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I was having trouble with a John Cage performance a while
ago, and thought Id take Cages own advice. The performance was the first ever
of the complete Song Books (both sets), by the S.E.M. Ensemble at the Whitney
Museum on March 31. Among other things, the performers sang a version of the Queen
of the Nights second aria from The Magic Flute, recognizable even though all
the notes were changed. (This is one of what Cage calls "cheap imitations," made
by arranging random pitches in the rhythm and in this case the melodic contour of some
previously existing piece.) Not, all the performers were singers, of course. Sometimes
they chanted, or played reverberant dominoes on a table amplified with a contact mike, or
ironed a large pile of uncomplaining handkerchiefs, or walked by in animal masks, or
rasped little Bronx cheeps (not a misprint), or practiced scales on the cello. At one
point black flags of anarchy. appeared, .a tribute to Thoreaus Civil
Disobedience, on which parts of the piece are based.
After an hour or so I got restless; it seemed like
things would go on for a long time, and not all the performers were interesting. The
unobtrusive ones, who were just quietly there, were usually the best; the flamboyant ones
-- with a single exception, who made Cage himself laugh out loud -- showed what they could
do in the first few minutes, and then just repeated at least the spirit of what they
started out doing, with a delight in their one-string bows that got more cloying as time
wore on. So I remembered Cages advice, given to a questioner from the audience
during one of the conversations reproduced/reinvented (read the book to find out what the
ambiguitys about) in For the Birds. The questioner thought a Cage
performance was too loud: Cage suggests that paying attention to whats unpleasant is
good discipline for the ego. Earlier, he'd said "What is important is
to insert the individual into the current, the flux of everything that happens. And to do
that, the wall has to be demolished: tastes, memory, and emotions have to be weakened; all
the ramparts have to be razed. You can feel an emotion; just dont think that
its so important." I decided to take him up on that. So what if I didnt
like what I saw? Id put my feelings aside and just watch.
When the performance ended, more than three hours
after it had begun, half the audience was gone and Id been transformed -- with a
surge of tangible warmth somewhere near the finish -- from a critic, God save the
mark, to a creature of delighted, unforced attention. Everyone on stage, whatever I may
have thought before, now was simply there. Performers Id liked were
interesting because everything they did was fresh, at least to them; performers I
hadnt liked were interesting because everything they did was familiar. (As I sit in
a Village coffee house trying to put my experience into words I find I can watch people on
the street with a trace of the same dispassion.)
So is this my critical swan song? Sorry. Nobody has to be a saint; more to the point,
most saints have been honored not so much for abstaining from judgment as for the clarity
of the choices they do make. People whove criticized me for not being Cageian enough
(to touch for a moment on an old quarrel) are themselves critical -- not just of me, but
of music that doesnt conform to their own criteria, and often, sadly, of each other.
In For the Birds Cage himself calls one of his early piano works "boring as
hell," describes someones playing of his music as "perfectly
horrible," and recalls that an otherwise "well prepared" evening of pieces
by Christian Wolff, Earle Brown, and himself "resembled church music" because
its formal concert setting was "nearly unbearable" -- at the same time saying,
with real humility, that he tries to "accept everything."
Zen archers shoot without emotion and hit their
targets without trying to aim: Cages writings and personal manner suggest that
judgments can coexist with the kind of acceptance of the world hes so passionate
about if the judgments made without rancor. This is part of a John Cage
style that I've pieced together lately. You can play every note of a Beethoven sonata just
as the score indicates, and still not get the music right; style seems even more important
in Cage, because when the notes themselves are chosen by random processes, or left to the
performer, how theyre played matters much mote than what they are. Cages
writings and personal manner are a guide to his style, and so are his scores, which are
put together (as Hanslick said, perhaps grudgingly, of Wagner) with "truly beelike
industry."
The first violin part of Atlas
Eclipticalis, for example (which is only one of the 15 instrumental parts Cage made
for the piece), consists of 70 complex events that must have required hundreds of I Ching
coin-tosses and star charts overlaid on music paper to work out. Violinists can play the
notes in these events in any combination and in any order, but if they understand what
theyre looking at should feel challenged to be as diligent as Cage as they decipher
the intricate; precise notation to learn bow many notes can be long, how many can be
short, bow many can be repeated, which are loud, which are soft, and how to time them to
follow the conductor. Theyre challenged too by the severe graphic charm of the part
to play musically, but never obtrusively. Most of the sounds should be soft, according to
the notation, and all should be separated by silences, so the S.E.M. Ensembles
subdued, pointillistic realization on April 1 at the second of their three Whitney
concerts ("mumbled," as The New York Times critic said) seemed
appropriate, if not especially lovable. Before that, though, Joseph Kuberas
humorless approach didnt begin to suggest the variety and high spirits of his
84-page (with a new visual delight on every one) solo part in the Concert for Piano and
Orchestra. The tense sound and colorless gestures of the instrumental ensemble missed
the point too. It was a fatal mistake to make the occasion so sober -- like church music
-- and above all to supplement the ensembles regular members with hardened
freelancers, at least.some of whom thought Cage was junk and came close to making him
sound that way.
The Bowery Ensemble played the Concert much
better at Cooper Union on April 7, in fact, from their evening performance Id bet
that their 10-hour Cage day was as exciting as the better-publicized Symphony Space
marathon, and also that theyre musical and spirited enough to make anything they do
worth hearing. Ivar Mikhashoff played the piano part of the Concert for them as
hed played three short pieces by Henry Cowell at Symphony Space, with an inspired
air of both improvising the music and knowing it as well as a classical scholar knows the Iliad;
I can fault the joyful instrumentalists only for numbing the freshness of individual
sounds -- and thus missing the highest distinction of a good Cage style -- by imitating
each others gestures too often. (Cage says that when sounds are repeated, you hear
only the repetition and not the sounds; he doesn't like jazz because jazz improvisors
respond to each other.) The best ensemble Cage style Ive heard is in the 1958
performance of the Concert on the 25-Year Retrospective Concert recording
Ive praised here before: after the first few minutes, the players are so independent
of each other and so enjoyably alert to their own possibilities that you never know
whats coming next.. But I did find two extraordinary individual Cage stylists at
these concerts; violinist Mary Rowell, who seemed both surprised and delighted by
everything she did at the three S.E.M. concerts, and cellist Frances-Marie Uitti, who
repeated her afternoon performance of Etudes Boreales on the Bowery Ensembles
evening program at Cages request and not only played with the heat of a high-tension
wire and unfailing control and beauty of tone, a virtuoso feat in itself, but also --
which is exactly what Cage wants -- as if each note were a new creation entirely
unconnected to anything that had come before. With performances like these as the
standard, you can see from the lesser ones how radical Cages music is, and how
pitiless. Musicians are always themselves when they perform Cage, which means that
theyre always performing Cage no matter what else they may be playing; were always immersed in the current, whether we know it or not. Without a
classical or even a contemporary score to hide behind, the song a Cage performer always
sings is joyfully but mercilessly exposed.
(one of my columns from the Village Voice, sometime
in the early '80s)
Other Village Voice columns from the '80s:
Cage Speaks Faster When the Street
Gets Noisy
Feldman Draws Blood
The Struggle for Form [about
Meredith Monk]
Beethoven Howls
A Fine Madness [about Milton
Babbitt]
The Secret of the Silver
Ticket
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