For anyone who has ever felt a shiver climb from the bow to the nape of the neck — and never quite forgot it. This is our home. A tribute to David Garrett, written from the heart and curated with respect.
Concert reviews, interviews, tributes and letters written in one breath — while the emotion of the night is still in our hands.
Two and a half hours in which Vivaldi turned into a storm and Metallica into prayer. We are writing to you from the seventh row, hands still trembling and ears ringing with joy.
Read the full review →A rare conversation about practice rituals, the weight of legacy, and the courage to miss a note in front of ten thousand people.
Continue reading →The album that infuriated the purists and made an entire generation fall in love. Why it still moves us today — perhaps even more than it did then.
Continue reading →The story and voice of two legendary instruments — and of the musician who treats them like old friends on stage.
Continue reading →Scattered notes on classical, rock, and an audience that stubbornly — and happily — refuses to pick just one world.
Continue reading →A letter for anyone who has felt the same shiver we feel — and who has been quietly looking for a place to share it.
Continue reading →Each photo is a moment one of us could not bear to let go. Concert shots, portraits, backstage glimpses, album covers and memorabilia — kept with care.
This is where the community speaks: concert memories, photos snapped from the front row, rare links, small personal tributes. Every post passes through our hands before it lands here — so this wall stays a beautiful place to read.
“He played the encore with his eyes closed. I looked around and nobody was breathing. I had never heard a silence so full of music.”
Concert MemoryA photo from Hamburg, last week. He came back for the third encore and tore into Czardas as if it were the very last thing left for him to play in the world. And maybe, for that night, it was.
Photo“I dug up a 2009 radio interview. The way he talks about Paganini already sounds like the film he hadn't yet shot. I'm leaving the link — listen to it with the lights off.”
Link · AudioIf you have a photo you love, a memory you have never written down, a rare link you want to pass on — send it to us. We read everything, we reply to everyone, and we publish with care whatever speaks to the heart of this community.
The dates we're keeping our eyes on. Always check the official site before booking — but in the meantime, start deciding who to bring with you.
St. Goarshausen, Germany · Millennium Symphony Open Air · 8:00 PM
Bad Nauheim, Germany · Millennium Symphony Open Air · 8:00 PM
Ludwigsburg, Germany · Millennium Symphony Open Air · 8:00 PM
Mörbisch, Austria · Millennium Symphony Open Air · 8:00 PM
Istanbul, Turkey · Millennium Symphony Open Air · 9:00 PM
We came from everywhere. Different cities. Different languages. Different lives. And one violin found us all.
We are not a fan club. We are people who believe music is more than sound — it is how we recognise each other in the dark.
We believe in the chill that runs down a spine when a note lands exactly where it should. In the silence between movements. In the fragile kind of hope that lives inside a melody.
We believe music doesn't need walls. That strangers can feel close, even for a moment. That a single bow, lifted with reverence, can hold a whole world together.
We celebrate the rockstar and the conservatory soul, the crescendo and the whisper, the laughter and the tears that arrive uninvited.
We are stubbornly positive. We keep the good and let the rest go. We wait, we long, we show up — because The Moment is always worth it.
We are The Strings Society. A small house, built together. Open to anyone who has ever felt music move through them.
Come in. The door is open. 🎻
The violin is not an instrument. It is a story that the hands learn to tell once words have finally given up.
A letter to those who have felt, at least once, a shiver rise from the bow to the back of their neck.
Dear reader,
if you've made it this far, chances are something has happened to you. One evening — in a theater, or in front of a screen — a man dressed in black lifted a bow, and a few minutes later you weren't quite the same person anymore.
Maybe it was Vivaldi turning into a storm. Maybe it was Purple Rain, as if it had always been written for the violin. Maybe it was just an encore — one of those Czardas played with eyes closed, the room holding its breath, and you realizing, for the first time in months, that you were fully present.
That feeling. We know it.
For years, those of us now signing this letter shared blurred photos in a Facebook group. We sent each other rare interviews at three in the morning. We tried — with that mix of restraint and urgency you feel when something matters but is hard to explain — to say things like “I was there,” “me too,” “wait, I'll send you the video, he got a better one than mine.”
For a while, that group was our home. In some ways, it still is. But at a certain point, it started to feel like it wasn't enough.
Facebook is a stream. Beautiful things pass through it — and then they're gone. The post you wanted to read again in six months is already buried under a hundred others. The photo you wanted to keep is compressed into something you barely recognize. The rare interview someone shared on a Sunday night disappears by Monday morning.
A community deserves more than something that just keeps moving. It deserves a place where things can stay.
The Strings Society is that place. Not a loud fan club. Not a cold archive. A living room — warm, intentional, with the right light — where people who truly love this music can meet, recognize each other, and most of all, remain.
Here, we write concert notes while the feeling is still there — when hands are still shaking and your ears are still ringing in the best possible way. We revisit albums from ten, fifteen years ago and try to understand why they still move us — sometimes more than they did back then. We collect photos that would otherwise be lost, and we treat them with the care they deserve: with credit, with context, with a caption that remembers who was there.
It's the part we care about the most. This is where you can send us your photos, your memories, the rare links you've saved somewhere, the stories of concerts in places no one ever talks about. We read everything. We always reply. And when we choose to publish something, we do it with care — choosing what speaks not only to us, but to others as well. Not to be selective. To be protective. Because this space — a year from now, two years from now — should still feel worth coming back to.
We are not David Garrett. We are not his management. We have no connection to him, other than this — which, for us, is everything: we are people who have received something meaningful from his music, and have chosen, in our own small way, to give something back.
That also means you will only find what truly matters here: the music. No gossip. No private life. No content built just to attract attention. Respecting the artist we love is the first rule of this Society.
you probably already know whether this is a place where you'd feel at home. If it is, you can be part of it in the way that feels right to you. You can read. Come back from time to time. You can send us something for the Fan Wall — a photo, a memory, a detail that matters to you. Or you can write to us and become part of what we are building.
We're not looking for professionals. We're looking for people who truly listen.
When we chose the name The Strings Society, we did it for a simple reason: this community has Italian roots, but it doesn't belong to one place. And we wanted a name that someone reading from Paris, Mexico City, or Tokyo could feel was theirs, just as much as someone reading from Rome or Milan.
Our Society doesn't mean club. It means something simpler. Companionship. To be in someone's company means to walk alongside them, in the same direction. To choose each other — without needing to explain too much.
That's what we tried to build. A place where not everything slips away. A place where some things stay.
Welcome. We're glad you're here.
It's not the music that stays. It's us, when we stop letting it go.