Imagine pursuing a profession where your uncle is known as "The Human Highlight Film."

I’ve been getting up a bit earlier than usual this week, which has allowed me the opportunity to listen to some music I might otherwise miss. Yesterday I found an unlabeled burnt disc at the bottom of a stack of discs. I threw it in, sipped some coffee, grabbed the book I was reading, and pressed play expecting to encounter some random backpacker hip-hop or shoe-gazing “independent” music. Instead, I came across Tchaikovsky. This was not a bad thing.
I have a very limited knowledge of classical music, with about four discs to my name that qualify. That said, this particular symphony – the 4th or the 6th, whichever it is – absolutely slays me. It’s a live concert version, played by I have no idea which orchestra, and the last movement is just glorious. I won’t even attempt to describe it because I was born without the connection between language and music that some people have and the music itself defies whatever pedestrian account I could give of it. The point is that this particular recording has an example of pure unadulterated fandom, the admirableness of which is compounded by its occurring in the very august classical music scene. The final movement concludes with a brass buildup (quarter-note beats for the last oh shit I don’t know five or six measures with brass runs laid over top) and when the last run concludes, you hear a single male voice scream out, “YEAAAAAAAHHHH” before the rest of the crowd’s applause overwhelms it. I picture a middle-aged guy in a tuxedo in about the twentieth row, stage right, catapulting out of his seat just as the last beat ends, raising his arms and letting that part of himself that exudes passion and energy and complete in-the-moment’s-flow spontaneity take over. I like the yell almost more than I like the music that inspired it. Go out in the world and yell like that or author an act as grateful and heartfelt as that, I dare you.