Title: Reflections on the Music Life in the United States
Author: Sessions, Roger
Language: English
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IN THE UNITED STATES ***



  REFLECTIONS
  on the MUSIC LIFE
  in the UNITED STATES



 This is Volume VI of the MERLIN MUSIC BOOKS (8 volumes).

 Published in this series thus far:


 I. _Bach: The Conflict Between the Sacred and the Secular_, by
 Leo Schrade, Professor of The History of Music, Yale University.

 II. _Tudor Church Music_, by Denis Stevens, British Broadcasting
 Corporation, London.

 III. _Stravinsky, Classic Humanist_, by Heinrich Strobel,
 Director, Music Division, Southwest German Radio System, Baden-Baden.

 IV. _Musicians and Poets of the French Renaissance_, by François
 Lesure, _Librarian_, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris; _Chief_,
 Central Secretariat of “Répertoire International des Sources
 Musicales.”

 V. _Greek Music, Verse and Dance_, by Thrasybulos Georgiades,
 Professor of Musicology, University of Munich.

 VI. _Reflections on the Music Life in the United States_, by
 Roger Sessions, Professor of Composition, Princeton University.



  REFLECTIONS
  on the MUSIC LIFE
  in the United States


  ROGER SESSIONS


  MERLIN PRESS--NEW YORK



  Printed in Germany


  THIS IS A MERLIN PRESS BOOK

  OF THIS EDITION ONLY FIFTEEN HUNDRED
  COPIES WERE MADE

  THIS IS NUMBER 175



  CONTENTS


                                     Page

    I. Background and Conditions      11

   II. Early History                  33

  III. Concerts                       48

   IV. Musical Theater                74

    V. Music Education                98

   VI. Musical Opinion               121

  VII. Composers and Their Ideas:    140

       Nationalism                   140

       Quest for Popularity          153

       Countercurrents               166



I


The following pages represent an attempt to account for the tremendous
musical development of the United States during the past thirty-five
years--roughly speaking, the years since the end of World War I. We
can safely characterize this development as “tremendous,” even without
recourse to statistical data, so frequently cited, regarding attendance
at symphony concerts, sales of “classical” recordings, new orchestras
which have sprung up during the period, and comparative sums of
money spent on “serious” music and on baseball. Such statistics while
convenient and fashionable, and assuredly not without interest, have
a purely quantitative basis--such is the way of statistics--and of
themselves do not reveal a vital cultural development. Leaving such
matters aside, the achievement remains impressive indeed.

Let us consider certain facts which likewise tell us little of quality,
but do reveal decisive changes in the conditions determining our
music life. When the author of this volume decided, for instance, at
the tender age of thirteen, to embark upon a career as a composer,
there was no representative musician living in the United States. His
parents sought the advice of two illustrious guests visiting New York
to attend _premières_ of their works at the Metropolitan Opera.
Having received due encouragement, the author pursued his studies and
received some instruction of value; but as he began to develop, one of
his teachers frankly told him that in the United States he could not
acquire all he needed, and strongly urged him to continue his studies
in Europe, preferably in Paris under Maurice Ravel. For good or ill,
the outbreak of World War I made this project impossible. The author
continued as best he could under the circumstances. However, not until
he came into contact with Ernest Bloch, the first of a series of
distinguished European composers who had come to live permanently in
this country, was he able to find the guidance he needed, or even a
knowledge of the real demands of composition toward which he had been
rather blindly groping with the help of whatever he could read on the
subject. It was not so much a question of the content of the studies
pursued with Bloch, as that of attitudes and conceptions which the
latter helped him to evolve. After all, harmony, counterpoint, and all
the rest were taught in music schools and college music departments,
and some of the instruction was excellent. What was lacking, however,
was an essential element: the conviction that such study could
conceivably lead, in the United States, to achievement of real value,
and, above all, in the realm of composition.

The general attitude was not far from that of a lady of the author’s
acquaintance: having had associations with musicians in many parts
of the world, she probably had heard the best music possible. That
lady asked him, a young student, to call on her, and, waving his
compositions aside without bothering even to glance at them, begged
him for his own good not to dream of a career as a composer. No
American, she explained, could hope to achieve anything as a composer
since he was not born into an atmosphere of composition and--as an
American--probably did not even have music in his blood. She urged him
to aim rather at being a conductor, and, as a step toward that end,
gave him the (somewhat picturesque) advice to take up an orchestral
instrument--preferably the oboe or the trombone--in the hope of finding
a position in one of the large orchestras, as a stepping stone toward a
conductorial career.

Naturally, we do not mean to speak of ourselves primarily. A whole
generation of American composers faced a similar situation, and each
found his own way of resolving it. Some of our contemporaries, for
instance--and most of those who have distinguished themselves--did go
to Europe for their studies. Since the influence of French culture was
at its height at the close of World War I, they often went to Paris to
study with Vincent d’Indy or, more frequently and conspicuously, with
Nadia Boulanger. Others sought their individual solutions elsewhere and
in other ways. The striking fact is that those who aspired to genuine
and serious achievement, no longer a handful of ambitious individuals
who remained essentially isolated, were young Americans who had begun
to learn what serious accomplishment involved. They were determined
to find their way to it. Such seeking had not occurred before in the
United States, but they did not find what they sought within the then
existing framework of American music life.

The reason, not surprising, lies in the fact that the prevalent
conception of “serious” music in this country was that of an imported
product. Like the lady who so earnestly advised us to study the oboe
or the trombone, most Americans, even those possessed of a knowledge
of the music world, were, on the whole, inclined to discount the
possibility that a composer of American origin could produce anything
of importance. The young composers of that period had to look to their
European elders not only for the means of learning their craft, but
also for an awareness of what constitutes the craft of composition.
That craft, above all, is a down-to-earth awareness that musical
achievement, in the last analysis, is the result of human effort,
dedication, and love; that “tradition” is the cumulative experience of
many individuals doing their best in every sense of the word, and that
“atmosphere” exists wherever such individuals, young or old, live in
close contact with each other.

Thus, looking back at the conditions prevailing around 1910, our
decision of that year to become a composer seems reckless almost to the
point of madness. We cannot, of course, conceive of any other we could
have made. Today, however, the young musician, including the composer,
faces quite a different situation. If he wishes really to work and
to produce even on the most artistic level, he can find much in his
surroundings to encourage him. In the important centers he can find
musicians capable of advising him; and in several of the large cities
throughout the country he can acquire the instruction he needs. Today
a composer has a fair possibility to gain at least a local hearing,
and his music will be listened to with attention and interest by an
appreciable number of listeners. With slight reservations it may be
said that it is no longer necessary for a young American musician to
leave his country in order to find adequate instruction and a more
intense musical life. (The reservations concern such special fields
as the opera, in which a degree of European experience is vital due
to conditions prevalent in that field.) It is not necessary for him
to go to Europe to find more severe criteria, more competent teachers
or more sympathetic colleagues, or to find the opportunity to become
acquainted with first-class musicians of an older generation. In the
United States he finds a complex and developed music life. The contrast
with conditions of forty or fifty years ago is indeed noteworthy.

This book deals with that development, with the questions it raises
and the problems it involves. Above all, this development is
interesting from the point of view of the subject itself--American
music within the total picture of music today. It is fascinating also
from another point of view: various forces have contributed to this
development--historical, social, and economic forces--and action and
effect raise, in one more guise, questions vital to the understanding
of the world today and the state of contemporary culture both in
the United States and elsewhere. In a summary discussion such as
the present, many such questions--regarding the future of art and
of culture itself, the nature and prospects of art in a democratic
society, the fate of the individual today--will of necessity remain
virtually untouched. They are, nevertheless, present by implication.
For the individual artist whose one earnest preoccupation is his own
production, the answers to these questions, as far as he is at all
concerned with them, lie in the realm of faith and premise rather than
in theoretical discussion. Whatever he accomplishes will in its own
measure be a witness and justification of that faith, whether or not he
is aware of it. A cultural movement of any kind is not to be judged in
theoretical terms, but in those of authentic achievement.

These remarks seem relevant because certain basic characteristics of
our intellectual life affect our attitudes toward a cultural movement
such as the development of music here during the past forty years.
These characteristics have strongly influenced, and continue to
influence, the movement itself, and to some extent they still determine
its character. It may therefore be worth while to consider briefly
certain of these features, freely acknowledging that such summary
reference does not give, nor could it give, a well-rounded picture; nor
will it be necessarily relevant to, say, the situation in literature
or in the graphic arts.

American life, American society, and American culture are characterized
by a fluidity which, up to this time, has always been a part of
the nature of the United States, and not the product of a specific
historical moment. It derives, in fact, from all that is most deeply
rooted in our national consciousness; it is a premise with which
each one of us is born, and which is carried into every thought and
activity. It not only corresponds to all the realities of the life
Americans live, but stems from all that is most intimate and most
constant in their ideas. However oversimplified we may have come to
regard the popular phrases which have always characterized the United
States in our own eyes and in those of our friends--“land of promise,”
“land of opportunity,” “land of unlimited possibilities”--the
concept underlying them for the most conservative as well as for the
most liberal retains the force of an ideal or even an obligation; a
premise to which reference is made even at most unexpected moments and
sometimes in bizarre contexts. The fluidity of our culture is both
one of the basic assumptions behind these ideas and, in effect, a
partial result of them. It is a result also of American geography and
history--the vastness of the continent, the colorful experiences of
the pioneers who tamed it, and the sense of space which we gain from
the fact that it is relatively easy to move in either direction in the
social scale. These are facts which every American can observe any day.

If, as we hear in recent years, these underlying factors are gradually
disappearing, such a change is as yet scarcely visible in the everyday
happenings which constitute the immediate stuff of American life. It
is still far from affecting our basic psychological premises. Fluidity,
in the sense used, is one of the most essential and decisive factors
of our tradition. It is likely to remain so for a long time to come.
It is relevant in the present context because contemporary music life
frequently takes on the aspect of a constantly shifting struggle
between a number of contrasting forces. This is more true in the United
States than elsewhere; and the characteristic fluidity of our cultural
life is one of its features most difficult to understand, particularly
for those who do not know the United States well. At the same time, in
this set of facts, conditions, and premises one finds elements which
have caused Americans to misunderstand other western cultures.

Another important element in our tradition may be derived from the
fact, evident and admitted, that in our origins we are a nation of
_émigrés_. A dear friend of ours, of Italian origin but a fervid
American convert, G. A. Borgese, once half jestingly remarked, “An
American is one who was dissatisfied at home.” If one takes this idea
of “dissatisfaction” in not too emotional a sense, he can take note of
the variety of its causes and see that its results have proved to be
many and varied. The United States has been created by nonconformists
in flight from Anglicanism or Roman Catholicism, as well as by Roman
Catholics in flight from Protestantism; by Irishmen in flight from
famine and by German revolutionaries in flight after defeat in 1848;
by venturesome tradesmen and by others who, either in the spirit of
adventure or for other motives, wanted to escape from the toils of
civilization; by thousands who sought better economic conditions,
more space, and the opportunity to prosper socially, and by others
with as many other motives of dissatisfaction. Even such a sketchy
summary hints at the variety and even the conflicting character of
the interests which found common ground solely in the element of
“dissatisfaction at home.” It is perhaps not an exaggeration to say
that this tradition of filial dissatisfaction and the variety of its
original forms is the basis of many of the most characteristic and
deeply rooted American attitudes and problems.

One can find here, for example, the explanation of the dichotomy
so evident in our attitude toward Europe and everything European.
It is, of course, in the final analysis a question of attitude not
so much toward Europe as toward ourselves. In any case, one easily
notes two tendencies which pervade the whole of American cultural
life, and which, though seemingly in clear opposition to one another,
nevertheless often appear intermingled and confused. Let it be clear
that we regard neither tendency as a definitive or final expression of
the United States; on the contrary, we believe that both tendencies, at
least in their obvious forms, are products of an immaturity belonging
to the past, just as in the work of our greatest writers, even though
present and clearly recognizable, they were transcended and transformed.

For the sake of convenience let us call them _colonialism_ and
_frontierism_. By colonialism we do not mean a specific reference
to American colonial history or to an Anglophile tendency, but
rather to that current in American cultural life which persistently
looks to Europe for final criterion and cultural directive. The term
frontierism is used not in reference to the familiar interpretation
of American history in terms of the influence of border regions on
national life and development, but rather in reference to the revolt
primarily against England and British culture, secondarily against
European culture, and finally against culture itself, so plainly
visible in American thought, American writing, and American politics.
It is not necessary to recall here the various forms which these two
tendencies take, nor need it be stressed that, in simplified form, they
represent currents of diverse tendencies and innumerable shadings. The
two attitudes, however, have deep roots, and they influence American
decisions in cultural as well as in political, economic, and military
matters, and bring us face to face with sometimes serious dilemmas. The
experience of such dilemmas, and of the choices imposed by stubborn
facts, sometimes has determined the direction and hence the character
of American culture. At all events, there is reason to hope that
these dilemmas will gradually resolve themselves into an attitude of
genuine independence, and which therefore is neither subservient to the
so-called “foreign influences” nor unduly upset by them.

