I wasn’t expecting to fall in love with live classical music. The odds stacked against it were various: a short attention span; growing up with parents playing ABBA; and a preconception (which I still don’t consider entirely unjustified) that its audiences were snobby, elitist and out-of-touch. At any rate, I could never find a light outside Wigmore Hall — the crossover between smokers and the classical music audience is precisely zero. And perhaps most fatally, I had a notion that classical musicians grew up in wood-panelled practice rooms, shielded from relatable experience — lacking the piece of grit around which a pearl could form.
But two winters ago, when my friend Jacob asked me to come to Wigmore Hall to hear a pianist he promised I would like, I agreed. Although part of this was about how much I enjoy the feeling of being in that magical venue — not least because it’s one of the few places where I’m guaranteed to be among the youngest these days.
