DEATH & THE CRITIC

Often shunned at the end of year parties by his journalistic peers, Bob Koppelman, Classical Music critic of the New York Oracle, stood by the buffet table, happily piling up his plate with as much food as he could fit on it.

Oblivious to the social reticence shown towards him by the other journalists in attendance, Bob happily enjoyed eating alone whilst shaking his head at the somewhat hasty performance of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden by the last minute replacement string ensemble hired for the prestigious occasion.

“What’s the matter Bob? I thought you’d be happy with the music selection tonight. Sounds right up your alley, I reckon.”

Koppelman had no time for Larry Keller, the sports critic for the Oracle and the only other man who like himself was routinely ignored by the ‘too cool for school’ Pulitzer nominees who felt music and sports were just an afterthought to the world-changing stories they were breaking.

Bob saw it the opposite way to them. It was the long arc of time he was interested in, not the here today, gone tomorrow 24/7 daily news cycle flippancy that he found so utterly boring. Sure, he might pay some small attention if a domestic terrorist attack had occurred close to his apartment block in mid-town, but mostly he was absorbed in the endless politics of the classical music industry and its various, nefarious goings on, far more interesting to his mind than world events.

“They’re giving me indigestion. I now have these rather delicious tomato and mozzarella aranchinis repeating on me.”

“Why don’t you tell them where they’re going wrong. Might be the best thing you’ll ever do for their young careers.”

“The kindest thing for them is for me to say nothing so they disappear into obscurity. Providing the soundtrack for my mastication of a deep fried olive is about as legendary as they’ll ever manage, I’m afraid.”

“You’re a mean bastard Bob. But maybe we both got to be, right?”

“I don’t know what goes on in your world, Larry, I like sport about as much as you like the symphonic works of Carl Nielsen, but my sympathy is first felt with the audience. They’re the ones paying for these guys to deliver."

Larry took a final swig of his beer, leaving Koppelman with a parting shot.

“Well, take the night off then, Bob. Maybe try and get laid or something.”

Larry wandered off, in search of conversation less deep.

After covering some blank white spaces on his plate with a replenishment of some more tasty morsels from the buffet table, Bob thought about what Larry had suggested to him.

Still pained by the current breakneck rendition of Schubert, Koppelman finally felt compelled to stage an intervention.

“I’m just an old crank who generally doesn’t bother to tell people how to improve their performance. I usually just write about it after the fact and get told I’m a bully, but today I’m going to make an exception.”

The ensemble were taken aback by the portly looking man with a Father Christmas beard, decorated with crumbs from the finger food he’d not taken the time to clear from his T-shirt which the leader noticed was emblazoned with the words : “Norrington” framed by a general prohibition sign.

“Look. Whether you get to play as seconds in the New York Phil or end up teaching some autistic kids on zoom really doesn’t bother me. But as someone who would prefer Schubert’s legacy to be maintained I feel you should really take some time to study the pieces, rather than play it five times the usual speed as if you've forgotten to take your ritalin. We’re not cramming for a test. This is a public performance. The one thing I will say as way of consolation is that I’m probably the only person here who gives an actual rat’s arse about this.”

The leader of the ensemble felt he should defend his string group.

“We’re playing with the energy we feel befits the emotion of the piece. We’re sorry if it’s not to your taste Mr …”

‘You know damn well who I am, cupcake. But go right ahead and pretend you don’t if it makes you feel tough.”

As an awkward silence hung in the air, the leader offered his bow to Koppelman.

“Why don’t you show us then.”

Bob smiled at the lead violin’s bravado.

“Don’t try and call my bluff. You’re the one dressed up in the penguin suit, kiddo.”

“It would be our honour to have you lead. Truly.”

It was the 'truly' that tipped Koppelman over the edge. He threw his glass of egg nog across the handsome, smug looking young man, soaking his expensive instrument in sticky gloop.

