Rex Curator

My parents bestowed upon me a gift that keeps on giving. No, I’m not referring to an inherited midwestern Catholic neuroses. I speak of my abiding love of classical music. From the moment my mother sat me at the fusty upright grand at four and taught me to plunk my way through Ode to Joy they instilled in me a devoted appreciation of the greatest music the world has ever known.

That last statement is not open for debate.  Perhaps you are moved more by Hendrix’s axe shredding, or Coltrane’s improvisational colorations, or the lyricism of Drake’s musings on the public solitary confinement of being nouveau riche in a media saturated society (Ed. note: holy christ has hip hop ever turned into soft teacup Chihuahua puppy crap). Occasionally I prefer those MP3s too.  But consider the resources that comprise the woof and warp of classical music’s master works:

It begins with the birth of a genius.  That genius is likely the progeny of two other extremely talented musicians.  As such he or she is exhaustively tutored from birth within a musical curriculum.  They develop their innate nature with tireless nurture and then develop into a musical superhero - a composer.  That composer then writes pieces to be performed by sometimes one, sometimes hundreds of other only slightly less brilliant individuals who have ALSO spent their entire lives devoted to the noble cause of making music.  Frequently, the resources of a kingdom are devoted toward achieving this cause on a grand scale as a king or prince or duke devotes copious treasure to the patronage of the composer, his orchestra, and the building of concert halls and opera houses.  So, as the conductor’s baton clacks against his stand to silence the soft chaos of the warmup, what you are about to hear is the result of literally thousands of perfections - biological, devotional, economic, and inspirational - braided together into a single creative work.

The following is a clickable list of a true top 40: 40 youtube videos offering you a brief gleaming insight into the timeless passion, intellect, complexity, virtuosity, rage, jocularity, and sublimity that classical music’s most notable composers have gifted the world.  So go ahead and put Drake on pause.  Take care to start lovin’ this crew.

1. Mozart

2. Beethoven

3. Bach

4. Brahms

5. Rachmaninoff

6. Chopin

7. Lizst

8. Puccini

9. Wagner

10. Mahler

11. Mendelssohn

12. Schubert

13. Schumann

14. Satie

15. Sibelius

16. Faure

17. Dvorak

18. Gershwin

19. Prokofiev

20. Shostakovich

21. Bartok

22. Copland

23. Britten

24. Handel

25. Stravinsky

26. Debussy

27. Verdi

28. Haydn

29. Strauss

30. Bizet

31. Rossini

32. Rimsky-Korsikoff

33. Schoenberg

34. Vivaldi

35. Tchaikovsky

36. Mussorgsky

37. Poulenc

38. Kabalevsky

37. Ravel

38. Scarlatti

39. Gluck

40. Grieg

I get it, you moved to here hoping to create the future of your dreams. You followed passion, art, culture, and/or your girlfriend and embarked on a journey to discover your true self and shed the shackles of your false existence. Gone are the polos and boot cut jeans of the oppressor. Fading into obscurity are family dinners, first run movie theaters, and Two for Tuesday’s at Friday’s. You have been reborn, you are your own savior. You don yourself in laceless converse, stripped leggings, off the shoulder distressed sweater, and non prescription glasses. You stand for the dedication to your dreams with tattoos of dual track equalized portable radios, mockingbirds, and quotes in ribbon. And now you’ve entered my life. Not as a passer by, or the aroma of self-rolled American Spirit as I turn a corner. You are the one thing standing between me and my life necessity, my food. I call you ma’am, waitress, server, and ummmm hey you. I wave my hand, tap my fork, and sign impatiently. I’m not a jerk, really i’m not. I’m just hungry. And you are just lazy. I get it, your dream didn’t quite involve paying rent and you never imagined that it would cost $25 to put a half tank of gas in your 1988 Toyota Cresida. You also didn’t envision there would be so many other kindred spirits chasing the same dream. But here you are, and here I am forced together because you needed a job. A job that affords you to wake up at 10am after staying out all night watching that band that you wouldn’t like if other people liked them then waxing philosophically about the downfall of the industry that doesn’t have the balls to put out true music, real sounds, your art. And that job put you here with me, and I just want you to do your job. I’ve seen people with half your talent and aptitude do what you are failing, intentional or not, to do so I know you can do it. I just want you to find it within yourself to think of someone besides your self, and take my order. I’m not a jerk, I’m just hungry… and I get it.