The tradition of “dissatisfaction” has been a decisive factor also
in a different sense. The once familiar metaphor of the “melting
pot” is today outmoded, possibly through thorough assimilation. In
stressing the element of “dissatisfaction at home” in the backgrounds
of Americans of widely differing origins, we are not only throwing
into relief a common and unifying element of these peoples, but we
imply also great diversity of content in the experience itself--a
diversity, which still persists, of motives and impulses in American
life. Without devaluating the concept of the “melting pot,” or denying
the fusion of peoples into one nation, we may recognize the problems
and the consequent modes of thought involved in accomplishing such a
fusion. This process has involved the reconciliation, to a degree, of
the varied and contrasting motives which impelled heterogeneous groups
of people to become American, and which became original, organic, and
sometimes very powerful ingredients of our culture. It was necessary to
build quickly, and to avoid catastrophic collisions of these various
elements. Possibly in a manner similar to the influence of empire
building on the cultural habits regarded as most typically British,
the factors just mentioned have clearly contributed to two tendencies
discernible in our own thinking habits: on the one hand, a certain
predilection for abstractions, preconceptions, and slogans; on the
other, a prevalent tendency to think primarily in pragmatic terms, that
is, in those of concrete situations rather than of basic principles.
Both modes of thinking have admirably served our national ends, and, in
their more extreme manifestations, sometimes worry and exasperate the
thoughtful among us. Those who regard us with a jaundiced eye accuse
us, on the one hand, of pedantry, and on the other, of opportunism; and
it is certainly true that the pedants and opportunists among us know
well how to exploit these tendencies.

As far as music in the United States is concerned, the influence
of these two modes of thought has been noticeable, if not always
propitious. Fundamentally, however, these tendencies have little to do
with either pedantry or opportunism. We have had the formidable tasks
of both establishing standards which should keep pace with a tremendous
expansion of intellectual and creative activity and which should serve
to give this activity order and direction; and as well, of establishing
a mode of life within which our heterogeneous elements could find
a means of coexistence without dangerous clashes of principle or
ideology--clashes which could easily have proved lethal to either the
unity of a growing nation or our concept of liberty.



II


Music life in the United States must be traced back to the earliest
days, those of musical activity in the churches of New England,
Pennsylvania, and elsewhere. In Charleston, South Carolina, in the
early eighteenth century, a kind of musical drama flourished--the
“ballad opera” of British origin. In New Orleans, a little later,
French opera was established and survived into this century. There
were ambitious composers like Francis Hopkinson, friend of Gilbert
Stuart, and other personalities of the Revolutionary period. There
were amateurs to whom European music was by no means unfamiliar. Even
among the outstanding personalities of the period there were those
who, like Thomas Jefferson, took part in performances of chamber
music in their own homes; or who, like Benjamin Franklin, tried their
hands at the composition of string quartets (which is something
of an historic curiosity). We ourselves own a copy of Geminiani’s
_The Compleat Tutor for the Violin_, published in London in the
seventeen-nineties, which was owned by one of our forbears of that
period in Massachusetts.

Such facts, of course, are of interest from the standpoint of cultural
history. Musicological research has taken due note of them, and
probably the familiar error of confusing historical interest with
musical value has been made: the awkwardness of this early music has
been confused with originality. The music is in no sense devoid of
interest; one finds very frequently a freshness, a genuineness, and
a kind of naiveté which is truly attractive. We find it hard to be
convinced, however, that the parallel fifths, for instance, which occur
from time to time in the music of William Billings, are the result of
genuine, original style, rather than of a primitive _métier_;
and we well remember our curious and quite spontaneous impressions on
first becoming acquainted with the music of Francis Hopkinson, in which
we easily recognized eighteenth-century manner and vocabulary, but
missed the technical expertise and refinement so characteristic of the
European music of that period--even of that with little musical value.

Such facts as we know of the music life of that early time are of
anecdotal rather than musical interest. They bespeak a sporadic musical
activity which no doubt contributed tangibly to the music life in the
large centers during the earlier nineteenth century. The city of New
Orleans would seem to be exceptional in this respect. French in origin,
then Spanish, again French, and finally purchased by the United States
in 1803, it was a flourishing music center, and in the first half
of the nineteenth century produced composers like Louis Gottschalk,
who achieved a success and a reputation that was more than local or
national, and that, on a certain level, still persists. The music life
of New Orleans declined after the Civil War, as did the city itself,
for some decades; however, the music life which had flourished there
was of little influence on later developments in other parts of the
country.

During the nineteenth century the United States seems to have received
its real musical education. In 1825 Mozart’s librettist, Lorenzo
da Ponte, at that time professor of Italian literature at Columbia
University, and Manuel Garcia, famous both as singer and teacher, were
among those who established a first operatic theater in New York, which
city thereby became acquainted with the most celebrated operatic works
and artists of the time. In 1842 the New York Philharmonic Society,
the oldest of our orchestras, was founded. Farther reaching was the
influence of individual musicians like Lowell Mason in Boston, and
Carl Bergmann, Leopold Damrosch, and Theodore Thomas, in New York and
elsewhere--men who worked devotedly, indefatigably, and intelligently
to bring the work of classic and contemporary composers before the
American public. Mason and Thomas, toward the midcentury, organized
and performed concerts of chamber music and provided the impulse toward
an increasingly intense activity of this kind. Bergmann, as conductor
of the New York orchestra, and, later, Thomas and Damrosch, led the way
with orchestral concerts; the list of works which they introduced to
the American repertory is as impressive as can be imagined. In addition
to his activities in New York, Thomas also organized the biennial
festivals at Cincinnati, and eventually became the first conductor of
the Chicago orchestra--a post which he held until his death in 1905.

Concert life was already flourishing. Those organizations which,
along with the New York orchestra, still dominate our music life, the
Boston and the Philadelphia orchestras, were established, as was the
Metropolitan Opera Company. They were, needless to say, initiated by
groups of private individuals, of whom an appreciable number belonged
to a public well provided with experience and curiosity, a public
which loved music, possessed some knowledge of it, and demanded it in
abundance. It is hardly necessary to point out that there were also
those who cared less for music than for social esteem, prestige, and
“glamor”--the reflected and artificial magic of something which they
neither understood nor desired to understand, since it was the magic
and not the substance that mattered; the more remote the substance,
the more enticing the magic. Such contrasts always exist, and it was
fashionable some years ago to throw this fact into high relief: in that
way healthy and necessary self-criticism was evidenced.

Among the personalities we have reference to was Major Henry L.
Higginson who founded, and then throughout his life underwrote, the
Boston Symphony; he belonged to the personalities of authentic culture
and real stature who demanded music in the true sense of the word,
and who knew how and where to find it. It is unnecessary to discuss
the artistic levels these organizations achieved; that is general
knowledge. If today we are aware of certain disquieting symptoms
pointing to a decline in quality by comparison with that period, they
are the result of later developments to be considered in the following
pages, in connection with concrete problems of today.

This necessarily brief and partial summary concerns the development of
the American music public. From this public the first impulses toward
actual musical production in America arose. A natural consequence
of these developments, musical instruction kept pace with them.
Among those who received such instruction there were a few ambitious
individuals. The general topic of music education in the United
States will be discussed later; we here note in passing that much of
the best in music education of the earlier days was contributed by
immigrants--like the already mentioned Manuel Garcia--from the music
centers of Europe. It was inevitable that, until very recent years
(mention of this was made previously), anyone who wished to accomplish
something serious was obliged to go to Europe for his decisive studies;
it is also inevitable that what they produced bore traces of derivation
from the various milieus--generally German or Viennese--in which they
studied. Nor is it surprising that this derivation generally bore a
cautious and hesitant aspect, and that the American contemporaries of
Mahler and Strauss are most frequently epigenes rather of Mendelssohn
or Liszt. Some acquired a solid craft, if not a bold or resourceful
one; in the eighteen-nineties they were following in the footsteps
of the midcentury romanticists, just as, twenty years later, their
successors cautiously began to retrace the footsteps of the early
Debussy. There were, of course, other elements too, such as those
derived from folklore and, even at that time and in a very cautious
manner, from popular music.

One cannot speak of the composers of the turn of the century without
expressing the deep respect due them. They were isolated, having been
born into an environment unprepared for what they wanted to do, an
environment which did not supply them with either the resources or the
moral support necessary for accomplishment. If the limitations of what
they achieved are clear to us today--we see it in perspective--they
are limitations inevitably arising from the situation in which they
found themselves, and it would be difficult to imagine that they could
have accomplished more. If their influence on later developments at
first glance seems slight, it must not be forgotten that these later
developments would not have been conceivable had they not broken the
ground. Surely many composers still active today remember with deep
gratitude the loyal and generous encouragement and friendly advice
and support received from them, as did this author from his former
teachers, Edward B. Hill and Horatio Parker, and from older colleagues
like Arthur Whiting, Arthur Foote, and Charles Martin Loeffler--men
and musicians of considerable stature whose achievements were
significant and who worked under conditions incomparably less favorable
than those of recent date.

Let us again briefly summarize the situation at the beginning of
this century: in several American cities there existed first-class
orchestras, some of them led by conductors to be counted among the
great of the period. Their repertory was comparable to that heard in
any great European music center. There was an abundance of chamber
music, as well as of solo instrumental and vocal concerts. There has
been little change since that time. The change that has taken place
lies in the fact that similar conditions now prevail in almost all
major cities throughout our country, and, at least as important, that
the concerts are presented to an overwhelmingly great extent by
artists resident in America, that the majority of them are American
citizens and an increasing number are natives of America. There are,
to be sure, also complications and disturbing elements in the present
situation; of this we shall speak later.

As far as opera is concerned, the situation is not parallel. In the
early years of this century, there was in New York not only the
Metropolitan, already known throughout the world, but for several
seasons there was also the Manhattan Opera Company, more enterprising
than the former, artistically speaking. There were independent
companies also in Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, San Francisco, and
the venerable and still existent company in New Orleans. At the time
of this writing there is only the Metropolitan--which has become much
less enterprising and less glamorous--in addition to the more modest
but more progressive City Center Opera. Finally, there is the short
autumn season of the San Francisco Opera. The operatic situation is,
superficially at least, less favorable than concert life.

No doubt there are reasons why a whole generation of musicians, in the
second and third decades of our century, should have become conscious
of a determination to prevail as composers, performers, scholars, and
teachers. However, these reasons never are entirely clear. World War I
and the experiences which it brought to the United States undoubtedly
played a major role, but these experiences do not afford the full
explanation since the movement already had begun before the war in the
minds of many who had made their decisions even as children. In this
sense the war effected little change. We shall deal with this in the
following pages, and shall attempt to arrive at an estimate of its
scope and meaning.



III


Negative comment on the music life in the United States is as easy to
make as it is frequently heard. Less easy, but at least revealing,
is an honest appraisal of the factors which make the United States
a stimulating place for serious musicians to live. Like so many
subjects dealing with the cultural life here, this one is clouded
with propaganda, and with the assumptions propaganda nourishes. Yet,
as we have previously implied, after one has discounted not only the
propaganda element, but also much that is problematical and immature,
there remain facts which become profoundly interesting with increased
knowledge.

Such reflections are applicable to the whole range of our music life,
but specifically to concert and opera in this country. In no other
land, we believe, is there such a divergence between what takes place,
on the one hand, in the established concert and operatic life, and, on
the other, in musical enterprises supported by universities, schools,
or private groups of citizens, enterprises run not for profit but for
the musical experience that can be gained from them. These latter aim
at such quality as can be achieved under given conditions, but with no
pretense that it is of the highest possible caliber. The uniqueness
of this situation is remarkable; furthermore, it serves to throw
light, the clearest possible, on certain grave problems. Previously
we have stressed the fluidity of our culture and the fact that it
often presents itself under the guise of a struggle of conflicting
forces. This state of affairs is, of course, not peculiar to the
United States alone, but it is characteristic to some degree of all
cultural life, and in fact of life itself. Here we are concerned with
one of these forces, the increasing assertion of an impulse toward
productive musical activity throughout a country, and its struggle
for a legitimate and effective role in the whole music life. It would
be premature to state that that struggle is virtually over. Even to
those of us who have participated in it over the years, the problems
and obstacles at moments still seem insuperable. Nevertheless, it
is necessary to look back over the years to regain one’s sense of
perspective and one’s confidence in the eventual outcome.

