KOPPELMAN'S WINTERSTURME

Dear Readers,

Bob Koppelman here, currently sitting in a steaming hot bath, writing this blog post on my new bathtub caddy (a gift to myself, originally intended for my ex-boyfriend), which conveniently conceals my gargantuan "Christmas" belly. I'm like a big baby in this bathwater. Of course, unless a burglar were to break in and walk in on me, only the cats would be subjected to the fright of my grotesque naked form. What can I say? I've let myself go since my ex walked out on me after we disagreed on a new production at the Met of Berlioz's Les Troyens, which updated the story to include the Ukraine-Russia conflict (sigh).

Comfort eating is far more toxic than comfort listening. I truly wish I could have relied solely on my audio delights to get through a difficult festive period of heartbreak, but alas, I found the freezer full of puddings and savory snacks too much to resist. Greg and I had so many plans to enjoy a Rosenkavalier-style champagne and dessert New Year's Day together, including a plethora of pavlovas (strawberries, kiwi, and passionfruit). Instead, in my despair, I preemptively ate them all myself, instantly piling on the pounds. Now, I sit in shame (bathing in my own filth) while writing my final newsletter for the end of this, my annus horribilis.

Still, with the candles, incense, and a delightful glass of Gewürztraminer, all while blasting Georg Solti's muscular recording of Wagner's Die Walküre (the second installment of the composer's Teutonic Ring saga), my present scenario is what I would describe as marginally decadent. As ever, I am always in pursuit of redemption, much like one of Wagner's wandering protagonists. Der Fliegende Koppelman, if you will.

Some of you may remember that I promised to do a Christmas Ring of the Nibelungen theme throughout December, though so far, I’ve only managed to cover Das Rheingold. And now, it’s already New Year’s Eve tomorrow. Nevertheless, I am incorporating Walküre into this current piece of writing to make amends—though, given the abuse in the comments on my last blog post, I could have happily played Mendelssohn instead (a far greater composer to my mind).

It truly amazes me how Wagner still manages to bring out the SS commandants in the comments. I would have thought Kanye West more likely to encourage the antisemites these days than old Dickie-boy, who was born 211 years ago. Yet his toxic racism seems alive and kicking, so I must listen to him only while taking a bath, followed by a shower.

As a critic, you won’t last long if you can’t separate the man from the art (to a certain degree). Moral purity tests for artists—who are so often completely insane—are a fool's game. If your composers don’t suffer from some toxic traits, sexual disease (syphilis is a popular one), or physical or mental ill health, chances are their music will be less fascinating. Of course, the worst you could say about Brahms is he liked to drink, and yet his music is powerful and compelling, so there are exceptions to my rule.

Hang on one sec; I'm just going to top up the hot water. I like to be boiled like a Christmas ham while I write, drink, and muse on loves lost and clarity gained.

Well, it’s been quite an end to the year, I must say. Aside from playing Dido to Greg’s Aeneas (Énée), I have been the subject of great ire—both from right-wing trolls who claim I have no right to listen to Wagner because I’m a "dirty Jew," and from left-wing maniacs accusing me of being a pro-Israel shill. Caught in the crosshairs of our current age of political tribal extremism, I find myself surprisingly relaxed about it all. Heartbreak is far more disturbing than lazy racist tropes, I find.

And besides, I’ve reached an age where you can’t win, no matter what you say, so you might as well just say what you think. Staying relevant is the thing. Wagner loved to speak his mind directly and court controversy. Though he may have despised me for my Jewishness, I can relate to his 19th-century attempts at clickbait. Perhaps there’s an irony in my using Wagner for my own metrics now, even though I have to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous racism from Nazi trolls on the internet as a consequence. Still, I'm enjoying wallowing in his glorious sounds as I recover from my latest, petty breakup. Right now, I find myself relating to Alberich, renouncing love (are you reading this, Greg?) while seeking world domination.

I had considered writing a risqué piece entitled The Top 10 Pieces of Classical Music to Make Love To, but I held back at the last moment, afraid I might offend Tchaikovsky fans for not including the 1812 Overture.

Besides, reacquainting myself with Wagner’s Ring (pun semi-intended), I’m finding a certain strength in abstaining from physical desire. Who knows? Perhaps by New Year’s Day, I’ll swap Rosenkavalier for Parsifal and resist Kundry’s kiss like the holy fool. Of course, it’s easier to resist a temptress’s seduction when you have half-decent bottles of wine and puddings to hand.

It’s been a tumultuous year politically here in the States. You all know of my hatred of the Orange Ogre, but never more so than when he finds some oversized, underwhelming restaurant singer to murder Puccini’s Nessun Dorma at one of his “Nuremberg” rallies. Or when he blasts Andrea Bocelli’s Time to Say Goodbye, bringing to mind mafia karaoke nights like a deleted scene from The Sopranos.

Still, at least he’s held off on the Die Meistersinger overture.

For now.

And on that bombshell, I’ll just end this little update with my disc of the year recommendation: Vilde Frang’s exceptional Elgar Violin Concerto (Warner Classics) with Robin Ticciati conducting (thankfully not one of those stuffy British orchestras). It will heal my heart (but not my stomach) throughout January and beyond.

Now, time for a top-up. The Gewürztraminer, not the bathwater.

Happy New Year!

Bob Koppelman