A nugget, from David McCullough (via Sullivan):

Once upon a time in the dead of winter in the Dakota Territory, Theodore Roosevelt took off in a makeshift boat down the Little Missouri River in pursuit of a couple of thieves who had stolen his prized rowboat. After several days on the river, he caught up and got the draw on them with his trusty Winchester, at which point they surrendered. Then Roosevelt set off in a borrowed wagon to haul the thieves cross-country to justice. They headed across the snow-covered wastes of the Badlands to the railhead at Dickinson, and Roosevelt walked the whole way, the entire 40 miles. It was an astonishing feat, what might be called a defining moment in Roosevelt’s eventful life. But what makes it especially memorable is that during that time, he managed to read all of Anna Karenina. I often think of that when I hear people say they haven’t time to read.

Every man should be able to drink and appreciate whisk(e)y.  It’s a gruff elixir that has inspired as much poetry as it has destroyed the poets themselves.  Winston Churchill drank it for breakfast.  Don Draper probably drinks it on the shitter.  Medics in the civil war used it as their only anesthetic during some field surgery amputations (when the chloroform napkins ran dry).

We can all agree it belongs in the Manhood Bible.

But our country wasn’t founded on whisky.  George Washington’s drink of choice was not whisky.  The Manifest Destiny settlers of the western frontier with all it’s bloodshed and typhoid fever (thanks Oregon Trail!) were not killing buffalo while jacked on whisky.

They were drinking applejack.  And so should you.

This was George Washington’s steeze.  A daily ration of it was supplied to troops in the Revolutionary War.  Abraham Lincoln served Applejack in his Springfield, Illinois tavern.  It purportedly swayed Wig rallies during the presidential election of William Henry Harrison.

Applejack is a 300-year-old whisky-strength (80 proof, 35% brandy base) “cyder spirit” made from your doctor’s favorite fruit.  Actually, it’s traditionally made from uneatable crab apples which are pressed and fermented in a similar triple distillation process as whisky.  

Let me back up for a second.  Last year, I read Michael Pollen’s Botany of Desire, an artful presentation of human beings co-evolution with four “domesticated” plants: apples, tulips, marijuana, and potatoes.  If you don’t read, it was made into a PBS documentary and is streaming on Netflix.

Pollen gives a reinterpretation of american folklore with Johnny Appleseed as a bible-beating, fire and brimstone preacher floating down the virgin Ohio River with a canoe full of apple seeds.  Back then, all apples were sour crab apples (heterozygous bastards), so planting seeds to grow uneatable fruit seems absurd.  Unless you’re fermenting the harvest into a delicious, esophagus-stripping liquor aka colonial crunk juice.

Which paints Johnny Appleseed as his own worst demon, a spreader of drunk sinning, meanwhile futilely combating frontiersmen morality with evangelical fervor that would make Jonathan Swift look like Christopher Hitchens (RIP).

Early colonists drank applejack because they thought water to carry disease. (Side note: The same trend happened during the bubonic plague outbreak where beer was safer to imbibe than water.  Perhaps it’s worth renaming the Dark Ages to the Blackout Ages.)

Manifest your drunk destiny today.  I buy mine from Laird’s of New Jersey which is the oldest family of American distillers since 1698.  A 750ml bottle of Laird’s Blended Applejack contains six pounds of apples.  No yeast or starters or additives, perfect for a night cap on your raw food diet.  You can find it at BevMo or online.

Drinking whisky to reenact a culturally resonant coolness (the Don Draper effect) pales when compared to sinking your gullet into the last remaining dregs of the American frontier.