When I arrived in Germany in 1970 to do dissertation research at the University of Heidelberg, I had just picked up a fire-engine-red Super Beetle at the Volkswagen plant in Wolfsburg. Before I settled in to do some in-depth research on the German philosopher Martin Heidegger, I decided to pay a visit to Jørn Hansen, my Danish friend in Copenhagen.
There I met Jørn’s sister Lisbeth who had been away at school the last time I was in Denmark. We fell in love and I was soon driving back and forth between Copenhagen and Heidelberg in “The Little Red Wolf.” I was close to her family and they were thrilled about the budding romance.
Lisbeth had two reservations about our future together. The first problem was my favorite cheese, Velveeta, which, as I boasted, melted perfectly in toasted cheese sandwiches and cheeseburgers.
Lisbeth retorted: “We Danes know cheese, and that is not cheese!” When we settled in Moscow, I tried to introduce her to Tillamook cheddar, but she insisted on the more expensive havarti.
The second issue was just as serious. I told her that my favorite singer was Johnny Mathis and that my favorite song was “Hello, Young Lovers.” She declared: “We have to up your taste in music!” She did have to admit that we were young lovers.
In short order, I bought at least a dozen books on Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and the Baroque composers and started studying assiduously. My father-in-law was a big help. Nearly every weekend while we were in Denmark (three full years off and on), we would visit the family north of Copenhagen. The house was filled with classical music while Henning Hansen played the piano or we listened to his favorite records. We also took breaks to watch soccer together.
Our favorite composer was Mozart, and it appeared that he was loved by the Danes as well. Every morning precisely at 8 the radio orchestra would play Mozart’s “A Little Night Music.” Only now that I’m typing this do I realize how odd this was. Shouldn’t this have been the station’s “good night” music?
Usually, the Danes never like anything Swedish, but there was a popular Swedish radio program with a quiz show format. Short phrases of classical music were played, and contestants were asked to identify the piece and the composer. Over years of active listening, I’ve discovered all that it takes is a few lines for Cheryl and I to play the Swedish game. Sometimes she wins, sometimes I do, but on occasion both of us get the piece wrong.
Even before the election, I was tired of the news and sought refuge in music — most often classical or jazz when bombasts such as Shostakovich were on 91.7 FM. I love to listen to violin concertos on my phone (via a remote speaker), primarily because my daughter Christina once studied violin performance at the Lionel Hampton School of Music. (The top violinists today are mostly young women.) She switched to music theory and history after she came down, after practising hard for her senior recital, with tendonitis in both wrists.
Christmastime is a perfect time to enjoy music and forget about the disaster the Trump presidency will be. On Dec. 14, the Palouse Chorale sang Bach’s "Magnificat" with gusto, and on Dec. 17, PBS ran the British premier of the 1993 “Too Hot to Handel: The Gospel Messiah” at the Royal Albert Hall. It was absolutely stunning. Right after that came the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s Christmas concert. If there is a choir in heaven, this is the one that God will book.
George Frideric Handel wrote The Messiah at a feverish pace and, without much food or sleep, he finished the score in 24 days. He claimed divine inspiration for the Hallelujah Chorus and wrote: “I saw heaven open up and I saw the very face of God.” It premiered in Dublin on April 13, 1742, and King George II attended the first London performance. Contrary to a long standing story, he did not stand at the end.
My former wife Lisbeth has now immigrated to Canada, and she is just down the street from Christina’s home in Edmonton. At our reunion this week, I can’t wait to thank her once again for elevating my taste in music.
And, when I see blocks of Velveeta cheese stacked high in grocery store aisles, I walk away in disgust. I now eat two slices of havarti every day for lunch.
Gier is professor emeritus at the University of Idaho. Read other articles at nfgier.com. Email him at ngier006@gmail.com.
