A Correspondence of Some Trifling Interest

Dearest Edwin,

How good to hear from you again, and to learn of the unpleasantness at Mrs. Arbuthnot's. That will never do, and Tully should be ashamed of himself. I do hope they find her head.

My travels in America proceed apace and I have arrived, after considerable peregrinations, in San Francisco, a desolate little hamlet in their province of California. I don't mean to complain but the company here is most unsatisfactory, as the social order is topsy-turvy. The poor are, almost without exception, thoroughly educated in the liberal arts and able to speak extemporaneously on the most obscure topics in the social sciences. This makes cab rides most enjoyable, but they are really not of our class, if you get my meaning.

And yet the rich are without culture or education. They speak relentlessly and incomprehensibly about 'synergies', 'the fortune at the bottom of the pyramid', and 'doing business.' Otherwise palatable martini parties are severely marred by the intrusion of commercial speech, the grating sound of which I have attempted, unsuccessfully, to wash away with repeated trips to the musical clubs in the area.

My companion on on these sojourns has been a melancholic fellow from the economic middle. Culturally he is as light as a Japanese truffle, but his interests are wide-ranging and his companionship has inoffensive if not entirely agreeable. Inoffensive, I say, until last evening, when our talk turned to the evergreen topic of music.

"You know, Andrew," he said, "I have recently come around to the belief that the finest example of the Rock genre is the song 'Girls Got Rhythm' by AC/DC."

You can imagine the silence that ensued, a silence broken a moment later by the sound of my martini pitcher hitting the floor. Only his quick thinking and familiarity with the Heimlich Maneuver prevented a fatal esophagial mishap. As we mopped up the vodka and sputum, I begged to differ.

"Surely, X____," I said, "you have mis-spoken. Do you seriously suggest that the highest achievement in Rock history is the work of Scotsmen? And Australian Scotsmen at that?" I was incredulous.

"I know it is difficult to fathom for a man of your breeding, Andrew, but after all it was a New Zealander who summited Everest on Coronation Day. It is not unheard of. And besides, Rock is the music of alienation, an energetic response to a world that is indifferent to the very existence of the lower classes. It is hard for a Blue Blood to understand, but a Scotsman or Australian is betwixt and between. They are part of Britain, and yet not part of it, just as an Alaskan, although governed from Washington DC, looks out upon Arctic wastes from his ig-loo. It preys upon the mind."

Edwin, you must believe me when I tell you I tried every rhetorical trick, every sophistic turn at my disposal, to disabuse him of his misguided thesis. Surely, I averred, 'Shoot to Thrill' is more melodically inventive, 'Highway to Hell' more anthemic, 'Back in Black' the more widely-acknowledged masterwork. But he would not be turned.

He regarded me as placidly as a Buddha. "What is right is not always popular. What is popular is not always right. But I have put this question to myself and I have made my peace with it. 'Girls Got Rhythm' is the finest Rock noise ever recorded. No doubt about it, can't live without it."

He me poured another tequila shot and touched it off with his Zippo. Well, when in Rome, and all that. Give Bertha and the triplets my best.

I remain yours affectionately,

Andrew