But I don’t always want sex.

The idea that classical music is emotionless is a common cliché—and in a way, it’s true if you compare it directly to a rock concert. But it’s not entirely true; the emotions are just different.

The pressure from the speakers, the bass forming a toxic relationship with treble-heavy guitars, hitting you in the gut and surging through your legs—this has the power to unleash incredible euphoria. Of course, everyone experiences it differently, but to me, it feels like sex. Mick Jagger supposedly said that rock ‘n’ roll is a substitute for sex. But maybe I don’t always want sex.

While I can easily categorize the emotions I feel at a great rock concert, I struggle to do the same with classical music. Take Anton Bruckner, for example. He was a master at lulling you into a state of relative emotional order—only to then unleash his deepest fears and doubts on you, completely uninvited. That can be exhausting. Not least because Bruckner clearly had a lot to say acoustically. And there’s also the question: Do I really want such a deep glimpse into another person’s psyche? But if you enjoy RTL’s “Help! I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up!”-style reality shows, you might also appreciate Franz Schubert’s Impromptus.

Of course, I know that when I go to a concert featuring certain composers, I’m signing up for an emotional striptease—like in the fourth movement of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, Samuel Barber’s Adagio, or Edward Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E minor. That’s not for the faint of heart. You need a reasonably stable personality to still give the world a chance after the concert is over.