…because there are always new composers to discover, because a gorgeous performance of Brahms or Dvorak takes me back to the first time I heard it, because the intimate conversation of a string quartet elevates my spirit, because the elegant beauty of a violin or the thunder of a brass section can make me weak in the knees.
I don’t support it so I can hear for the third time in two days
O come let us abhor him
O come let us deplore him
O come let us ignore him…
(that being about the point where I slam my hand into the on-off button and pop a CD into the tray).
If I wanted to hear hackneyed old carols about aww aww the Mother And Child (a spectacle I would run a mile out of my way to avoid on any day of my life — the only thing more revolting than a human infant is a mother baby-talking to it) I would go and stand in the middle of Wal-Mart. Or the shopping mall. Or tune in a pop station. Or go to some goddam awful school pageant.
Give me this one corner of the world, please. Give me Sibelius and Mendelssohn and Beethoven and Lully and Verdi and Wagner and Haydn, give me Stravinsky and Strauss and Berlioz. Spare me the Little Town Of Bethlehem where It Came Upon A Midnight Clear, which is starting to sound to me like the title of a 1950’s horror movie.
It Came Over The Airwaves. From the depths of some festering saccharine cesspit of phony emotion.
Eleven more days.