Several years ago, a strange thing happened to me. It was a few years after starting to get into classical music seriously, a process I used to talk about as like entering a magic garden.
I entered this garden initially via two composers: Beethoven and Mahler. Beethoven is obviously the master, while Mahler was the name on the lips of those who speak about classical music in public. Each wrote nine symphonies (maybe one extra for Mahler) – big, impressive, emotional creations that take your breath away.
I was hooked by both. I bought CD box sets (very keenly priced) of symphonies, concertos and other works and indulged my obsession. The sheer size of these composers’ output meant there was plenty of space for exploration.
However after moving on to other things, I now rarely come back to either – particularly Gustav Mahler – and I’ve been struggling to explain why ever since.
I had no justification for it. I hadn’t made a conscious decision. I hadn’t decided that they were no good (this is obviously untrue) nor even that I just didn’t like them.