Still more important, though difficult, if not impossible to prove,
is the fact that, given the actual balance of forces, the obstacles
derive from inertia rather than from active resistance. They consist of
influences which, though powerful, are modified by so many imponderable
factors that the individual at times easily imagines the sight of the
road open before him. It is true that the same individual may well find
himself, at other times, face to face with barriers which seem almost
impenetrable, and such moments are dangerous and decisive. The dangers
lie not so much in the isolation which he could expect to experience;
the country is large enough, and music life is sufficiently real and
benevolent, so to speak, to keep him from ever feeling completely
alone, even in his early years. Rather, the danger lies in that, by
coming to terms with the prevalent state of affairs, he can easily
achieve a measure of success, and therefore is faced with the constant
temptation of compromise. This temptation is supported by a thousand
varied types of pressure derived from the nature of the system which is
the basis of our large musical enterprises.

One must therefore understand this system in order to understand
our music life. In contrast to the countries of Europe, we do
not underwrite large-scale cultural enterprises with government
subsidies--with the exception, of course, of public education in the
strict sense of the word, and of certain indispensable institutions
such as the Library of Congress. These exceptions form so small a
part of the general musical picture that they are virtually without
influence. The more far-reaching question of government subsidies
is raised from time to time, but under American conditions it is an
intricate and, at the very least, a highly controversial one. Desirable
as such subsidies might seem in theory, it is an open question if they
would prove to be a satisfactory solution of our problems.

In any case, public music life in overwhelming measure is the creation
of private enterprise. Its present condition is the result of the fact
that private patronage, which in the United States as in Europe played
a great role up to World War I, scarcely exists today. This does not
mean that people of means have ceased to interest themselves in music
or in cultural undertakings, but rather that their interest has tended
to become less personal and more diffused. There are no doubt many
reasons for this change. Many of the great fortunes have disappeared or
have been scattered; prices have risen, as we all know; and musical
enterprises have become so numerous that they no longer furnish
conspicuous monuments as once they did. Finally, the administration of
these enterprises has become constantly more involved and so exacting
that a single individual must find it difficult to exercise control,
and so impersonal that he cannot retain a sense of intimacy and real
proprietorship.

The majority of the musical enterprises in the United States, the
great orchestral, choral, and operatic societies--certainly the most
influential among them--are administered by committees which determine
policies, appoint and dismiss the artists, and concern themselves with
the economic stability of their organizations. These committees are
largely composed of prominent personalities, men and women of affairs
and of society who are interested in music. Inevitably they need the
help of managers, businessmen concerned with music for reasons of
profit and who bring to music a business point of view. In the absence
of subsidies granted on the basis of clear and convincing artistic
policies, it is necessary that these businessmen exercise the greatest
care in balancing receipts and expenditures. This means that the
concert society or opera company is run like a business enterprise--in
which profits, to be sure, are not the main purpose, but which must be
at least self-supporting, or close to it, if it is to enjoy continued
existence.

This state of affairs does not imply “commercialism” in the usual sense
of the word, and it would be a misconception were it so understood.
Commercialism is by no means absent from our music life, but the
problems arise from the necessities imposed by a system such as the
one outlined, one in which cultural organizations are organized in
the manner of business enterprises, even though their purposes are
basically noncommercial. In the effort to maintain a certain level,
the enterprise must stretch its economic resources as far as possible,
and in the effort to maintain or increase the resources, it must reach
a constantly larger public. One observes the similarity between these
processes and the dynamics of business itself, and how motives and
ends become adulterated with elements of outright commercialism. It
becomes possible to speak of a system, real though in no sense formally
organized: it involves the committees as well as the managers, and, in
the last analysis, tends to assimilate the various activities which
contribute to our music life.

This situation tends to compound a confusion, already too prevalent,
between artistic quality on the one hand, and those factors which
lead to easy public success on the other. From this confusion arises a
whole series of premises and tendencies which affect the character both
of prevailing criteria, and, as a natural consequence, of the impact
of these criteria on our music life in general. It would certainly
be misleading to ascribe all these ideas and tendencies to the said
situation; obviously many date from an earlier period in which the
American public was much less sophisticated than it is today and our
music life far less developed. However, apart from the caution and
conservatism of business itself (which must base its policies on facts
ascertained by past experience and not on mortgages on the future),
many of these premises and tendencies admirably serve the purpose of
the system itself. We need only remember a single elementary fact:
that a business, in order to survive, at least in the United States
of today, must produce its goods as cheaply as possible and sell them
at the highest possible price. Or, from another point of view, it
must persuade the public to buy precisely what is economically most
convenient to produce. In the complex state of affairs which we may
term “music business,” these procedures are calculated in an exact
manner. The objection centers here. If, for instance, the so-called
“star system” as it exists here today were completely spontaneous and
natural, one might perhaps speak of the musical immaturity of a large
part of the public, recognizing at the same time that the virtuoso as
such has been in one form or the other, everywhere and at all times, a
glamorous figure. The evils of the situation arise not so much from the
fact that adulation of the virtuoso is exploited, but from the obvious
manner in which that adulation has been cultivated and controlled by
business interests.

The result is not only an essentially artificial situation but a
tendency toward what may be called an economy of scarcity, in which
much of the country’s musical talent lies fallow. The fewer the
stars, the brighter they shine. The artificial inflation of certain
reputations--most well deserved--by means of all the resources of
contemporary publicity is relatively harmless. The harm lies in that
the relatively few “stars,” in order to enhance their brilliance,
are surrounded by an equally artificial and striking darkness. Many
young singers or performers, even though extraordinarily gifted and
faultlessly trained, are faced with well-nigh insuperable obstacles
when attempting a concert career, despite our hundred and sixty million
inhabitants. In many cases they do not even find the opportunity to
develop their gifts through the constant experience a performer needs;
and though they may render useful services as teachers or otherwise,
the musical public is deprived of the artistic contributions they
otherwise would have made. On the other hand, those who achieve stellar
rank often suffer through the strain to which an excessively active,
constantly demanding, and extraordinarily strenuous career subjects
them. The result is that even mature artists tire too quickly and lose
the fine edge of vitality which made them outstanding in the first
place, while younger artists have little time and opportunity for
the relaxation and reflection so important and decisive for artistic
development. The system is ruthless, the more so for being virtually
automatic. To be sure, it is not completely impossible for the artist
to resist the pressures to which it subjects him, but these pressures
today are formidable, and he may easily feel that in making the attempt
he runs the risk of being left behind in an intensely competitive
situation.

This music business for the most part is centered in New York. That
fact in itself fosters a tendency toward cultural centralization, one
of the basic forces of music life today. There are also centrifugal
tendencies which modify it, and which, at least in several of the
large centers, may ultimately prevail. These large centers are,
however, relatively few and distant from each other, and their musical
autonomy is all too often attributable to the presence of one or more
exceptionally strong personalities. In any case, the vast majority of
American cities and towns receive their principal musical fare from
New York. One of the forms in which it is received is “Community
Concerts,” a series contracted en bloc by a New York manager through
which even small communities may see and hear a certain number of
stellar personalities on the condition that they also listen to a
number of less celebrated performers. In such a manner certain artists,
not of stellar rank, gain the opportunity to be heard and, in rare
cases, eventually to pass into the stellar category. Unfortunately, the
conditions under which they operate are limited and not favorable to
either musical or technical development. Since it is more economical
to print a large number of programs in advance than it is to print the
smaller number required for each separate concert, the artists are
frequently obliged to present the same program everywhere, and, since
they perform in the widest possible variety of communities, to suit
this program to the most primitive level of taste.

Much is said regarding the educational value of such concerts, and one
would not like to deny the possibility that it exists. Anyone who has
taken part in the musical development of the United States has observed
cases where genuine musical awareness has grown from beginnings holding
no promise at the outset. While it would be difficult to pretend that
the original purpose of such concerts is educational in the real sense
of that word, it cannot be denied that they bring the only chance of
becoming aware of the meaning of music to many a community. There are
inevitably, here and there, individuals whose eagerness and curiosity
will carry them on from this point, and they will eventually make the
most of what radio and phonograph can contribute to their growth. It
must also be said that while “organized audience plans” show the
music business at its worst, it is true that of late they tend to be
superseded by something better, in a constantly developing situation.

The principal problem remains, however. The business dynamism which
affects so much of our music life constantly perpetuates itself,
and, as can be observed in matters remote from music, often achieves
a quasi-ideological status, fostering as it does a system of values
favorable to business as such. There is nothing new in the ideas
themselves: the taste of the public--that is, supposedly, the
majority of listeners--is invoked as the final criterion, the court
of last appeal. Much effort and research is devoted to the process of
discovering what this majority likes best, the objective being programs
and repertory in accordance with the results of this research.
Actually it is not that simple, especially since, with the beginning of
radio and the spectacular development of the phonograph and recordings
in the twenties, the musical public has grown enormously in size.
Instead of numbering a few thousands concentrated in a few centers it
now numbers many millions distributed over all parts of the country.
It still continues to grow, not only in the provinces, but also in the
centers themselves. Such a public shows the widest possible variety of
taste, background, and experience. Hence it makes specific demands. As
one looks at the situation from the point of view of a large musical
enterprise, one may well ask which public it aims to satisfy. The
tendency must be to try to satisfy, as far as possible, the majority
of listeners, to offer programs which will draw the greatest possible
number of people into the concert hall, and to convince them that
they hear the best music that can be heard anywhere. The result is a
kind of business ideology which bears a curious resemblance to the
sincerely and justly despised ideology of the totalitarians, even
though the coercive aspects are absent. There are signs that the
tendency may be gradually receding as a more alert public is becoming
constantly more mature and more demanding, and before the ceaseless
self-criticism, another characteristic feature of our cultural life.
Perhaps, and above all, through the courageous efforts of some leading
personalities (such as the late Serge Koussevitzky, who always
insisted on the recognition of contemporary music, and especially
our American, and like Dimitri Mitropoulos who has waged a fight for
music which is considered “difficult”) a change is in store. These
efforts have often been surprisingly successful, and while the battle
is far from won--is such a battle _ever_ really and finally
won?--one remembers, for instance, the spectacular success which
Mitropoulos achieved in the 1950/51 season with a concert performance
of Alban Berg’s _Wozzeck_. One also remembers the case of Bélà
Bártòk--it is frequently asked, especially in the United States, why
this great composer had to die almost ignored by our musical public,
while scarcely a year after his death he became, and, on the whole,
has remained virtually a classic whose music today is heard, played,
and even loved all over the country. Such cases, however, do not alter
the fact that there still exists a curious disproportion between the
reputation, accepted almost without challenge throughout the country,
of a Stravinsky or a Schönberg, and the fact that _Verklärte
Nacht_ and _L’Oiseau de Feu_ are still their most frequently
performed works, while their mature and more characteristic music is
relatively seldom performed. This disproportion is partly rectified
by the existence of many recordings of Schönberg’s music, as it was,
momentarily, balanced by performances of his works in his memory just
after his death.

The great public finds _all_ music difficult to grasp, not only
contemporary music. Contemporary music meets with opposition in the
United States because it is unfamiliar and hence difficult. On the
other hand, with only slight exaggeration it can be pointed out that
tradition has very little value as a weapon against those who would
prefer hearing a concerto by Rachmaninoff to one by Mozart. If, in the
policy governing the choice of programs, one succeeded in satisfying
only the majority of listeners, nothing would be left for the elite,
the certainly much smaller public wishing to hear contemporary music
and, as well, the more exacting and profound music of the past.
The prestige and glamor of the great names of the past rather than
tradition checks this trend, opposing to it the growing demands of a
considerable segment of the public. That public is gradually developing
in size and experience. Furthermore, the artistic conscience of several
leading musical personalities in the United States (unfortunately not
all of them, whether of American or European background) oppose the
“system,” the rewards of which are naturally great for those who come
to terms with it; many a European performer, during the whole course of
our development, has been willing to seek success in the United States
at the lowest level, with little concern for the musical development
of our country. Such performers usually excuse their departure from
standards with the supposedly low level of culture in our “backward”
country and are supported in their attitude by business interests and
as well by a certain element of cultural snobbery, still persisting.
Fortunately there have always been others, such as Theodore Thomas of
earlier days, or Karl Muck, forty-five years ago in Boston, or like the
pianist Artur Schnabel, and there are still others who maintained the
highest standards here as elsewhere and thus manifested fundamental
respect for the American public, themselves, and their art. These
personalities created, in the largest measure, our music life, and
their inspired followers today obstruct its debasement.

In such a brief résumé of the forces characterizing our music life
much is necessarily omitted, and oversimplification is inevitable.
The emerging picture is gloomy in certain respects, but it can be
counterbalanced by such considerations as were voiced at the beginning
of our discussion. One sometimes hears the question: if things are
really so, if there is an absence of genuine tradition and we have to
consider the existence of economic forces pervading our music life
in an almost mechanistic fashion, is it not chimerical to hope for
the development of a genuine music culture in the United States? Part
of the answer will be given later when, after consideration of the
even gloomier situation of the musical theater in the United States,
attention must be given to the various forces which are rapidly
developing outside our organized music life and which constitute
a real and perpetual challenge. One must insist once more on the
fluidity of our culture, which is in constant development, or, as the
German philosophers would say, in a constant state of “becoming.”
It is interesting, at least to this author, to observe how in such
a discussion one passes from a negative to a less pessimistic point
of view, and one wonders why. The answer lies not only in faith in
one’s own national culture, but in thousands of facts which crowd in,
sometimes emanating from unexpected sources. These facts support that
faith. They point to the genuine, the most vital need for musical
experience in the United States, and drive toward it; they constantly
seek and possibly discover fresh channels through which these
experiences can be achieved. The development, in fact, is so rapid that
any discussion such as the present may seem outdated even before the
ink is dry. It should be remembered, finally, that economic forces,
however mechanistic, are, in the last analysis, the projection of
spiritual forces and eventually are subject to them. In this respect,
as in most others relating to our musical development, the best
antidote to pessimism is retrospection.