Needless to say, at this point security was alerted and Koppelman was seized roughly and escorted off the premises, all the while noticing Larry Keller laughing into his beer as he was forced past the crowd of on-lookers.

Thrown onto the street, Koppelman screamed at the manhandling he received from the two beefy looking guards that had evicted him from the building.

“I’m the victim here! No-one should be expected to put up with that impertinence!”

Dusting himself off, he could hear ever so faintly the Schubert starting up again.

“I’m sorry, Herr Franz. I tried.”

A month later, having both lost his job and suffered the ignominy of going viral on the internet with his Christmas egg nog debacle thanks to the second viola player filming his temper tantrum, Bob Koppelman was at a loss about what to do next.

Now tarnished as being a prime example of both white privilege and toxic masculinity, there were very few places for him to exist without incurring the wrath from someone who had greater moral status than he, even if they were  anonymous trolls which was, ironically, often the case these days with modern day witch hunts.

He had seen other giants of the classical music industry brought to ruin and cancelled in recent times, often gleefully enjoying their ruination as entertainment. His one comfort right now was that his egg nog scandal was just a moment of madness rather than an underlying pathology. He was no pervert.

Back in his lonely apartment, surrounded by towers and towers of classical cds and endless box sets that resembled a mini metropolis, Bob found it hard to breathe. It was like he was living in a city inside a city. He could feel anxiety born out of existential dread starting to batter his once indestructible ego.

In the past, when he had moments of quiet vulnerability, he would turn to his music collection and find something to offer a salve for his soul, some Sibelius perhaps or some Brahms or Tchaikovsky.

But right now, he wanted no music as a soundtrack for his suffering which was a sure fire sign he was in a dark place.

He contemplated to himself, in a gallows-like way, that the one piece of music that would suit his suicidal mood right now might actually be Schubert’s Death and the Maiden.

But even that grimly funny thought lasted only a few seconds before he sank even further into his deep depression, seemingly trapped forever now in this prolonged bout of despair.

The longer he sat without sustenance, the more he hoped for death to take him gently into that good night.

He had nothing left to summon from within that could rebirth his life now.

The darkness of the late winter afternoon set in and Bob dissolved into the gloom, ready for oblivion. He felt like a more flabby and dishevelled version of Isolde in his death-longing desire, similar to that of the Irish Princess at the end of Wagner's interminably long nihilistic opera which Koppelman famously despised.

But just then, a resounding knock at the door brought him back into the present.

Slowly re-engaging with his dormant body in order to stand up once again and feel the blood circulating through his veins, everything felt like a surreal dream to Bob as he eventually opened his apartment door to a familiar looking face.

“Mr Koppelman?”

Bob had to think for a moment in order to activate his cognitive ability to speak.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. The leader of the ensemble you took such a profound dislike to.”

“How could I forget?”

“May I come in?”

“I’m afraid the apartment is in possibly even worse shape than me.”

“That’s no problem for me. I’m just happy you didn’t slam the door in my face.”

Koppelman opened the door an inch or two wider as the handsome young man stepped inside his apartment and followed him through to what looked like a living room space, though it was hard to tell as the entire place was covered from floor to ceiling in thousands upon thousands of compact discs.

“It’s like the musical equivalent of the Alexandria library.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, don’t worry.”

Clearing a pile of music magazines off his couch, Koppelman gestured to the leader to have a seat.

“Thank you.”

After a few quiet seconds, Bob broke the silence by asking the leader of the quartet as to his motivation for turning up like this unannounced.

“I believe in forgiveness, Mr Koppelman. I fear it’s all too easy just to banish people into obscurity because of a moment of weakness. Perhaps you had something else on your mind that night, some unresolved personal issue?”

Koppelman wished he could admit to that being the case, but it simply wasn’t true.

“No. I’m afraid, I was just being a professional asshole.”

The leader smiled.

“Well then, I admire your honesty, Mr Koppelman.”

“You’re not religious are you? Is this some kind of plan to have me join your organisation, whatever it is?”

