Mozart somehow survives me being an arse while love turns to ashes

My son is a young man. And young men, in my experience, are opinionated. They often fail to acknowledge an alternative view or brook dissent from a strongly held belief. A belief, let’s face it, often based not so much on fact as on misunderstanding. And sometimes opinions are held and stated simply to shock and to demonstrate individuality.

I was an opinionated young man, once. I was different, though, because all my opinions were both carefully researched and thought through. They tended to be correct. Ha! Not.

I was, of course, as guilty of being an arse as much as the next arrogant male blundering into his twenties on the back of too much reading, too much alcohol, and too little thought.

Edinburgh 1981. The Festival. I went to a poetry reading in a group that included my girlfriend, her mother, and a couple of celebrated Scottish poets. I’m not being mysterious here but my memory fails me: my girlfriend’s mother was often to be found in the company of celebrated Scottish poets and I don’t remember who was in our party or even who was giving the reading.

It was an enjoyable enough evening in the Assembly Rooms — a serious venue on George Street. There was undoubtedly copious amounts of alcohol consumed before and during the event — another reason for some of the names to have slipped my memory.

One of the poems read was about listening to Mozart. I hated Mozart. I hated Mozart with all the passion that comes with ignorance and a tin ear. I could appreciate Mozart’s music and art as well as I could identify a species of butterfly from 400 yards. That wasn’t going to stop me having an opinion, though.

After the reading, as we sat in the bar — again — I prayed that someone would mention Mozart. I had a phrase ready to use. I think I had heard it somewhere and wanted to deliver it as my own. I wanted to express an opinion, for god’s sake.

My prayer was answered. One of the celebrated poets praised the Mozart poem and went on to extol the virtues of the composer himself. I think I probably let my lip curl as I sneered. An audible sneer that brought his paean to a close. Heads turned my way.

“Wallpaper music,” I said. “Mozart is for elevators and shopping centres.”

It sounded rather witty to me, although I may have slurred the word ‘elevators’.

Nobody laughed.

I still cringe at the memory. We all left the bar shortly afterwards and even I was conscious that I was treated with exaggerated politeness as we parted company outside. My girlfriend could barely bring herself to talk to me.

Needless to say, Mozart and I made up. My relationship with my girlfriend, her mother, and celebrated Scottish poets fared less well.