IV


All that has been said about the business organization of our concert
life applies with at least equal force to our musical theater. The
latter is the most costly as well as the most complicated form of
musical production, and therefore the most problematical economically.
However, the somewhat embarrassing situation of the musical theater in
the United States is not only of economic origin. It may even be said
that the economic difficulties are at least partly derived from other
problems, so to speak anterior to economics.

These problems may be broadly summarized in the statement that the
serious music drama has shown signs of becoming popular only in recent
years. A certain portion of the public has always shown interest and
enthusiasm for opera, to be sure, and such a public has always existed;
however, there are signs that it has grown both larger and more adept
through the influence of radio programs, concert performances, and
other forces to be discussed later. Of late, it has become customary
to devote a concert to the partial or complete performance of an
operatic work rarely heard in the theater in the United States, and
still more recently this practice has been extended to the performance
of works even from the standard repertory. Significant events were the
concert renditions, by Mitropoulos in New York, of Strauss’s _Elektra_,
Berg’s _Wozzeck_, and Schönberg’s _Erwartung_; and, by Monteux in San
Francisco, of Debussy’s _Pelléas et Mélisande_ and Gluck’s _Orfeo_.
The results were not equally successful; while _Elektra_ achieved rare
acclamation in New York, the success of _Pelléas_ in San Francisco
was less conspicuous, as those who know the opera well will readily
understand. But the fact that such performances are in fashion is
evidence that there is still need for them at this point in our music
life, and the enthusiasm for them is evidence that a public stands
ready to embrace something other than the standard fare ordinarily
offered by our established operatic institutions. This is only one of
many symptoms of the situation. Many enterprises throughout the country
have sprung up during the last twenty or twenty-five years which show
that a public for opera is developing; only the means of satisfying it
is lacking.

The above statement that serious opera only recently has begun to
show signs of becoming popular requires elucidation. The best way of
approaching the question is to consider the basis on which our operatic
institutions grew. We started with the institutions because, as always
in the United States, there were people in those days who did not wish
to be deprived in the New World of all they had been able to enjoy in
the Old. The ever-present snobs gradually joined their ranks, and at
the time the Metropolitan Opera was founded, twenty years after the
Civil War, their influence was at its height. It was the epoch of great
fortunes, of tremendous expansion of American industry and finance, and
of the arrogance of recently acquired wealth. Much has been made of the
fact that in the original architectural planning of the Metropolitan
Opera House express provision was made for the demands of social
exhibitionism. All this is tiresome, no doubt, but it is relatively
harmless. More important, perhaps, is that the problem of building an
intelligent public was faced in all too casual a manner. The small
European and cosmopolitan nucleus had no need for such education;
the snobs needed little or nothing, since their aims were far from
the desire for genuine artistic experience. Most others contented
themselves with accepting or rejecting what was offered.

It is worth considering our operatic situation not only in itself, but
in its relations to the environment into which it was transplanted.
There is every reason to believe that the performances of that period
were of the highest quality, and that that level declined only
much later, under pressures similar to those already mentioned in
connection with our concert life, which in both cases arose roughly at
the time of the World War I with the decline of patronage. In the last
years of the nineteenth century there existed not only enough wealth
fully to support such enterprises, but also a willingness to follow the
best artistic advice obtainable. What was wanted was, in the direct
terms, the collaboration of the most distinguished artists of Europe,
and such collaboration was cheerfully and handsomely rewarded. The
latest novelties were desired along with all the standard repertory,
and they were mounted in the most sumptuous manner. Occasional world
_premières_ took place at the Metropolitan; the author has already
referred to the fact that his parents sought the advice of foreign
composers, in this case of Puccini and Humperdinck, who were in New
York for the world _premières_ of _The Girl of the Golden
West_ and of _Königskinder_, respectively. Among the conductors
at the Metropolitan were Anton Seidl, and later, Gustav Mahler and
Arturo Toscanini. While the repertory favored the nationality of the
manager (under Conried German opera and under Gatti-Casazza Italian),
such favoritism was, at least in part, amended by other organizations.
Oscar Hammerstein, for instance, through his Manhattan Opera Company,
introduced the then new German and French operas to New York. This was
early in our century, and though his project was short-lived, operatic
institutions, all different in complexion, were springing up in Boston,
Philadelphia, Chicago, and San Francisco. In the South, in New Orleans,
French opera was still in existence. In the United States as in Europe
the most celebrated melodies of Verdi, Donizetti, Gounod, Bizet, and
even Wagner were played and sung. Why then, one will ask, did opera
fail to become popular?

The question is not of opera but of music drama, and has nothing
to do with either the dramatic quality of the performances or with
melodies. The author treasures the memory of certainly first-class
performances of _Otello_, _Die Meistersinger_, _Carmen_, _Pelléas_,
even of _Don Giovanni_ and of Gluck’s _Orpheus_. However, certainly
for most devotees opera meant something other than music drama; and
this for reasons ultimately deriving from the fact that opera in the
United States was still a luxury article, imported without regard
for its true purpose or its true nature, and that the circumstances
of its production accentuated that fact. For a public with this
orientation, opera possessed the magic of an emanation from a distant
and glamorous world, one which retained the element of mystery. Since
the artists were highly paid--as a result of a quite natural desire
to have the very best available at any price--it was equally natural
that the public overestimated the importance of individual singers and
their voices, and remained comparatively unaware of the importance of
ensemble. The “star system” did not originate in the United States, to
be sure, but it found fertile soil here, as did the widespread idea
of opera as a masquerade concert, a romantic pageant in which various
celebrities played their roles, and the primary purpose of which was to
provide sumptuous entertainment.

Such an idea of opera was in part also the result of the fact that
the works were sung in their original languages, or at times in
other non-English languages. The idea was prevalent that English
was a bad language to sing--and such an idea is not unnatural when
it is considered that the singers were mainly of German, French, or
Italian origin, background, or training. There were occasions on which
singers sang different languages in the same performance: Chaliapin,
for instance, sang _Boris Godunoff_ in Russian, supported by an
Italian cast.

Indisputably from every ideal standpoint an opera should be performed
in the language in which it is written. But properly understood,
opera is at least as much theater as music. Any drama--musical or
otherwise--suffers through translation; yet no one would seriously
suggest a performance in the United States, under any but exceptional
circumstances, of a work by Chekhov, Ibsen, or Sartre in the original
language. Even in regard to opera this problem is beginning to be
understood; and anyone who has attended recent performances in English
at the Metropolitan--or imagined, on the contrary, what might have been
the result had _Porgy and Bess_ or a work of Gian-Carlo Menotti
always been sung in Italian or German--has an idea of the importance of
this question. For a relatively inexperienced public like the American
before the World War I, a public not well versed in opera in English
and unfamiliar with the languages in which the works were sung, hence,
in reality, with the works themselves, the foreign language becomes an
obstacle. It fosters the sense of remoteness referred to above; not
only the words, but in some cases even the titles of the works remain
mysterious even when the plots may be familiar. The public, as a whole,
remains in the dark not only as to what Isolde and Brangäne, Isolde and
Tristan, or Tristan and Kurvenal are saying in the respective acts of
_Tristan_, but also it cannot fully participate in the musical
and dramatic unfolding of _Otello_, the infinitely delicate
articulation of _Falstaff_, or in the complications of the last
two scenes of _Rigoletto_. In such instances the drama is missed
if the meaning of the words is not understood; and when the words are
not completely understood in every detail, at least the experience of
an enacted libretto can convey some of the power of the music.

It must be emphasized, however, that for any public a drama is
drama only if it can become the reverse of remote. It must be truly
and intimately felt; and a living theater cannot exist entirely on
imported fare. In order really to live, an opera must be felt as drama;
otherwise results different from those noted are scarcely obtained.
Neither composer nor performer can breathe life into opera unless its
drama is felt, and the public takes fire only from things it has lived.
It remains basically indifferent if there is no point of contact with
whatever is dramatic in its own world or age; from its own epoch the
public learns what drama _per se_ is, and only from this point of
departure can it understand dramas of other periods. For this reason
we speak of French, or German, or Italian, or Russian opera. With few
exceptions, what was lacking at the Metropolitan of the period in
question were operas written in English, in quantity and in quality
sufficient to solve this problem and to lay the foundations for a vital
operatic tradition.

Meanwhile the economic problems characterizing our music life are
becoming more acute in the field of opera. Our nonoperatic theater
is doubtless the weakest point in the whole of American cultural
life; it may be, and often is, summarized in the words “Broadway” and
“Hollywood.” The reciprocal action of the vast economic power of our
theatrical and, above all, our motion picture enterprises, of increased
prices and therefore increased risks, and, finally, of the huge
American and even international market results in a kind of spiral:
economic risks and caution operate constantly so as to keep standards
at a low level. The same forces are at work, in a restricted way, in
the operatic field. Little by little the operatic enterprises of which
mention has been made, had to be abandoned, with the exception of the
Metropolitan and the curtailed autumn season of the San Francisco Opera.

Under the pressure of rising prices, the fundamental limitations
of the system became clear. The repertory remained facile, without
novelties of consequence, without daring of any kind. Whatever new
works were heard in the United States--_Mavra_, _Lady Macbeth
of Mzensk_, _Wozzeck_--were performed under special auspices;
and while later the performance of _Peter Grimes_, and still
later, _The Rake’s Progress_ seemed hopeful beginnings of a
possible change, the fate of these two works served only to point up
the real dilemma. Broadly stated, one must admit that the performance
of any new work is a serious risk in a situation where rising costs
have vastly increased the economic hazards to which the enterprise is
subjected. This is true even under best conditions. On the other hand,
if an institution is to survive, it is imperative that fresh blood be
constantly injected, and for an institution like the Metropolitan this
means freshness and novelty in repertory as in everything else. One
cannot permanently live on the past; even revivals are not the answer.

Much has been accomplished at the Metropolitan since 1950, the advent
of Rudolf Bing as its director. In the period prior to his arrival,
artistic quality had seriously declined, owing in part certainly
to the steadily deteriorating economic situation, but in part also
to ineffectual leadership. Inevitably, some of the preconceptions
indicated were responsible for the decline which economic stresses
threw into higher relief. The problem of creating a satisfying operatic
ensemble from casts composed of singers drawn from different parts of
the world, with different backgrounds and engaged as individual stars,
is great; but when rehearsals are inadequate, as they assuredly were at
the time, the results are disastrous. Surprisingly good performances
were achieved on occasion, especially by Bruno Walter, Fritz Stiedry,
and George Szell, and tentative beginnings were made in using English
translations for some Mozart performances. In general, however,
standards were lower than ever before.

Unquestionably, Bing has brought some changes for the better, both
in repertory and standard of performance. The essential problems,
however, remain, since they are not created by artistic directors, but
by prevalent misconceptions. Composers, and, above all, the regulation
of financial support can contribute to their solution. Certainly they
are not insoluble, and there is reason for believing that forces are
gradually working in the direction of a satisfactory solution. However,
one must remain aware of problems and obstacles. They are formidable.

Numerous attempts are now being made in many parts of the country to
further the production of opera by contemporary American composers. The
response has been indeed surprising. For many years thinking in terms
of what might be considered genuine American opera was the rule; one
peered into the void for the “real” or the “great” American opera in
much the same way as one looked for “the great American novel,” and
one attempted to forecast its characteristics. This is not only an
example of the bent toward abstraction discussed before, but also one
of a primitive and mechanistic view. In other words, the search, less
for truth or artistic necessity and more for a product most likely to
make headway on the American market, was in the foreground. Sometimes
the answer was found in the use of so-called “American” subjects--plots
taken from our history, folklore, literature, or landscape. At other
times, such efforts were combined with the use of folk tunes: the
object was the creation of a kind of folk opera. A solution was sought
in the evocation of American scenes and memories, a worthy aim only
if not considered the final answer to the fundamental question. Some
advocated the use of “contemporary” subject matter instead--texts
seeking to incorporate characteristic aspects of modern life. Again,
one cannot object, except to an irrelevant dogmatism. Solutions were
sought, in fact, with reference to everything--contemporary drama,
the spirit of Hollywood and Broadway, and, of course, jazz. At least
one work of real value, _Porgy and Bess_, may be associated with
these attempts, though it certainly represents them in the least
self-conscious manner. However, no such program can ever be regarded as
the answer to the problem.

