KOPPELMAN'S HIGHLAND FLING

Greetings all,

Bob Koppelman here and how I wish I was delighted to tell you that I'm currently in Perth, Scotland but no, I cannot deceive you because it's utterly, utterly miserable. I'm even considering asking for my money back as I believe this entire place has violated the Trade Descriptions Act which is what we Yanks would call the Federal Trade Commission Act. Of course, it's raining with a Verdian-like vendetta and I'm instantly regretting not having packed more wet weather gear but as you know by now, I always tend to assume all weather outside is the same as my climate-controlled apartment back in Manhattan.

I should also just say to add to the yo-ho jolliness of my poorly chosen vacation destination that many of the locals in this area I'm staying at all seem to be walking around just like those hairy chimps in '2001: A Space Odyssey' with knuckles dragging and bad posture aplenty. Who knows, perhaps I'm the monolith? I mean, I know I've put on some pounds in recent months but I never thought I'd reach the stage where it would appear I've eclipsed the sun, not that you can see it here anyway.

Or maybe these Scots have never seen an obnoxious, opinionated American before but no, that can't be true because we know that 'The Donald' has many golf courses here in this Tartan country and similarly to the sun you can't appear to miss him either.

Well, Bob, what did you expect I can hear you shouting at your phone, laptops and TVs. Scotland is famous for its dreich weather. No wonder they called Robert the Bruce 'Braveheart' as this place is not for the squeamish. You also need a brave stomach to withstand the awful, awful food in this place. Ugh. I haven't felt so resistant to the act of eating since my ex-boyfriend tried to force me to go vegan.

Okay, that's enough about my miserablist location report.

Now, did you know it's absolutely verboten to mention or play Elgar in Scotland? Me neither. I really should have done more homework before setting off here. I'm usually pretty good at doing my due diligence but had to find out the hard way at this Mahler conference I'm attending.

My partner Adam is incensed that I threw the cat amongst the pigeons by abruptly declaring to the panel of 'experts' that I believed Elgar's two symphonies were far more emotionally intelligent than all nine of Mahler's adolescent, spiritually confused symphonies that can never seem to make up their mind from one damn piece to the next. Talk about a yo yo. To make matters even worse, one of these red-faced music academics became incensed when I refused to acknowledge 'Das Lied Von Der Erde' as a symphony. "It's a damn song cycle and I'm also quite happy to refer to the bloody 8th symphony as an oratorio if you like! So all in all that makes Mahler's a total of eight symphonies, not nine, not ten, not eleven."

My god, you'd think I'd said something rude about all their mothers, poor little things. They demanded that I stick to the topic at hand at which point I declared that the entire conference had the distinct putrid and sickly sweet atmosphere of Klingsor's garden and I that I was no flower maiden.

"You're all fanboying Mahler to such an extent I wonder what this gathering is truly about," I expostulated.

Well, I don't need to tell you, this riled them up even more than before and I was asked to step outside for ten minutes to compose myself. I then suggested they should be the ones in need of taking some air but as we'd reach a stalemate and I could see they were struggling to improvise the impression of having security in the place, I'd made off on my jolly way to enjoy some bargain hunting in some rather sad-looking thrift stores (what the Scots call charity shops) and then find something vaguely edible if that were even possible.

There was one deliciously ironic little moment I must tell you all about. Whilst in a tiny and melancholic thrift store thick with the atmosphere of despair, I stumbled upon a lovely copy of 'Das Lied Von Der Erde' conducted by Bernstein with the Israel Philharmonic. Of course, I saw it as a sign so coughed up a few pennies to purchase the thing and chuckled to myself that the Mahler contingent back at the conference would miss this modest moment of musical diplomacy on my behalf.

We're off to Edinburgh tomorrow and I hope to see a little light, not just in the sky but in the faces of those I'm set to debate the merits of Bruckner with. God help me. Why do I put myself through these trials?

Of course, I do it all for you.

Pray for me.

Bob