I’ve always been fascinated by the dichotomy between society's perception of the individual and the individual’s true self: “I can’t believe Johnny is an ax murderer. He takes such good care of the begonias.” This psychological disconnect is no more evident than in the classical music world, where there’s a tacit assumption the performer is on the same lofty moral plane as the sublime music he or she miraculously creates.

In Danse Macabre, beloved violin virtuoso Rene Allard is in conflict with his rival, the brash BTower. Allard, elderly, French, a traditionalist; BTower, young, African American, a crossover artist, both have their camps of admirers, but when Allard is brutally murdered, predictable assumptions are made about their personalities, even by blind super sleuth Daniel Jacobus, the irascible, over-the-hill violin teacher who is rarely fooled.

Who we really are is a theme echoed by the age old legend of the danse macabre, that, like vampires, has haunted the fringes of western consciousness since the Plague of the Middle Ages. In the French version, spirits of the dead rise from the grave at midnight on Halloween and engage in a ghastly bacchanal until the cock crows at dawn. Unlikely as it seems to us, this was a comforting aspect among the impoverished masses—no matter one’s station in life, Death is the great leveler. We’re all the same in the end.

The great 19th century French Romantic composer, Camille Saint-Saens, composed a powerfully evocative tone poem for orchestra based on this tale, which he later transcribed for violin and piano. I use both the ancient legend and the musical piece in Danse Macabre to channel my thoughts about the vagaries of human nature.