The achievement of a genuine “national style” in any sphere whatever
depends on something deeper than evocation, nostalgic or otherwise; and
if what one seeks is timeliness, machines, ocean liners, or nightclubs
on the stage do not suffice. What is required is _drama_, felt
and communicated, whether it be comedy or tragedy; and this, if it is
real, _becomes_ both contemporary and national--just as _Julius
Caesar_ is both English and Elizabethan, and _Tristan_ neither
Irish nor medieval. So far as this author knows, no one has thought
of reproaching Verdi for having written Egyptian, Spanish, French, or
English--even American--opera in the various instances which come to
mind. It is a heartening sign that American opera composers of today
seem to be fully aware of this problem, however they differ as to
outcome.

In any case, this is the central problem of American opera. How can
one hope for the growth of an American opera tradition under the
conditions prevailing in our established operatic institutions, and in
view of the fact that throughout the country there are only three or
four which continue to exist, and those not on a desirable economic
basis? One must insist once and for all that a vital American music
life cannot be confined to the established conventions of concert
and opera. We have already given attention to radio and recordings,
which play so decisive a role, and interest us for manifesting sharp
contrasts with features discussed in connection with concert and
theater. Later comment is reserved for what may well be regarded as
the most noteworthy aspect of American music life today: the multitude
of impulses all over the country, the yearning for musical experience
our concert and opera life does not offer. These impulses center
largely in educational institutions--in schools, conservatories, and
universities. Above all, one here finds the beginnings of what may be
called a different mode of opera life. In an already considerable and
ever-increasing number of schools and opera departments, problems of
opera production are being studied, with an undaunted willingness to
experiment and, if necessary, even to fail, and with a vitality which
amazes all who have the opportunity to watch it closely. At least
one happy result has manifested itself, even within the framework
of music life. It has shown Americans that satisfying results can
be obtained in the operatic field without recourse to the luxury of
stellar personalities or sumptuous modes of production. Notably at the
City Center Opera in New York--an offshoot, in a sense, of the opera
department of the Juilliard School--some performances provided even
valid competition in quality of ensemble and vitality of interpretation
to identical works at the Metropolitan.

The question of adequate financial support for opera is not easily
solved. There is much discussion of a Ministry of Fine Arts in
Washington, and of the possibility of government subsidies for various
types of musical enterprise. Some of the discussion has ignored
matters involving American politics, and which contain many a snare.
Governmental subsidies for the arts on the European continent date back
to the pre-Revolutionary era, and carry on a long tradition in which
cultural matters for the most part were kept out of politics. At the
moment it seems Utopian to think that such a state of affairs could be
easily achieved here at the expense of the ever-vigilant taxpayer.
If subsidies, at least those at the Federal level, do not seem likely
or wholly desirable at the present time and under present conditions,
solutions must be sought elsewhere--in municipal or state subsidies, or
in large foundations. For the moment we must content ourselves with and
draw encouragement from the great variety and vitality of the various
forces which flourish and prosper luxuriantly throughout our music
life. It is difficult to believe, in view of all these impulses and
purposeful activities, that ultimately a solution should not be found.



V


We have attempted to show that the business mentality that directs
so many of our musical institutions fosters an economy of scarcity
as regards talent and repertory. We have tried to show how it tends
drastically to restrict opportunities for young artists and their
careers and to limit repertory. The aim of a cautious policy, as
we have stated, is to satisfy the immediate wishes of the greatest
possible number of listeners. To maintain prices, as well as the
prevalent values, as high as possible, the tendency is, among other
things, to restrict the number of goods for “sale.”

Curiously enough, the effect of this business point of view in radio
and with respect to phonograph and recordings is quite different.
No doubt the business mentality is as predominant here as it is in
the concert and opera business. In radio and recordings, however,
it fosters an economy of abundance. One may guess why it works that
way. Fewer, not more recordings would be sold if the output were
restricted to performances by celebrities, even if they were more
highly priced. In view of the nature of the product, the policy must
be to sell as many recordings as possible. To that end, policy will
always center on variety of both performances and works performed. In
the service of an economy which favors expansiveness and flexibility,
it is also necessary to maintain an even higher degree of technical
perfection. The result is that there is already available a large and
representative selection of recordings of music from every period,
including our own. This repertory is steadily growing larger.

Similar conditions prevail in radio, though in a less striking and
more sporadic manner, since American radio is largely supported by
commercial sponsors. Competition plays so great a role that giving
programs a conspicuously individual character is every sponsor’s aim,
and since many radio programs consist of concerts of recorded music,
the tenor is abundance rather than scarcity.

A discussion of music education in the United States must consider
the educational impact of both recordings and radio performances
during the past twenty-five years. Anyone interested in music has a
range of musical experiences previously unheard-of at his disposal;
and it is the rule that a young person wishing to undertake serious
study of music already has acquired an appreciable knowledge of music
literature, a rather experienced sense for interpretation, and even
a certain musical judgment--sometimes surprisingly good--before he
embarks upon such study.

There is a negative side. The knowledge acquired is not necessarily
intimate nor profound. It is knowledge different from that resulting
from studying scores and reading them, in some manner, at the piano.
Teachers are aware of the deceptive familiarity of American students
with music of all periods and nations and of their frequent glibness
which astonishes one until he discovers that all is based on a facile
and superficial experience with little to back it up. This is a problem
of education, and a state of affairs which our teachers are trying to
correct.

In this connection a leitmotif which frequently comes up in a
discussion of music in America is: what can and should music mean to
us? Is it an article we buy for whatever effortless enjoyment we can
derive from it, or is it a valid medium of expression worth knowing
intimately, through real participation, even on a modest level? In
other words, are we to be content with superficial acquaintance, or
do we want genuine experience, and the criteria derived only from the
latter?

Such alternatives are often not clearly formulated, and that fact
alone is both the result of, and a contributing factor to causing
a confusion of ends often observed in our situation. The confusion
derives from the fact that until a relatively short time ago music was
for us predominantly an _article de luxe_ which was to be enjoyed
without the obligation of intimate knowledge. As pointed out, at times
we even doubted whether we were, by birthright, entitled to, or capable
of fulfilling such an obligation, and the growing impulse toward vital
musical experiences developed from this basis. Gradually the ideas
of education, at least on the elementary or nonprofessional level,
obtained. A result of the schism even today is the wide divergence
between instruction considered adequate for the layman and that
required by the professional musician--a divergence which, as far as
this author knows, has no parallel in any other field of education.

We are accustomed to justify such divergence, or at least some of its
results, in terms of a somewhat pragmatic philosophy; this author
disagrees with that philosophy. Present criticism concerns, however,
but the effect of this confusion on our musical development. It must
be admitted that much of the musical or quasi-musical instruction given
in our elementary and high schools has little or no value whatever from
this point of view. This is said with due reserve; conditions vary
not only because of individual and local differences, but because the
organization and even the underlying concepts of education vary from
state to state. However, instruction at those levels is limited too
often to lessons in “sight singing,” a kind of primitive solfeggio, to
a small degree of facility on instruments designed to equip players for
the school orchestra, and finally to the “appreciation” course. While
the results are varied, in certain localities energetic teachers or
groups have accomplished impressive feats and sometimes, in the cases
of gifted students, have reached an almost professional level. Too
often, however, the prevailing idea behind the teaching has little to
do with truly musical achievement, and the gifted youngster may well
find himself quite lost in truly artistic surroundings. If he wishes to
work seriously, he must have recourse to the conservatory or to private
instruction; and he must pursue his studies outside of, and in addition
to the school curriculum.

The above picture, of course, is generalized, even though it is
doubtlessly accurate. Aside from exceptions, the system is less rigid
than a brief summary could demonstrate. Again, our culture is fluid
and development rapid. One recalls the establishment, nearly two
decades ago, of the High School of Music and Art in New York, and
similar establishments come to mind, but such practical institutions
scarcely answer the problem of fares suitable for both amateurs and
professionals.

In the universities the picture is different and the development
impressive, though not devoid of problems. To understand what is
going on, let us consider the role which the university plays in our
culture. In our universities the most independent forces of American
culture seem to gather--influences free from political or commercial
pressures; the universities, more than any other institutions, sustain
their role as strongholds of independent and liberal thought, and,
with a few regrettable exceptions, they are jealously committed to the
conservation of that independence. They shelter the cultural activities
which have difficulty acclimatizing themselves to the excesses of
commercialism, and they provide means for the independent existence of
worthy activities within their own walls.

The policy is general, even though it is not everywhere equally
pronounced, and but few of the larger universities are in a position to
carry it out on a broad scale. This endeavor is organized in various
ways. Some universities such as Yale, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Illinois
possess Schools of Music which are genuine professional schools
similar to our medical and law schools. Others such as California,
Columbia, Harvard, and Princeton have music departments which, though
integrated in the Colleges of Liberal Arts, include in their curricula
not only composition courses frankly professional in standard and
aim, but also generally high-quality courses in the performance of
choral, orchestral, and chamber music and, frequently, in opera. Some
universities support “Quartets in Residence,” generally established
ensembles which are under contract to contribute their services during
a certain portion of each year for campus concerts and instruction as
well. The Pro Arte Quartet at Wisconsin, the Griller Quartet at the
University of California at Berkeley, and the Walden Quartet at the
University of Illinois are examples.

In some respects, this program constitutes a radical departure from
the traditional role of the university as established in Europe.
It is the result of a long and frequently complex evolution. Some
academicians, even in departments of music, deplore this departure,
while others feel that it should be limited. No doubt the idea has
brought about new problems including that concerning the relationship
of scholarship and creative production, a problem existing already on
the elementary technical level, and one that cannot as yet be solved.
All of these problems involve various aspects of academic life and
undeniably are difficult in the extreme. The greatest pitfall, as far
as the production of music is concerned, is the danger of confused
mentalities. What are the ultimate obligations of the practical
musician as compared to those of the scholar? There is a tendency in
some quarters to train the former in terms appropriate to the latter,
inculcating in him criteria which are taken from music history and
aesthetic theory rather than from music as a direct experience. Often
an exaggerated reverence for music theory as a source for valid
artistic criteria can be observed. However, contact of scholars with
practical musicians often is fruitful: one can give the other something
valid by way of sharpened insight into his own task.

The divergence between what is proper for the layman and essential
for the professional is a problem for both scholar and musician. Many
a university music curriculum still bears traces of such divergence,
and the history of university music in the United States could easily
be covered from this point of view. What is involved here as elsewhere
is the shift from a frankly amateurish--in the best sense--approach,
however enlightened in premise, to one based on a serious and
eventually professional outlook. The transformation has been anything
but facile. The situation is still in process.

In the older curriculum, courses were offered in harmony and
counterpoint, to be sure, and sometimes also in fugue, instrumentation,
and composition proper. It was scarcely envisaged, however, that the
student would aim at serious accomplishment in such courses, and those
who taught them for the most part had learned to accept the conditions
prevailing in our music life, conditions which gave scant encouragement
to those nourishing illusory ambitions. The instruction given aimed,
therefore, at theoretical knowledge of traditional concepts; as has
been pointed out, there was little inclination to examine either the
premises or to delve into the ultimate effects of traditional theory.
The demands of the general curriculum in fact would make it difficult
genuinely to attack the problems of adequate technical training. The
student was obliged to be satisfied to learn “rules” or “principles”
without adequate opportunity, through continual practice, to master
them; and since our music life at the time was what it was, he had
no opportunity to become aware of what genuine mastery involved.
The result is quite obvious: either he gave up the idea of serious
achievement, or he resigned himself, often painfully no doubt, to the
necessity of lowering his sights.

In the field of scholarship similar conditions prevailed: generally
the curriculum was limited to superficial courses in music history
or literature or, at best, to scarcely less superficial studies
of selected composers. Most characteristic was the course in
“appreciation.” The term itself is used today mainly in a deprecatory
manner since--even if the term is retained--both the idea and the
content of such courses have long become outmoded and relegated to
secondary schools or a few provincial colleges. The appreciation course
usually consisted of propaganda for “serious” music, and it can be
stated frankly that its true aim was often to attract as many students
as possible to the music department in order to win the graces of the
university administration, which in the old days frequently retained
a degree of skepticism regarding the legitimate place of music in
the university. In spite of their superficiality and irrelevancies,
however, such courses unquestionably helped to prepare the public
for the later developments on our music scene. As has been observed
before in connection with Community Concerts, genuine, decisive results
sometimes spring from unpromising sources.

Such efforts are not needed today, for it is no longer necessary to
entice a public to accept, through radio and recordings, what is
available every day. Courses for amateurs still exist but more and more
become good introductory courses to music to which instructors dedicate
serious thought and effort, and in which they try to lay a basis from
which the student, if he wishes, may develop a real knowledge of music
and train himself to listen to it with greater awareness. The aims,
too, of such courses have become more dignified; and while music can
be approached from many angles and while many kinds of introductory
courses are possible, the effort at least is made to solve a problem
thoughtfully.