“My religion is music. I believe yours is too.”

Koppelman made a mock wretching face in front of the young man as if to indicate his displeasure at the spiritual sincerity of his answer.

“I’ve never think of it such lofty terms, but I think I know what you mean.”

Koppelman most certainly did know what the leader meant by his statement. But his ego wasn’t yet so downtrodden that he could concede to his accurate insight.

There were some things he preferred to keep to himself.

“What is it you want young man? I’ve already lost everything for losing my temper with you. Have I not paid a sufficient enough penance already?

“I don’t want you to have to pay anything when it comes to your work or indeed your life. No. I simply want to help you.”

Koppelman scoffed, more as a reflex than genuine disdain.

“And how do you propose to help me?”

“Like this!”

At which point, the young man reached into his pocket, pulled out his mobile phone and turned on his camera.

“What are you doing?”

Koppelman looked flustered suddenly, confused at this sudden act of spontaniety from the young musician.

"Trust me. Get in the frame alongside me.”

As suspicious and distrusting as Koppelman was, he eventually did as the young man instructed.

The two men stood close together as the leader kept his right arm outstretched with his mobile phone aimed at them.

“Say Schubert!”

“Schubert!”

At which point the leader turned his head, planted a kiss on Koppelman’s cheek as the flash on his camera recorded the moment for posterity.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I gave you a kiss. And now we’re going to put Pandora back in her box.”

Tapping away on his mobile phone, the young man posted the selfie with Koppelman to his twitter account with a short but heartfelt message written above a few relevant hash tags.

“All is forgiven. X”

With the New York Oracle and various other musical organisations that Bob had previously written for mentioned in the tweet, it appeared the young man had carried out a remissio aliorum on behalf of Koppelman, restoring his personal and professional equilibrium for him, even as he continued to shout confused protests at him.

"I don't need anymore publicity right now. I've already gone viral apparently."

“It's alright Mr Koppelman. I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening. Sorry to have troubled you.”

The young man left as quickly and mysteriously as he had arrived, leaving Bob to replay their most recent conversation over in his mind a few times before finally pouring himself a long and well deserved drink, his death-longing now abated.

It must have been half an hour or so before Koppelman’s phone started ringing for the first time in months.

It appeared that the young man’s public redemption tweet had had the intended effect.

Koppelman, so typically spiky by nature, could have openly wept when the main rival to the New York Oracle asked him if he might be interested in becoming their chief music critic. Somehow he managed to keep his composure and suprisingly, even to himself, politely declined the offer. Something had changed inside him since the whole egg nog farce. He'd had rare moments like this before in his life, moments where, like the famous Frost poem he would now choose the path less travelled by.

A month of being cancelled had clearly taught Koppelman a lesson or three, but ultimately, as he was reminded by the young man when they now would routinely meet for coffee in his local diner, he was better off being the exact same man he was before the Christmas egg nog scandal hit. A diluted Koppelman would only be further inviting his own self-exctinction. Doubling down on his character traits would be far more conducive to staying relevant.

“After all, people don’t want a toothless music critic. They want the fangs and the blood.”

Koppelman smiled at the young man and considered his observation for a moment before …

“Which is why I hate to tell you this.”

The young man’s face dropped suddenly, awaiting some further brutal assessment of his musicianship.

As much as he expected and practically encouraged Koppelman to stick the knife in, it would still surprise him.

Koppelman leaned forward,  his tired eyes peering professorially over the rim of his glasses.

“I’m just kidding!”

Koppelman and the young man leant back and laughed in unison, sounding positively musical in their mutual delight at Bob’s dry joke.

Later, when they left the diner, a sidewalk violinst was playing Beethoven.

Perhaps, because he now knew something about second chances, Koppelman dug deep into his pocket and rooted out some change for the hard at heel performer.

"Lift your knuckles. It'll give you more room for those high notes."

Koppelman walked on as the sound of falling coins clinked in the musician's instrument case.