I’m convinced that, after enough listening to and reading about classical music, we each land on that one composer we can’t stand. Growing up outside of Boston, listening to WCRB as my grandfather’s powder-blue Buick exited on and off of I-95, I soon discovered my musical Moriarty in Georg Philipp Telemann. If I flipped to the classical station midway through a piece that annoyed me for its needlepoint preciousness, I soon learned I could identify it as Telemann before the announcer came on to confirm.


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