The courses in music history and literature today are on a level quite
different from former days and are frankly conceived as a valid means
of preparation for scholarly accomplishment. Attention is given to
musicology in nearly every major university; names of distinguished
scholars may be found on the faculties and opportunities for all
kinds of research are offered. Little by little, the universities are
building up valuable collections of microfilms in order to bring to
the United States whatever European libraries and collections have to
offer. As in other fields of scholarly research, an effort is made to
establish highest standards and rigorous demands.

As regards musical composition, perhaps the most striking fact is that
the important recent developments have taken place in the universities,
at least as much as in the conservatories. There are reasons for this
emphasis. The universities, due to their independence, seem more ready
to experiment and are therefore less bound by tradition. They are more
willing to adapt themselves to changing conditions. Since they are
in no way bound to the exigencies of the large-scale music business,
they are, as a rule, aware of the character of contemporary culture
and especially of its creative aspects. It is significant that the
universities were able to offer asylum to eminent composers among the
European refugees, and, as well, positions to American composers. Of
Europeans, Schönberg taught at the University of Southern California
and later at the University of California at Los Angeles, Hindemith at
Yale, Krenek at Vassar and at Hamline College, Milhaud at Mills, and
Martinu at Princeton. As regards native American composers, one finds
more or less distinguished names on university faculties all over the
country, and of the young native composers a characteristically great
number are university graduates.

That fact alone has had a strong influence on university curricula, and
also has given rise to new problems. It has added an importance, and
in fact a different character, to preparatory studies. It has thrown
into conspicuous relief the necessity of reconciling the requirements
of the all-important and indispensable basic technical training of
the composer with those of general education. No one would claim
that the problem has been solved in a satisfactory manner; and the
composer who teaches composition in a university or elsewhere often
faces problems which arise from the great disparity not only between
the requirements of the craft and that which institutions can offer in
this respect, but also between the degrees of preparation offered in
various institutions. Perhaps the greatest of these problems is the
cleavage between the age and general musical sophistication of students
(who in the United States begin their music studies relatively late)
and the elementary studies with which they must begin if they are to
build a technique on a firm basis. In the last analysis, standards
are often far too low; yet we must underline that there are also
serious curricular problems which await solution. Some results shown
in universities furnish convincing proof that these problems, on the
whole, are soluble.

It may be asked why in this discussion of music education the music
schools, the conservatories, have been left to the very end. There
has been no thought of disparaging or underestimating what our
conservatories have contributed to musical development. What they
have accomplished, in the main, is precisely what one would expect.
With exceptions such as a new (still problematical) approach to the
teaching of theory at Juilliard, they have developed along normal
lines. Instrumental and vocal instruction is often first class, they
feed excellent players to our orchestras, and produce--as has been
noted--an overabundance of young singers and instrumental performers.
At Juilliard, the opera department deserves highest praise. For many
years its productions have served as a model for those now almost the
rule rather than the exception in music schools and music departments
throughout the country; and in recent years it has given New York
several of its relatively few experiences of contemporary opera.
Equally impressive have been the achievements of the Juilliard School
orchestra, which on repeated occasions has proved adequate to the
demands of most difficult contemporary music.

We cannot terminate this discussion without some lively praise for the
American student of today. It seems that in these postwar years a new
generation of students has entered upon the scene--a generation which,
in the purposefulness and the courage with which its representatives
undertake most exacting tasks, and in the devotion and the maturity
with which they seek out the real challenges music can present, is
sufficient proof that we have moved forward. They, above all, give us
the liveliest, most unqualified sense of musical vitality, and the
certainty that it will continue to develop.



VI


Throughout this discussion we meet recurrent motives which should be
remembered if we are to understand what “goes on” in our music life.
These motives will continue to come to mind in connection with specific
and concrete instances. It may be useful, therefore, to mention some of
them as a point of departure for the discussion of music criticism, or
better, musical opinion in the United States.

We have repeatedly referred to the characteristic fluidity of culture
in the United States, to the fact that it is in a constant state of
rapid development and under the lash of incessant self-criticism. It
is impossible to exaggerate the significance of these facts which
runs through the whole of our cultural life; but while it is easy
to understand that one of their effects has been the extraordinary
musical development of the past forty or fifty years, it must also be
noted that they bring with them the danger of attitudes not entirely
favorable to genuine artistic achievement. There is the easily and
occasionally noted lack of spontaneity, not only in artistic judgment,
but in relation to music itself. In a drive toward maturity, one can
lose sight of the necessity for a full and rich musical experience.
The danger lies, then, in a search for shortcuts to maturity, while
actually maturity can be the result only of experience: in striving,
as we sometimes do, to arrive at judgments in advance of genuine
experience, which can be acquired only through love, that is, through
an immediate and elementary response to music. The American public may
gradually learn to surmount this danger as American listeners acquire
more and more experience. However, the musical public is in constant
growth, and we can scarcely be astounded that that public, being in
part musically inexperienced, has not as yet learned to have confidence
in its judgments. Newspaper criticism, therefore, wields far greater
power here than it does in other countries; and a marked predilection
for abstraction in musical ideas may be noted. We readily embrace or
reject causes or personalities, and readily form our judgment with
relation to them, rather than to individual works of art. While this
is a tendency characteristic of the period in which we live, it seems
to be carried to a greater extreme here than elsewhere.

Another principal motive in our discussion is the conflict between the
idea of music as an imported European commodity and the indigenous
impulse toward musical expression. Obviously, in music criticism this
conflict is clearly visible; for in the beginnings of our musical
development we imported not only music but musical opinion as well.
In the period before World War I, the task of American criticism was
precisely that of imparting some knowledge of the music to which one
listened in the concert halls and opera houses; to introduce the
public to the criteria, controversies, and, above all, to the then
current ideas relating to music; to inform it on composers and their
backgrounds, musical or spiritual, and on the backgrounds from which
music had sprung. The critics of that time were often men of genuine,
and even deep culture, and with cosmopolitan experience; but their
criticism was neither bold nor original. Like the composers of the
period, American critics remained circumspect and cautious in their
judgments of contemporary music. They did not wish to be considered
unorthodox. How could they have done otherwise? They knew perfectly
well that decisive judgments were not made in the United States, and
that intellectual boldness would fall on deaf ears when few people
were in a position to understand what they conceivably had to say. At
most, they could allow themselves an occasional word of encouragement
to the efforts of some American composer, who understood well that it
amounted to no more than a friendly gesture. In the case of young
composers, such gestures, almost always benign, were often coupled with
an express warning not to take themselves too seriously. But even such
judgments were not problematical, since there was virtually nothing in
the American music which offered a challenge to accepted ideas. In the
United States of 1913, the Fourth Symphony of Sibelius was regarded
with suspicion; the _Valses Nobles et Sentimentales_ of Ravel were
controversial; Strauss’s _Elektra_ seemed a shrewdly calculated
shocker which the composer himself had repudiated in a much touted
and likewise suspect _volte-face_ in _Der Rosenkavalier_.
Stravinsky was but a name; and as for Schönberg, his First Quartet
seemed quite obscure and the _Five Orchestral Pieces_ wholly
incoherent.

The third of the recurrent principal motives to be recalled here
is the divergence between professional instruction and instruction
designed for laymen. As has been pointed out, this divergence is found
in no field other than music, and this author has tried to show that
it is related to the idea that music--valid music, at least--is an
imported article. He has tried to demonstrate, too, that it led, as
far as music education is concerned, to a confusion of aims, creating
problems for both teachers and gifted young men and women whose aims
were serious. These problems still survive. A similar divergence
is reflected in music criticism in a somewhat different form. It
is evident that the principal task of the critic, certainly of the
exacting critic, is that which has a bearing on the musical production
of the time and place in which he lives. The music which comes from
abroad or from the past calls for a serious attitude, to be sure,
but it is not comparable to the critic’s responsibilities toward the
culture of his own land and epoch. It does not inevitably imply a
motive for attacking the real problems of either music or culture. Even
research in regard to it is gratuitous to a point, for the very impulse
toward research derives from a curiosity which, like the creative
impulse, is a symptom of vitality or at least of restlessness in the
general atmosphere of the time. It is an indication of an already
highly developed music life.

Generally speaking, music criticism in the United States remained
amateurish for a long time; but if such a state of affairs adequately
served conditions in the years before World War I, it was insufficient
in the twenties, when young composers were beginning to take both
themselves and their musical aims seriously. The influence of the
critics was as powerful in those days as it remains to this day, up to
a certain point; but the criteria which criticism furnished had little
or nothing to give young composers. There was little understanding for
either the needs or the demands of these young creators or for that
which they wished to accomplish.

We think of a well-known and extremely important personality of
that period: Paul Rosenfeld. He was very friendly to young creative
musicians, and a sympathetic promoter of everything they wished to
accomplish. He was a passionate amateur, especially of music that was
new, and above all of the music of the young Americans he knew. In
this respect he stood virtually alone; he dared to write with great
passion and enthusiasm of everything in the “new” music that interested
him--of Schönberg, Stravinsky, Bártòk, Scriabine, and Sibelius--and he
conducted a bold propaganda for new music in a period when the attitude
of other critics, and certainly of the public, was at best cautious
and hesitant. He was also a personal friend of Ernest Bloch, from the
moment the composer, a completely unknown figure in the United States,
arrived here in 1916; Rosenfeld worked tirelessly for the recognition
of Bloch’s music and personality. It is impossible to overestimate
Rosenfeld’s contributions as a writer and as an enthusiastic
propagandist for the contemporary music of his period, and for the
development of music in this country. It is not surprising that this
contribution is still remembered.

True, Rosenfeld had little understanding for the real and
characteristic tendencies of the period between the two wars, and his
ideas remained _au fond_ those of postromanticism, with a strong
admixture of American nationalism. There is no doubt, however, that he
played a significant role in the formation of the musical generation of
the twenties. The present author belongs to that generation; Rosenfeld
was not in complete sympathy with him, but Rosenfeld’s interest and his
willingness to discuss issues were of the greatest possible value to
all who came in contact with him. One found in him, as in few others
of that time, a genuine awareness of the issues, and a desire to
understand the motivating forces behind them.

The foregoing notwithstanding, Rosenfeld was in no sense of the word
a music critic. It may seem paradoxical to say that he possessed
neither authentic musical knowledge nor, very probably, strong
musical instinct. Not only did he shy away from acquiring technical
knowledge which he considered an obstacle to feeling and intuition; he
even refused to speak of music in concrete terms. If he made casual
reference to facts, as occasionally happened, he often was in error; in
speaking of the instrumentation of the _Sinfonia Domestica_ of Strauss,
for example, he referred to the use of the _viola d’amore_ instead of
the oboe--likewise _d’amore_, but hardly to be confused with the viola!
His relation to music remained that of a litterateur to whom music
furnished a stimulus for ideas, sentiments, and attitudes, and, in
consequence, for words.

In spite of his association with mature musicians such as Bloch,
Rosenfeld never learned to regard music as something other than a
means of evocation, an art completely self-sufficient as a mode of
expression, completely developed, an art which demands of its devotees
all their resources of craft and personality. He was therefore not in a
position to help young composers as a connoisseur, to give them a sense
of the demands of their craft or of the essence of musical expression.
He did succeed, to be sure, in giving them something much needed at
that time: a lively sense of belonging to the whole cultural movement
of the period. Other critics gave them not even that feeling. Confined
to the limits of their profession and the premises discussed, they
reported, more or less competently, events and the _faits divers_
of the daily music life. They concerned themselves little, and only
incidentally, with contemporary music. The composers were growing
and developing independently; and when, as toward the end of the
decade, they found performers like Koussevitzky who took an interest
in their music, the critics were neither conspicuously hostile nor
conspicuously friendly, but remained indifferent to the prospects of
a development of music in the United States. They were also reluctant
seriously to consider either the issues involved or the influences
which would have favored such a development. The critics contented
themselves by “going along,” at least tentatively, with Koussevitzky
and others of established reputation showing interest in this music.

We state these facts without malicious intent. We can understand why in
such a situation the critics, confronted with something new, failed.
The appearance on the music scene of an entire group of young American
composers who, so to speak, thought for themselves and were searching
for their individual attitudes and modes of musical speech, forced
the critics of the time to face a series of unaccustomed challenges.
It demanded, for the first time in the United States, that they come
to terms, repeatedly, with music of serious intent, music which had
arrived fresh and free of previous critical judgments. At the same
time, the development of a number of these native composers may well
have been a threat to the _status quo_ and vested interests,
which included the supremacy of the critic in all that concerned the
formation of public taste. There is no evidence, as far as we know,
that any critic actually thought in such terms, and it is not a
question of accusation. Such considerations seem natural at least as
subconscious forces and would adequately explain the reserve which the
music journalists of twenty-five years ago displayed, not toward this
or that young composer, but toward American composers as such; their
reluctance to admit American music to the category of things to be
discussed seriously, either for its own sake or for its significance in
relation to the music culture of the country as a whole, was apparent.
Certainly they were aware of the names of some of these creators and
had thought about them, possibly in a stereotyped concept of their
musical physiognomies, and certainly they did not ignore them when
their music appeared on important programs, yet clearly they made no
effort to study such music closely, to seek out and discover young
or unknown personalities, or to interest themselves in events which
took place off the beaten path. In short, what they lacked was genuine
sympathy for what was happening.

