I am not easily shocked now and I was not easily shocked then either. But shocked I was - to the very core. That feeling of utter disbelief which gives way to profound joy rippled out, leaving paths of ever widening tingles in its wake. I was left not daring to breathe in case I missed one millisecond of that joy. The memory of that feeling still has the power to leave my mind suspended, held in a timeless place where nothing matters except that remembered sound - the sound of the opening bars of Che Gelida Manina.

It was a little over fifteen years ago now. A friend of mine was an opera buff with a raging missionary zeal. He felt the need to introduce others to the glories of the operatic art and he suffered a great deal of good natured ribbing for his cause celebre. His circle of friends fondly tolerated his predilection for this kind of "hunt and bang music with horned ladies doing vocal acrobatics in languages not of the mother tongue." We loved and valued him as a friend so we didn't dwell on what could have happened in his Glaswegian childhood to bring him to such a sorry pass. At the time we were all very devoted to the socialist ideal and I certainly viewed opera as a pastime of the elite (for the most part), of the social darlings with little worthwhile to contribute to the real world and too much time and money on their hands.

So, I was completely unprepared for what was to come. Completely unprepared. That evening fifteen years ago, I had made dinner for my friend as we had planned to eat, drink some fine Scotch and listen to some new records. A good way to spend the rare Friday night at home. We ate, opened the Scotch and he produced a recording of La Boheme and gave me a libretto. As it was his celebration, I thought I would humour him and sat back ready to sleep with my eyes open while enjoying the fine drop of whiskey.

So it began.

OK. The music was fine, and I was managing the rigours of listening to and reading a translation of the Italian to follow the action. I remember asking after a few minutes who was singing the part of Rodolfo - the name José Carreras meant nothing to me. Nothing. When we got to the bit where Mimi and Rodolfo were looking for the 'lost' key, I believed that this might be entertaining after all and I was warming to the task. Of course, I will concede to the purists that I had some assistance in the form of a glass or two.

Then the first note of 'Che Gelida Manina' dropped into the silence which was to be broken by the most beautiful sound I had ever heard - his voice, the voice of the lover Rodolfo full of youthful vigour, at once warm, persuasive, insinuating, seductive, gentle, tender. In my heart, I knew exactly what Rodolfo was singing to Mimi and this knowledge made me glad. Never before had I been so touched by a singer. Never before had I felt that communication had been effected on an absolute and intimate level. It was not an intellectual 'thing' at all ;on the contrary, the intellect screamed against the experience. Rather the experience was visceral felt deeply and, instinctively, I understood that I had been given something wonderful, priceless. I was shocked by the intensity of the happiness I felt.

In the past I had been moved by sights of great beauty in the natural and manmade world; I had wondered at the beauty of the flow of word images in literature; I had enjoyed the perfect beauty of a Chopin etude. I had been most fortunate in that I had been able to garner great pleasure from many things in my world.

But José Carreras singing 'Che Gelida Manina' opened up a whole new world of endless beauty for me. In this, I am certain that I am not alone. Mr. Carreras's art has brought great joy to many, many people.

I like to know why things happen and so I have given considerable attention to my reaction to a voice singing an aria copied onto a flimsy piece of vinyl played half a world away from the actual performance. What is the magic?

Well, I do not always have a relaxing drink when I listen to music. So, it's not the booze! I enjoy the work of many other singers although I do have just a few favourites. None hand me heaven (and hell) in his voice just the way José Carreras does. It is there every time. Every time.

Where does the magic come from? Deep with the soul memory, the consciousness that makes each of us different, yet of the same humanity.

How does it come? Simply. Shockingly simply.

From José Carreras to me.