THE GATEKEEPERS

The early days of September always seem a special time of year to me.

There's a freshness in the air and a Mary Poppins sense of change in the sky that promises the opportunity for introspection after the summer madness.

Thinking about a dear friend of mine whose birthday it is today and how to express my gratitude for the longevity of our connection, albeit one that's been essentially reduced to direct messaging over any more serious method of communication, such as a phone or video call, I'm constantly amazed at how the power of texted words can easily suffice in sustaining the cultural camaraderie, eye-rolling critiques and general exasperation at the state of the modern world.

The main modus operandi of our friendship these days is observing puffed-up academic types and cultural grifters via their social media accounts and laughing at their hustle. In one instance, we became fascinated by a music and literary academic from Scotland who takes to photographing himself with his books and CDs like a Highland version of the dwarf Alberich from Wagner's The Ring des Nibelungen, revelling in his hoard of treasure wherever he roams. Hiking around dour-looking Scottish hills with box sets of Mahler and Beethoven in his backpack in case the opportunity for a selfie with them arises, we could have almost admired his cultural ownerism once upon a time, further extended by his need to write about everything he becomes obsessed with so he can somehow be entwined in the legacy of his heroes, but something prompts caution.

Watching his daily declarations of love for his literary and music heroes seems relatable on one hand but also wholly alien on another. There comes a point when one has to wonder if it's more a desire to attach his own identity to works of genius in the hope that some of that magic dust rubs off on him. It took my friend and me nearly a year to recover from his excessive gushing over Mahler, which seemed excessive to the point of almost erotic obsession. The thought of his smug face each time we played one of those great Mahler adagios seemed almost immovable from our consciousness, as if he had achieved his ultimate aim, total symbiosis with the masterworks he so loves.

Only recently have I been able to play Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde again, after years, it seems, in exile from it, no longer thinking of the Scottish Smaug that smothered himself across it in his selfies like he was the only one allowed to possess it, colonising it to the point of isolation from the rest of us mere mortals. This academic in his ivory tower would not once consider letting down his hair.

My friend and I have fought hard to secure our appreciation of art and music, breaking through the castle walls where gatekeepers like Meistersingers guard the treasure we also seek. It has been with some degree of pride that we have had to do it the hard way to enjoy things that we self-educated ourselves about. We believe ourselves to be the authentic art and music lovers, the Walter von Stolzings of our region, learning the hard way to trust our own opinions against the intelligentsia that forms in the upper echelons of culture.

And so, it is with a degree of confidence that I would like to declare that on my friend's birthday, we can open the windows to those masterworks that seemed momentarily stolen from us.

Though sadly it may still be some time before we can play Gustav's 9th!

If you know, you know.

Now, in the meantime, my friend (you know who you are), I am dedicating Sir John Barbirolli (a real one, if ever there was one) with the Hallé Orchestra's performance of the Die Meistersinger Overture to you.

Happy Birthday!