(This appeared in Newsday’s Act2 section)

As a child of the ’50s — the 1950s — my exposure to Classical music, those hit-parade tunes from the 16th and 17th centuries, mostly came from “Bugs Bunny” cartoons or radio’s “Lone Ranger” theme. (Who knew the latter was Rossini’s “William Tell Overture”? Who knew Rossini?)

I am from the first generation gifted with rock ’n’ roll and matured in the time of The Beach Boys and Dylan. My musical taste — if “taste” is the right word — could be described as having evolved over time into something fairly eclectic, but more likely to feature fiddles than violins. And heavily reliant on guitars and drums. With lyrics!

Fats Domino. Jimmy Buffet. Linda Ronstadt. John Prine. Aretha Franklin. Arlo Guthrie. Willie Nelson. Maybe not the definition of highbrow.

But lately, the morning shave is accompanied by stuff that needs a conductor, material that used to be known as long-haired music (the original iteration, before the adjective was applied — ironically, I suspect — to the emergence of the Fab Four and through the Age Of Aquarius).

It is not entirely clear what’s going on here. Or why. Does this new habit have anything to do with advanced maturity and a trend toward a calmer phase of life? Evidence of finally acquiring a light dusting of sophistication? Might the pandemic have contributed to seeking an aural escape from the latest noise on booster shots, climate change, anti-vax demonstrations, political wrangling?

This hardly is a claim of aficionado status. I couldn’t pick a rhapsody out of a crowd of sonatas and fugues and concertos, or differentiate a Dvorak opus from a Bach symphony. (Any symphony, by any Bach.) I do have old CDs of Vivaldi and Handel compositions but, compared with my typical leanings — The Eagles, Clapton, Delbert McClinton, Grateful Dead — Classical music remains mostly uncharted territory.

A two-minute Buddy Holly ditty, these are not. Radio DJ introductions alone are mysterious: Mozart’s Symphony No. 31 in D, Kochel 297. Chopin’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in F Minor, Op. 21. Haydn’s Symphony No. 79 in F Major. I certainly didn’t grow up being informed that I was about to hear The Beatles’ “Rocky Raccoon” in C Major. Or Chuck Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode” in B Flat Major.

There was a delightful New Yorker essay not long ago by Kirk J. Rudell that aptly characterized Classical music ignoramuses like me. Written in the voice of a fellow dragged to a concert by his date who clearly would have preferred being at a Mets game, Rudell’s character struggled with how Classical pieces continue for great lengths and include dramatic changes in tempo and volume. With full-stop pauses.

“Are they done?” he kept fretting. “Do we clap now?” Only to hear the music swell again.

While he mulled, “Is it relaxing? Or boring?”

In my half-century working as a sports journalist, I had the occasion to cover a number of major figure-skating competitions, in which Classical music — though the pieces are cut-and-pasted into small bits to fit two- and four-minute routines — is a common ingredient. Good listening, for sure, yet basically background music. Subliminal. Like those “Bugs Bunny” cartoons.

But here I am, having survived disco and acknowledging a reluctance to rap, still entertained by old rock, folk and country favorites, yet wondering if I might at last have evolved into a borderline egghead, or someone with grandiloquent inclinations. More civilized. More open-minded to Tchaikovsky, Grieg, Brahms, Schubert. Finally devoted to the arts.

Here is the late-in-life revelation: It’s not boring.