Monday, September 8, 2008

Stravinsky's Crawl

"You know, I can tell when you're just composing to compose, and when it really means something."

...So said the punctually wise fellow-composer Michael Bratt to me one week, after I had just been criticized during a particularly unsuccessful group composition lesson.

My own inner-voice told me: "You know, if you had to stand there and explain what you were after, it doesn't work."

Yeah. I get it now. And Mike's words have made all the difference.

I could easily turn this into a commentary on words. Words have power, after all, and we should never underestimate the power of a personal statement. I can easily list the handful of personal and courageous statements which have changed the course of my life.

That being said, I'd like to talk about notes.

I'm generally full of theories as to why so much modern music doesn't work, yet given the nature of art, I'm willing to admit that often it's nothing more than opinionated grasping at aesthetic straws.

As to why certain music does work, however, things are far less mysterious in nature. There are really two levels of musical intent, and modern classical music seems to often miss the boat on both counts.

The first, as my good friend Mike expressed to me, has to do with personal meaning. Clearly, I'm an expressionist. When I acted on such things first and foremost, my work resonated with others. When I didn't, it fell flat.

I can follow this line of thought: clearly, all of our greatest musical expressions, be they the impossibly controlled fugues of Bach or the ripping-raw energy of my favorite Metallica song, all are works of deep personal expression.

I've received two kinds of post-concert handshakes. The first is the polite, contrite "I liked your piece" greeting. The second is the full-grinned and enthusiastic acknowledgment of a deeper connection. For me, there is nothing more gratifying.

I was shocked, when at ISU for the premiere of my Aevum, a woman came up to me after the concert. She said: "I'm a pianist I loved your piece. It grabbed me, and seemed to describe the very turmoils I've gone through this year. Thank you."

Wow. I was speechless. More often, after new music concerts, I'll hear things like "that piece was neat" --or-- "where did you derive your pitches from?" Ouch. I know what kind of comments I prefer.

How much serialism is concerned primarily with deep human expression and connection, as opposed to the extended expression of technique?

Reading the composer posts on www.newmusicbox.org, one can quickly identify the "self-conscious ipod listening-lists" given by so many, as if to prove they can feel as well as think. (For instance, it seems that every instance of Boulez must be balanced by the mention of a punk band. Fascinating.)

Where does such an implication come from? Has new music stopped being primarily concerned with expression? If so, what's the point of writing it?

Yet there is a second and more powerful element, though it is more rarely (in modern times) spoken of. This is the deific element in music, and the lack of it is the main reason that so much modernism falls flat.

When Kandinsky wanted an icon in his workspace, he asked for a solid black portrait. (I'll spare you the details of Kandinsky's and Schoenberg's mutual occult associations, though I'll give a special prize to the first person who can identify the mass-murdering dictator who followed the same philosophical principles!) John Cage, despite all of his ingenuity, ultimately embraced and propagated a relativistic and anti-humanistic philosophy in his life and work. Schoenberg may have been searching for new levels of meaning, but Boulez took his numbers and ran to a place of stifling formalism and seemingly meaningless abstraction.

This is not to say that these artists did not produce instances of haunting, beautiful, and deeply expressive work. It's to say that on the whole, something was certainly missing.

The reason so much modern art and music falls flat is simply because of the direction it points -- which is so often either nowhere, or to the figure of the artist.

Beethoven, for all of his supposed megalomania, never lost sight of his place in the universe, his music consequently pointed from the human creator to the one who created him. When I see Boulez conduct great music, I see a revelry which is ultimately self-contained (though brilliant nevertheless.) When I saw a tape of Boulez conducting his own music, I perceived a joy taken in human ingenuity.

Yet it went no further. The creator was present, but he did not acknowledge his place, only his own ingenuity. It was beautiful, in a way, but ultimately meaningless.

(Not to pick on Pierre: he's merely the great talent by which all of my statements can be tested.)

Take by contrast the (relative) soaring popularity of the "new spiritualists" in Gorecki, Tavener, Part & co. Certainly their compositional chops do not approach that of a Boulez or Ades, nor are they technical innovators. Yet their music rings clearly in places far deeper and lasting than the halls of academia.

I was told a story -- by a nun who once studied with Nadia Boulanger -- of Igor Stravinsky's attitude towards God. He and Nadia (a daily communicant) entered an Orthodox cathedral together one afternoon. Nadia sat to the side, while Igor slowly moved forward to the altar to pray. The closer he got, the more bent he became, as if a giant hand were pressing down upon him. He veritably crawled on all fours to the altar to grovel before his lord. When the entire display was done, the two went merrily on their way, thinking nothing of it. (Think of this the next time you listen to the Symphony of Psalms.)

Stravinsky knew his place.

In fact, if you compare the students of Boulanger to the students of Schoenberg & Co., you have a startling study in musical purpose. While I admire the technique and ingenuity of one side, my heart flutters to the music of the other.

...for a tree is judged by its fruit...

An analogy is perhaps helpful here. I was once told that an artist is like a small child, drawing a picture or doing a dance for their parent. To the parent's refined sensibilities, even the greatest effort of the child will fall artistically short. Yet the parent takes delight in the child's effort, praise, and love.

Some truths, while difficult to prove logically, resonate clearly in the realms of analogy, anecdote, and metaphor. So it is with music.

Regardless of your line of work, one should frequently ask: Are you the joyful child dancing for the love of your parent, giving forth your best effort out of the intuitive knowledge that it is good?

Or are you the selfish child, dancing only for yourself?

If we want to strengthen and build new audiences for modern art, there is only one sure way:

"Soli Deo Gloria."