Such sympathy, actually, was reserved for another generation of
critics, which arose toward the end of the thirties. No doubt, the most
influential of recent years have been Virgil Thomson, who retired
two years ago from the _New York Herald-Tribune_, and Alfred
Frankenstein, still of the _San Francisco Chronicle_. Both served
modest apprenticeships before arriving at positions of power. Above
all, both are notable for their close relationship to contemporary,
and especially American music, as well as for their experience and
knowledge of the life and the repertory of concert and opera. Thomson
is known also as a composer; as a critic, he is a lively and often
brilliant observer of the contemporary music scene. He makes his
readers constantly aware of his own predilections (he has every right
to do so as a composer) and his predilections are for the French music
of the twenties. One must give him credit also for the efforts made
to understand music of other types. Above all, one must admire his
consistent and tireless emphasis on the work of younger composers,
and the energy with which he reported on interesting and vital events,
however distant they might have been from Fifty-seventh Street or Times
Square.

Frankenstein, for at least twenty-five years, has battled for the cause
of music in the United States. He gave careful attention to the state
of music here, and there is probably no one more qualified to speak of
it authoritatively. He became personally acquainted with the principal
composers who live in our country, but, better still, he familiarized
himself with their music. Possessing an unusual degree of knowledge of
music history, he combines it with an equally rich knowledge of, and
carefully considered judgment on, the problems of contemporary music.
Like Thomson, he brings to his task a deep sense of responsibility for
everything in our music life. One need not always agree with Thomson
and Frankenstein, but it is difficult not to recognize their sincerity.

It is evident that our discussion of music criticism in the United
States has dealt primarily with its relation to the general subject of
our musical development. The music itself and the composers and their
ideas remain to be discussed.



VII


The principal concern of music in the twenties was the idea of a
national or “typically American” school or style and, eventually, a
tradition which would draw to a focus the musical energies of our
country which, as Rosenfeld once said to Aaron Copland and the author,
would “affirm America.” The concern was not limited to composers, and
in fact it was sometimes used as a weapon against individual composers
by those whose preconceived ideas of what “American” music should be
did not square with the music in question. In spite of the abstract and
_a priori_ nature of this concern, it was a natural one in view of
the historical circumstances.

Actually the nationalist current in our music dates back to a period
considerably earlier than the twenties. Its underlying motives are as
curiously varied as are its manifestations. Cultural nationalism has
special aspects which, since they derive from our colonial past, may
be considered as reflex actions, so to speak, of American history.
American musical nationalism, too, is complex. In its earlier phases
it developed gradually on the basis of a music culture which came
to us from abroad. It consisted, as it were, of a deliberate search
for particular picturesque elements derived for the most part from
impressions received from ritual chants of the Indians or from
characteristic songs of the colored people in the South; equally, it
included efforts, such as MacDowell’s, to evoke impressions of the
American landscape. These and similar elements strongly contributed to
the renown of this sympathetic figure, and MacDowell’s name for many
years was virtually identical with American music.

A different feature was furnished by a Protestant culture which in
the beginning came from England, but developed a character all of its
own in the English colonies, especially in New England. Against this
background grew our “classic” writers and thinkers, and the character
found expression in music and painting, though in the latter it is
admittedly less important. Next to MacDowell the most significant
figure in the American music of that time was undoubtedly Horatio
Parker, who, especially in certain religious works, displayed not only
a mature technique, but also a musical nature and profile which were
well defined, even though they were not wholly original.

These men, however, did not represent a genuinely nationalist trend,
but rather idioms which, in much more aggressive and consistent form,
contributed to a nationalist current that was to become strong in the
twenties. The figure and the influence of Paul Rosenfeld again comes to
mind, yet the question was not so much that of an individual per se as
that of a personality embodying a whole complex of reactions deriving
from a new awareness of our national power, of the disillusionment of
the post-War period, and of a recrudescent consciousness of Europe and
European influence on the United States and the world in general.

We know the political effects of these reactions and their
consequences for the world. As far as the cultural results are
concerned, they led to a wave of emigration which took many of our
gifted young writers, artists, and musicians to Europe, especially
to Paris. It was a revulsion against the cultural situation of the
United States of those years. The same reactions also produced a wave
of revulsion against Europe, however, as far as music was concerned,
against the domination of our music life by European musicians and
European ideas, against the mentioned wave of emigration which seemed
to have carried away, if but temporarily, so many young talents and
therefore so much cultural energy, a revulsion, finally, against the
whole complex world of Europe itself. That European world seemed
exigent, disturbing. It was a world from which we had freed ourselves
a century and a half earlier, but which for so many years thereafter
had constituted an implicit threat to American independence, and which
presented itself to American imagination as a mass of quasi-tyrannical
involvements from which our ancestors had fled in order to build a new
country on unsullied soil. The most pointedly American manifestations
were sought for, not always in the most discriminating spirit or with
the most penetrating insight as to value; and the effort was made
to call forth hidden qualities from sources hitherto regarded with
contempt.

The situation indicates an extremely complex movement, partly
constructive and based not just on reflex impulses, and has left
traces which persist in our culture. As a primary motive, it has long
since been left behind; for, though it was an inevitable phase, the
time arrived when it no longer satisfied our cultural needs. One
may, in fact, observe the manner in which (more obvious here than in
Europe since our country is so vast and the distances so great) such a
movement tends to shift, also geographically, and finally to die in the
provinces where it had survived for a certain period after losing its
force in the cultural centers.

From such a background of reflex and impulse the facets of American
musical nationalism grew. Let us distinguish three, though perhaps they
are overdefined. One is the “folklorist” tendency characteristic of a
group of composers of differing types, from Charles Wakefield Cadman
to Charles Ives. Folklore in the United States is something different
from European or Russian folklore. Here it does not involve a popular
culture of ancient or legendary origin, which for centuries grew among
the people and remained, as it were, anonymous; here it is something
recent, less naive, and, let us say, highly specialized. It consists
largely of popular songs originally bound to precise historical
situations and the popularity of which, in fact, derived from their
power to evoke the memory or vision of these situations--the Civil War,
the life of the slaves in the South, or that of cowboys or lumberjacks
in the now virtually extinct Old West--only nostalgia remained. Though
these songs are in no sense lacking in character, they fail to embody
a clear style; and it is difficult to see how, with their origins in
a relatively sophisticated musical vocabulary, they could conceivably
form the basis of a “national” style. Not only a musical, but also
a sociological and psychological basis for such a style is missing.
Therefore, apart from jazz--which is something else, but equally
complex--folklorism in the United States has remained on a relatively
superficial level, not so much for lack of attraction, but for lack of
the elements necessary for expansion into a genuine style or at least
into a “manner.”

Certain composers such as Henry Gilbert, Douglas Moore, and William
Grant Still have made use of folklorism with success. However, even
in the music of these composers the element is evocative rather than
organic; and the success of their efforts seems commensurable with the
degree to which the whole remains on the frankly “popular” level. The
extraordinary figure of Charles Ives might be considered an exception.
He certainly is one of the significant men in American music, and at
the same time one of the most complex and problematical. But among the
various elements of which his music consists--music which sometimes
reaches almost the level of genius, but which, at other times, is
banal and amateurish--the folklorist is the most problematic, the least
characteristic.

Another aspect of our musical nationalism is just that _evocative_
tendency. It makes reference to a quasi-literary type in the
theater, in texts of songs and other vocal works, or to “programs”
in symphonic poems. Many Americans have made use of such reference
in a self-conscious manner. However, the term is used here also to
refer to an effort to achieve a musical vocabulary or “style” apt,
in some manner, to evoke this or that aspect of American landscape
or character. Howard Hanson, for instance, in his postromantic and
somewhat conventional music, has tried to establish an evocative
relationship with the American past as well as with the Nordic past of
his Scandinavian ancestors.

More ambitious and possibly more interesting was the effort of Roy
Harris to achieve a style that could be called “national” in a less
external sense. His point of departure was the evocation of American
history or American landscape; but from these beginnings he goes on
to technical and aesthetic concepts aimed toward defining the basis
of a new American music. It cannot be denied that Harris accomplished
some results. For a time during the years just preceding World War II,
his music attracted the attention of musicians on both sides of the
Atlantic and achieved considerable success. His ideas and concepts,
however, must be considered quite by themselves; music and technical
concepts belong to different categories: it would be an error to judge
either in terms of the other. Harris’s ideas of technique often have
little or nothing to do with specifically American motivation, but
to a large extent consist of a strange brew composed of anti-European
revulsion, personal prejudice, and the projection of this or that
problem, or a solution with which he has become acquainted. What
is lacking, as in the entire nationalist movement in our music, is
awareness of the fact that genuine national character comes from within
and must develop and grow of itself, that it cannot be imposed from
without, and that, in the last analysis, it is a by-product, not an
aim, of artistic expression.

A third type of American musical nationalism may be dubbed
“primitivist,” a term implying something different from the primitivism
which for a time was current in European culture. Reference here is not
necessarily to an interest in the culture of the Indians, whether the
primitive of North America or the more highly developed of Central
and South America. Primitivism of this variety is related to frank
rebellion against European culture and is a vague and overstrained
yearning for a type of quasi-music that is to be completely new,
and in which one could find refuge from the demands, conflicts, and
problems of contemporary culture manifesting itself everywhere. It
is expressed in superficial experimentalism, not to be confused, in
its basic concepts, with experimentalism concerned with the problems
of contemporary music and culture. Actually, as happens frequently
in matters of contemporary art, the two types of experimentalism are
sometimes found in association, in a rather strange admixture. It would
require special analysis--one which has no bearing on the present
discussion--to dissociate them. One cannot entirely ignore this trend,
however, a current always existing in one form or the other, though
never achieving importance.

       *       *       *       *       *

One might possibly add one more brand of nationalism to the folklorist,
evocative, and primitivist--the attempt to base a national style
on jazz. Such classification is of course artificial and of purely
practical value. While folklorism, the evocation of American images,
and the type of primitivism we have been discussing, are related
exclusively to American backgrounds, jazz, on the other hand, though it
originated in this country and is considered a product of our culture,
has had an influence on music outside the United States. It has taken
root in Europe and developed European modes on European soil, not as
an exotic product, but as a phenomenon which is modern rather than
exclusively American.

This author will never forget an occasion at a little restaurant in
Assisi, in the shadow of the church of St. Francis, when he had to ask
that the radio, blaring forth genuine jazz, be lowered so he might
talk quietly with his colleague Dallapiccola; or another occasion
in an Austrian village hotel, where jazz--also genuine though not
of the highest quality--was constantly heard, either from a local
dance band or on the radio: it was craved more by the young German,
Dutch or Danish guests than by the Americans there. Jazz--unless one
insists on an esoteric definition--has become, or is about to become,
an international phenomenon like other mass-produced goods which,
originally manufactured in the United States, lose their association
with it and are assimilated elsewhere.

This is not to minimize the fact that jazz developed via American
popular music, and that it contains a strong primitive ingredient
from this source. However, other elements were added, as it were,
by accretion, elements which derive from a predominantly rhythmic
vitality and are supposedly inherited from the African past of the
negroes. Long before the name jazz was given to this type of music,
its rhythmical and colorist, and to a degree its melodic elements had
attracted the attention of European musicians. Beginning as early as
Debussy’s _Golliwogg’s Cake Walk_, one remembers a series of works
by Stravinsky, Casella, Milhaud, Weill, and others. The influence
remained active for a short time, and by the end of the thirties it
had virtually disappeared.

Similar things happened in the United States, yet with far-reaching
implications. Certain composers had hoped to find in jazz the basis
for an “American” style and their efforts may be considered the most
serious of all ever made to create an American music with “popular
style” as its foundation (even though jazz can really not be called
folk music in the accepted sense of the word). These composers in
jazz saw characteristic elements which they believed rich enough
to allow development into a musical vocabulary, one of definite
character, though limited to certain emotive characteristics in turn
believed to be typically American. Aaron Copland in his _Music for
the Theatre_ and his Piano Concerto (written in 1926) showed his
audience novel points of departure such as had been suggested by
Europeans; other Americans felt capable of carrying these beginnings
still farther and discovered idiomatic features not only in the musical
vocabulary, but in the American personality as well.

