likewise rejoice in the album Brook Street is thanks owed to his descendants, who, in their benevolence, hath permitted it's release-a boon to all who cherish his memory.