It was an afternoon of Debussy, Brahms, Chopin and Bach; Grieg, Faber and Bock. Since in this space I usually quote Dylan or other modern artists, and since my musical tastes, to the casual observer, run the narrow gamut from blues to rock to pop to country, I should probably disclose that in my childhood I studied classical piano.
My teachers introduced me to Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach. Of course, it was Mozart that I loved. So much so that when I was bedridden at age eleven, I tried to compose classical music. Alas, all of that work is lost -- when I became a teenager I realized this was not at all cool, in Bay City, Michigan -- so I destroyed the evidence.
Not to worry. I am quite sure that nothing of any value was lost to humanity. I was just playing around, much as I did with "All Star Baseball," or my other fantasy worlds.
Still, today, listening to my (reluctant) 11-year old son and my (exuberant) nine year old daughter playing serious music at their recital, I was reminded of the power of classical music. I do not often listen to it, but when I do, I am invariably moved, transformed from the present to a place that feels more like the essence of eternity. At the opera (which, in America, attracts a bigger audience than baseball!); or at the symphony, or at great theatrical plays, I am always humbled by the narrative skill of those who create these productions, so much more elaborate, in form and substance, than the work of those of us who are paltry writers, story tellers of the first degree only.
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