Midlife Meditation

Yeah, I hear your dismay, fellow music nerds: What the glockenspiel happened to Brahms? The answer is very simple: I just don't care for him. Blasphemy! Heresy! Tools of musicological excommunication, anathematization, shunning, and belittling are even now being leveled at my cretinous self. But if you can just bear with me for a few minutes, I hope you'll reconsider booting me from the Society of Musical Snobbery, because the case I'm arguing in this series is that taste, while it can be cultivated, is ultimately subjective. When last (a few hours ago, to be precise) we checked in with our erstwhile musical novice, he was about to embark on full apprenticeship in the musical arts. His institution of choice: Willamette University, a small liberal arts college in Salem, Oregon. I arrived at Willamette grossly unlettered in music literature. My exposure to the classics was limited to a few recitals I had yawned my way through (Van Cliburn--yes, that Van Cliburn--was ...

May 12, 1983: all but one of us were gathered on the steps of our dormitory, Lausanne Hall, on the campus of Willamette University in Salem, Oregon. We were dressed for a wedding at which Kathleen (with the flowers) was to be, or had just been, a bridesmaid: our friend Cheryl, who had been more a member of our Group during our freshman year but had drifted away since then, was marrying Tim Kilday (Thirty years is a long time: I don't remember Cheryl's maiden name.). The next day, all but one of us would graduate; that one was Tony Peterson, in the sunglasses and closely-cropped Afro, who had graduated in 1980, but stuck around for our remaining years. I like to think he was keeping an eye on us, as soon after this picture was taken, he went on to other things in other places, first in Richland, Washington, then in Nashville, where he still lives. You may have noticed I capitalized the word "Group." That's how we always thought of ourselves: the Group. We came ...