R.A. Moulds

It has become something of a commonplace to say that, in the 21^st century, “serious music” (a term that I use reluctantly) has entered a definite period of decline, if not its death throes. In truth, it has even become something of a commonplace to say that such a statement has, indeed, become a commonplace. Thus, when I read the title of a lecture by Tom Service, who writes on music for The Guardian and presents BBC Radio 3’s “Music Matters,” I thought that it surely must be more of the same; surely meant to be eye-catching, the title of the lecture, presented in Aberdeen on October 23 last, was “So long, and thanks for all the noise: 2010 and the end of musical history”.

With all that I have read recently, and with my own experience with the various pockets of resistance and elitism in the small parts of the music world that I know, I hope I may be forgiven when I confess that my initial reaction to such a title was, “Oh, not again!” I am happy to report that my fears were unfounded. To quote Mr. Service’s lecture, in part: “…there’s nothing new in the idea of the end of music history. Indeed, it’s one of the privileges of modernity—any modernity—to imagine that your particular generation is dancing at the end of time. So to be clear: what I’m talking about is the end of what some call the ‘master narrative’—with all the patriarchy that suggests—of music history, the idea that each generation of composers steps on the shoulders of its gigantic predecessors, processing in seamless consequential order to a panacea of musical paradise and betterment.”

What a relief! But it is not my intention to either quote or paraphrase Mr. Service’s vastly interesting lecture (I only wish I could have been there—such things are usually much more riveting—and amusing—in person). I have provided a link to the lecture in full, and I encourage you to read it and learn from it, even though I may not share all of the author’s positions, or even agree with every one of them. Surely the point of writing a blog (if point there be) is to indulge in a somewhat more solipsistic point of view, and, accordingly, I want to attempt to express my own thoughts on the issue of the State of Things.

Considering the many ways in which, beginning in the 20^th century, contemporary classical music has diverged from any “master narrative,” if such a thing truly existed anywhere except in textbooks and on university campuses, I am always surprised when I discover that there are still pockets of resistance, so to speak, that continue to preach prescriptive (and thus proscriptive) sermons on the subject.  I am neither old enough nor sufficiently exposed to have experienced the disdain of the “Atonal Mafia,” as the academic world of the 1950s and 1960s is sometimes known, but I have felt scorn from both directions, having received pronouncements such as “Who writes in c minor anymore?” or its counterpart—“Anyone can just put random notes on the page.” (I admit guilt for the first sin; the second I emphatically forswear.) Then, of course, there is the well-remembered phrase that my only composition tutor, William Presser, delivered so often—“This is very competent, but it’s so dissonant!” That last statement is always a surprise to those friends who know only my most recent efforts—they are seldom aware that there was once a time when my preferred style was rigorously post-tonal. A few examples may serve to illustrate those mysterious times:

There was Jasmine, my first opera, which is so unrelentingly dissonant that it scales the heights of Expressionism, in spite of liberal quotes from Stephen Foster and J.S. Bach (that admission in itself should set a few heads itching). The attached sample of the score may give a small indication of my favorite flavor of the time.

Then, of course, there was the award-winning Suite Ménestrandisienne, another stringently post-tonal work influenced by both Milhaud and popular music of the early 20^th century. This work, even though it was written over thirty years ago, was the recent recipient of criticism for both the “incorrect” capitalization used in its French titles, and my creative coinage of the word ménestrandisienne. Apparently the critic was unaware that the title was inspired by François Couperin’s suite, Les fastes de la grande et ancienne Mxnxstxndxsx, in spite of my assertion in the program note of the piece, but at the end of the day, I really don’t care what typographical rules apply in various languages—if it suits me artistically to violate the rules, even in English, I will do so. This little incident contributes, in its way, to my point. We must tread very carefully when presuming to establish rules for the way music must sound. I am a firm believer in the idea that it is almost impossible to say what is wrong and what is right in music today; it is much better to say what works and what doesn’t, or in a more realistic and accommodating way, what moves me and what does not. As for the critic who did not like the word ménestrandisienne, I am left in a quandary—I know the biblical phrase, “If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,” but what are we supposed to do if someone else’s eye offends us?

At the other end of the chronological spectrum, but still attached to the Dissonant School, is Der Singende Wald, much more recent that the works discussed above, yet still related. Of course, this is a different kind of dissonance, because it exists in a plainly tonal milieu, but it is still something of a surprise for many to see such a work surrounded by such things as Égloga: el Sauce que se enamoró de la Caricia del Viento or my Walter de la Mare song cycle, Along the Marches of the Sky.

But this further emphasizes my point, if point I have, in that while we are wandering in the great parkland that is the music world of the 20^th and 21^st centuries, even individual composers should not feel compelled to follow a proscriptive path, and I am convinced that we need to open ourselves up to the many choices we have today.

[To be continued…]

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