They had little in common by way of character, taste or temperament. Michael was a twinkle-eyed journalist with a nose for a story and a passion for the irrational plots of Richard Strauss.
Andrew was an opera man first and foremost, on first appearance dour and dry, probably most content to be hunched in a museum over a Verdi manuscript.
Ted was a party man, happiest with a glass of record label champagne in hand. All left us at a respectable age.
They were the last of a line that knew not social media. Andrew wrote by hand, never using a typewriter. I’m not sure the other two ever mastered a computer. Certainly, none of them used Twitter or Facebook.
Critics of their era left a performance keeping their thoughts to themselves until an opinion could be cogently formed and preserved in cold, black print. They did not knee-jerk an instant response. Their day is done.