It's a Classic

Like most young boys, I did not care for classical music. Dad had a large collection the he infrequently played on the hi-fi, usually late in the evening after the kids had been put to bed. I used to call it “nightmare music.”

There was one piece that I did enjoy if played before bedtime: Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. I was not moved by the piccolo or the flute; it had real cannon blasts and my brothers and I play acted like infantrymen. We hid behind the yellow chairs or took shelter behind the couch as the music reached its crescendo. When the cannons sounded, we mercilessly flung ourselves across the room, trying to outdo each other in dying a glorious death. Not that there is any glory in having an imaginary cannonball explode beside you (in the comfort of your living room), but we were soldiers, and there must have been some good reason we were on the battlefield.

Truth is we never quite died. We always managed to stagger to our feet for the victory score. After all, there were celebratory blasts at the end. We could not just lie there.

A funny thing happened while waiting for the blasts and the drama: I fell in love with the full sound of a symphony: the bassoon, the trumpet, and all the horns. Maybe even an oboe or two. Is there any music better than Mozart’s Symphony #50 in D or Bach’s Air on the G String? No, I don’t think so. I don’t think so.