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pLondon,
UK
tanding in my kitchen the
other day, I was listening to
the plinkety-plinkety of a Mozart piano concerto on the radio when
something peculiar happened. I felt an odd sense of urgency--one
echoing the frantic
frillery of the melody. "Eric," old Wolfgang Amadeus seemed to call out
as his fingers raced along the ivories. "What are you waiting for?
You've turned 40. Start cooking with
gas, already!" Gas? Gas! I turned my attention back to the cooker.
Let me back up. Why should a piano concerto threaten
to trigger a mid-life crisis?
Back when I was a teenager, my mother told me I shouldnft hate
Mozart so much. "Whatever you feel about him now," she said, "you'll
learn to like him when you grow up." So now, at 40, this piano concerto
was a great big test. I asked myself: Have I grown up? Do I now like
Mozart? The answer to the first was "Uh, maybe" and to the
second, a forceful "No." The music still sounded as silly and
hysterical as ever. Like a drunk ballerina on rollerblades or
something. Sorry.
Still, I decided that maybe I should finally give the man a chance. If
there was anything unpleasant about turning 40 it was that I was still
the same old me I ever was. Same old annoying habits. Same old pet
peeves. Same old unmitigated disdain for Mozart. And being so unbending
in my ways was getting, well, old.
 ctually,
these thoughts had started days earlier--at 30 minutes to midnight on a
national holiday to be precise. The venue was a church or Masonic
temple converted into a nightclub. Reggae pounded so loudly from the
speakers that my clothes shook. Inevitably, a cloud of ganja filled the
room and memories flooded me. gMy God,h I thought while glaring at
people dancing around me. gI--I know
Ifve been to parties like this in the past,
long before folks started piercing their tongues and noses. But I can
barely remember them!h I had turned ancient.
The crowd consisted largely of college kids. What had I accomplished
since their age? What dreams could I check off?
- Great
works of art? None.
- Literary
prizes--even one? Nope.
- Wild
flings? Disappointingly
few.
And now, at 40, my prospects for such excitement were as
dim as the lights in the club. Dimmer. As much as I still liked the
reggae--and admired the girls rocking and swaying to it--the music
packed none of the alluring promise of yesteryear.
 ate
the next morning, my ears still ringing from the club, I poured a mug
of coffee. I felt empty, and switched on the radio to lift my spirits.
And who should come tootling along again but Mozart, playing
his little piano concerto.
My fingers instinctively leaped to the dial, but I stopped. If my
mother and all of Mozart's other fans were right, there was something
exciting and sublime to be discovered in the upper register of the
piano line, transcendence to be found in the orchestrafs silk-and-lace
accompaniment. It would refresh my approach to the world, make me new. Off in the mist, I...I could see a door, maybe to a
magic forest whose delights Ifd been too young, blind and oafish to
see. Too deaf to hear. Delights beyond the music of Mozart itself.
Happiness seemed to depend on coming to terms with this man in a
powdered wig, Mozart, and what he appeared to be offering. I tip-toed
to the door and touched
the knob--listening, waiting for something to click.
Nothing did--except for the button on the radio when I finally shut it
off. It's been weeks since Mozart banged out the final chord on his keyboard and
pirouetted, giggling, back to the 18th century. It's no wonder he still
makes me think of a drunk ballerina.
Let's face it: Mozart knew perfectly well he'd never win me over. But he didn't seem
to mind. Maybe all he wanted was for me to just...imagine life beyond the door.
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