I’m a jaded old bastard, but a fair one, I hope, so I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t always given Mozart a fair shake. There have been times when I’ve had the privilege to attend an all-Mozart concert, and I’ve taken a look at the program and rolled my eyes. What a jerk thing to do. One of the greatest composers who ever lived, whose gift to posterity has been one of sublime beauty, and I’m that ungrateful? The fault, dear Brutus, is not in Mozart, but in myself.

Part of the problem is that he’s so damned overexposed. Mozart is everywhere. How often in movies has “Eine kleine Nachtmusik” been used as shorthand to signify stuffy lawn parties thrown by the snooty rich? Yet, as a teenager, the music delighted me so, I remember bringing the record with me to school. (The bulk of the album was devoted to the “Jupiter” Symphony.)

Mozart makes our babies smarter. He’s had chocolates named after him. He’s underscored romantic interludes in “Elvira Madigan” and jealous rivalry in “Amadeus.” He’s reminded prisoners of the persistence of beauty in “The Shawshank Redemption.” His music has been used to sell cars, sneakers, and coffee. It’s been quoted, sampled, and parodied. It’s been assimilated into a collage of our collective cultural detritus.

On the surface, It’s so easy to digest. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Much of our greatest art tends to appeal on more than one level. It’s accessible on first acquaintance, but it’s also capable of conveying more profound truths. The more you live with it, the more it reveals. That’s what makes it “classic.”

Beneath the enchanting veneer of beauty, conjured with seeming inevitability – an ordered universe, always fresh, out of the Enlightenment – Mozart reminds us of our humanity, plumbing emotional depths and scaling spiritual heights, affirming the meaning of our existence in manner that cannot be captured in words, all the while delighting the ear.

The first opera I really got to know (after devouring Gilbert & Sullivan) was “The Magic Flute.” The last concert I ever heard with my mother was of the last three symphonies. I’d go so far as to say that “The Marriage of Figaro” saved my life. For an entire month, I had the great good fortune to work as an intern on a professionally staged production with some major singers, and I got to know the score extraordinarily well. The music was like a life buoy tossed to me across the centuries at a time I struggled to keep my head above choppy waters. To this day, it remains my favorite opera.

Of course, Mozart has been around for a long time, and as human beings, one of our more regrettable attributes is that even the most breathtaking vistas tend to lose their grip on our attention if we see them every day. We decorate our walls with artwork and pictures and memorabilia, but how often do we notice them? We play music on the radio, but how often do we focus enough to truly listen? It’s nice to have these things in our lives, of course. They lend color to a workaday existence. But we tend to be creatures of the moment, and it doesn’t take much to divert our attention.

Mozart, we are undeserving of your gifts. Thanks for everything, and happy birthday.