New Scientist recommends Jeff Beal’s New York Études, Vol. II

I didn’t know what to expect when I attended the premiere of Jeff Beal’s latest album, New York Études, Vol. II. For one, it was held in a crypt. For another, I wasn’t familiar with Beal, though it turns out I had heard his work before.

A composer and jazz instrumentalist, Beal has won five Emmys, including for his work on one of my favourite political dramas, House of Cards. He was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) in 2007, a chronic condition in which the immune system mistakenly attacks the protective coating of nerves. The resulting damage forms lesions in the brain and spinal cord, causing symptoms such as weakness, muscle spasms and blurred vision.

Many of Beal’s lesions are in a brain region called the corpus callosum, which transmits signals between the brain’s hemispheres. It also helps integrate sound and coordinate movement – two processes crucial for musicians. In fact, studies show the corpus callosum is larger in musicians than non-musicians, potentially because playing music strengthens and builds connections in the region.

He debuted his album on 26 March, during MS Awareness Month, under the Church of the Intercession in New York City. The candle-lit performance was organised by Death of Classical, a non-profit organisation that presents classical music in crypts, catacombs and other eerie venues.

Before he began playing the grand piano in the cavernous room, Beal shared that he credits music with helping him manage his MS. Because his lesions affect the corpus callosum, he believes that staying active with music has, in some way, stifled their progression. It is also why he enjoys challenging himself, as he did in the fourth song on the album, New Leaf. All its melodies – which, to me, sound like a leaf bouncing about in a playful breeze – are played with his non-dominant hand.

The album is an achingly beautiful portrayal of life and death. Beal composed many of the songs while processing the loss of his mother. Hearing them ring across the vaulted stone ceiling, I felt my own grief echoed. I had lost my grandmother earlier this year, and when Beal played his final song, Last Breath, I was transported back to the moment when I had to say goodbye.

Beal’s music transformed what would have otherwise been a dark space into an intimate embrace. As the last note wrapped around the audience, I was surprised to find I wasn’t the only one who was crying.