Copland, of these composers, undoubtedly was the most successful.
However, he dropped the experiment after two or three works of this
type, which can be counted among his best, in order to write, over a
period of several years, music of a different kind, characterized by
certain lean and harsh dissonances, angular, sharp, and at moments
melancholy and which no longer had a connection with jazz. There is
much more to say about this composer, whose music has passed also
through other phases. It may be asked, however, why he decided to
abandon the idiom chosen at the outset of his career, one based on
jazz. Probably he saw the limitations of nationalist ideas as such
and, like the European composers mentioned, came to the realization
that by its very nature jazz is limited not only as material, but
emotionally as well. Jazz may be considered a _genre_ or a type,
yet one discovers quickly that, passing beyond certain formulas,
certain stereotyped emotive gestures, one enters the sphere of
other music, and the concept of jazz no longer seems sensible. The
character of jazz is inseparably bound to certain harmonic and rhythmic
formulas--not only to that of syncopation but, if incessant syncopation
is to make its full effect, to the squarest kind of phrase structure,
and to a harmony based on most primitive tonal scheme. While immobility
of these bases makes a play of rhythmic detail and of melodic
figuration possible, this always is a question of lively detail rather
than of extended organic development. The result is exactly what might
have been expected: for the last twenty years, leaving aside occasional
instances where jazz was frankly and bodily “taken over” for special
purposes, it has ceased to exert a strong influence on contemporary
music. On the contrary, it has borrowed incessantly from “serious”
music, generally after a certain interval of time.

Though different from Copland, the equally gifted George Gershwin
travelled in the opposite direction; from popular music he came to the
extended forms of “serious” music. He remained a composer of “popular”
and “light” music, nevertheless, for they were native to him. If his
jazz is always successful and unproblematical even in his large works,
like the _Rhapsody in Blue_ and the opera _Porgy and Bess_,
it is because in its original and popular sense jazz is his natural
idiom, and Gershwin never felt the need for overstepping its limits,
musical or emotive. True, he wanted to write works of large design,
but herein he never succeeded. He never understood the problem and the
requirements of extended form, and remained, so to speak, innocent
of them. But since his music was frankly popular in character and
conception, it developed without constraint within the limits of
jazz; and since he was enormously gifted, it could achieve a quality
transcending the limits of jazz convention.

In other words, Gershwin’s music is in the first place music, and
secondarily jazz. Those who may be considered his successors in the
relationship to “serious” or, let us say, ambitious music, set out from
premises no longer derived from nationalism. There is no longer the
question of, in Rosenfeld’s words, “affirming America,” but of gaining
and holding the favor of the public. This was the concern of American
composers during the thirties. Perhaps above all, American composers
for the first time had won the attention of an American public; and it
is natural that they wished to win and to enjoy the response of this
public, and that some felt a challenge in the situation not altogether
banal. For the American composer any vital relationship with a public
was a new experience, one which seemed to open new perspectives. He
felt for the first time the sensation of being supported by a strong
propaganda for native music--something quite new in American music,
though not without unexpected effects. Since the propaganda was in
behalf of American composers as such, since it was always stated in
terms of these composers, since their right to be heard and their
problems rather than the satisfactions which the public would derive
from them were stressed, or the participation which that public would
gain from listening to American music, the effect soon was that of
giving nationality as such a value in and for itself. Quality and
intention of the music soon seemed nonexistent; performers satisfied
the demands of Americanism, presenting whatever music they found most
convenient, and often whatever was shortest or made the least demand
on performer and listener. It seems as if our music was obliged to pay
in terms of loss of dignity for what it gained in terms of, at least,
theoretical acceptance.

Many composers during those years were attracted by ideas derived from
the quasi-Marxist concept of mass appeal. Their ideas of a cultural
democracy drove them toward a type of music which consciously aimed
at pleasure for the greatest number. Such ideas suited the aims of the
music business, which, with the help of business ideologies, encouraged
these endeavors.

The music produced, however, bore no longer a specific relationship
to jazz, which latter continued to develop along the lines normal to
any product that has become an article of mass consumption, a variable
product excluding neither imagination nor musical talent, but always
remaining a _genre_ and, by reason of its inherent restriction,
never becoming a style. The features which once attracted attention
by now had been absorbed into the contemporary musical vocabulary to
which jazz could make no further contributions. Jazz, on the other
hand, takes the materials of contemporary music, adopts those of
its technical methods it can absorb and transforms them for its
own uses. Infinitely more than even in the case of “serious” music,
the composition and performance of popular music are controlled by
commercial interests representing millions of dollars; in the economy
of music business this fact constitutes a chapter in itself.

The “serious” composers during the thirties were attracted by the
two tendencies which years before had dominated the European musical
scene: the _neoclassic_ tendency, and that which is roughly
summarized as _Gebrauchsmusik_, literally _utility music_.
In Europe, these tendencies were closely allied since one term implies
an aesthetic, the other a practical purpose, and since they have the
impulse toward new simplicity and a new relationship with the public as
a common basis. As a result, _neoclassicism_, aiming at a clear
and accessible profile and derived from more or less self-conscious
evocations of music of the past, efficiently served as an idiomatic
medium appropriate to the purposes of utility music. In the United
States, explicit “returns” to this or that style or composer were few,
and the neoclassic tendency was by no means always connected with a
drive toward better relations with the public. Widely adopted, however,
was a radical _diatonicism_, in the last analysis derived from the
_neoclassic_ phase of Stravinsky and adapted to utilitarian ends
(as in music for film or ballet by Aaron Copland or Virgil Thomson), to
fantastic and parodistic purposes (as in the opera _Four Saints in
Three Acts_ of Virgil Thomson and Gertrude Stein), or to “absolute”
music as in certain sonatas and symphonies of Aaron Copland.

The name Copland is always present when one speaks of the differing
tendencies within the development of the past forty years. A large
share of the various phases through which our music has passed during
these decades is summed up in his work. He not only passed through
them himself, but guided many young composers as friend and mentor.
Notwithstanding his manifold transformations--and it is altogether
possible that there are more to come--he has remained a strong and
well-defined personality, easily recognizable in the differing profiles
his music has assumed.

       *       *       *       *       *

This final section, while of necessity dealing with the author of this
book, will not engage in a polemic against the ideas outlined on the
preceding pages. The bases and motives of these ideas have constituted
part also of this author’s experience, and he has tested them, as the
Germans say, _am eigenen Leib_, and has tried to present them in
such a manner as to demonstrate that they were inevitable phases of
American culture.

But there is more. If we nourish the hope of surmounting the dangerous
crisis through which western culture is presently passing, we must make
clear distinctions, and if we wish to surmount the particular, so to
speak, accessory crisis of American musical maturity, we must not lose
sight of the difference between ideas of an aesthetic or sociological
nature on the one hand, and, on the other, the individual works of art
which supposedly embody them. The valid works and personalities are
infinitely more complex than the ideas which constitute merely one of
many components.

At the same time, ideas influence not only the conscious efforts of
composers, not only the criteria and the judgments of critics, but they
influence, in the United States far more than in Europe, education and
the general tenor of music life. Repeated mention has been made of a
predilection, in the American mode of thought, for abstraction. This
tendency derives from the necessity of building, fast, a foundation
where a strong, complex influence of ancient tradition is lacking.
Other peoples are inclined toward abstraction, too, but in comparison
at least with Europe, here the ascendancy of certain concepts, ideas,
and personalities is, at least on the surface, nearly uncontested.
Equally striking is the finality, at times not as real as it may seem,
with which the same concept, idea or personality can be superseded.

These processes may be observed in many aspects of American life; and
the concern with which they are viewed by those following the currents
of opinion, is well known. However, countercurrents exist, frequently
lost from view even when they are strongest. With the full glare of
publicity concentrated on whatever is momentarily in the ascendance,
countercurrents easily grow in quasi-silence and emerge at the
appointed moment with a strength disconcerting to those not acquainted
with the processes of American life (which often seems to run from one
extreme to the other): therefore it is good to remain aware of the
strength, real or potential, of opposition.

What we term countercurrents to the manifold tendencies heretofore
discussed, may already in part have superseded former attitudes, and
in part may become dominant at the present time. Countercurrents
continually attract a large number of gifted and intelligent young
musicians who regard cultural nationalism with irony, as a formula too
facile to constitute a definitive solution of our musical problems.
They look with irony at the quest for audience appeal, which to them
lacks musical conviction, even though occasionally it may be motivated
by certain social beliefs. They are restive under the older attitudes
aimed at helping the American composer as a matter of principle. They
feel that such aims do not imply necessity, real desire, respect for,
or interest in, the music Americans are writing, and to which they give
all the resources they possess.

This segment of our young people has observed that musical nationalism,
whatever its special orientation, by this time has lost the freshness
of a new approach and has acquired the character of a provincial
manifestation. This segment sees quite clearly that jazz remains a
particular _genre_ admirably suited to its own aims, but in no
sense capable of becoming a style, since style, if it is to be real,
must cover all visible musical possibilities and be responsive to
all vital, musical, and expressive impulses. These young musicians
are wholly able to enjoy jazz and even to become adepts, without
pretensions and illusions. They are conscious, however, of the
manner in which certain composers, who within their memories were
once considered “esoteric,” have achieved almost classic status, are
regularly if not frequently performed, and often harvest great success.
Bártòk, and to some extent Alban Berg, come to their minds, and they
have noticed the manner in which these composers have achieved what
practically no one expected.

The influence of European musicians who found refuge here during the
thirties and the early years of World War II, the most distinguished
as well as the most modest, can scarcely be overestimated. It is
unnecessary to speak of the important role they have played, since
that is well known; looking back at the situation as it presented
itself at the time, one can be impressed both by the cordiality with
which they were nearly always received and by the spirit in which,
with few exceptions, they embraced the entirely new conditions history
had thrust upon them. These facts are in the best American tradition,
as is the immense contribution they have made, partly through their
activities as musicians, partly through the successes achieved through
their understanding of a unique cultural situation.

We are dealing, in other words, with a concept of American music
differing sharply from that heretofore discussed: one which views the
United States basically as a new embodiment of the occidental spirit,
finding in that spirit not only the premises but the basic directives
which have given our national development its authentic character. Such
a view assumes the cultural independence of the United States both as
a fact and as a natural goal; this matter requires no discussion, even
though unfortunately it is still necessary, on occasion, to insist on
it. The same view also recognizes that real independence is an intimate
and inherent quality which is acquired through maturity, and not a
device with which one can emblazon one’s self by adopting slogans or
programs of action. “American character” in music, therefore, is bound
to come only from within, a quality to be discovered in _any_
genuine and mature music written by an American, is a by-product of
such music, to be recognized, no doubt, _after_ the fact, but not
to be sought out beforehand and on the basis of preconceived ideas.
Only when the ideas are no longer preconceived, when, in other words, a
large body of music of all kinds will have brought a secure tradition
into being, then the American musical profile will emerge and the
question of American style or character assume meaning.

In the meantime, it is necessary to maintain an independent attitude
toward “foreign influences” without being afraid of them. Furthermore,
it will be better to remember how traditions, in the history of
culture, invariably have crossed frontiers and served to nourish new
thoughts, the new impulses toward new forms and new styles: just as
Dutch music nourished Italian in the sixteenth century, Italian music
nourished German some hundred and fifty years later. The real task of
the American composer is basically simple: it is that of winning for
himself the means of bringing to life the music to which he listens
within himself. This is identical with the task that has confronted all
composers at all times, and in our age it involves, everywhere and in
like manner, facing in our own way the problems of American music with
single-mindedness and genuine dedication. Naturally, it obligates us to
absorb the music culture not just of this or that country, but to seek
large horizons and to explore indefatigably from a point of vantage.

In order to arrive at an American music, we must, above all, aim
at a genuine music. Similarly, we cannot hope to achieve a valid
relationship with the public by means of shortcuts--neither by
flattering the listener through concessions (however well concealed)
to the taste of the majority, nor by seeking to limit the musical
vocabulary to what is easily understood. Agreed: we live in a
difficult, a transitional and hence a dangerous period, in which
the individual frequently finds himself in an isolated position, in
which society seems to become increasingly uncohesive, more unwieldy,
and therefore prone to seek common ground on the most facile and
oversimplified level. The fact remains that what the public really
wants from music, in the last analysis, is neither the mirrored
image of itself nor fare chosen for easy digestibility, but vital
and relevant experience. The composer can furnish such experience
by writing from the plenitude of complete conviction, and without
constraint. One cannot hope ever to convince anyone unless one has
convinced one’s self; and this is the composer’s sole means of contact
with any public whatever. He has no choice other than to be completely
himself: the only alternative for an artist is not to be one.

This opinion is no offer of an alternative solution to the American
musical problem: it does not exclude musical nationalism or any other
movement of that type; it does not exclude any kind of music whatever.
It establishes premises which allow the free development of any music
composers feel impelled to furnish. Music life today is infinitely
varied, and there are all kinds of music, for every purpose and every
occasion. This variety has developed as a natural consequence of modern
life, and in fact is a part of it. An exclusive, dogmatic concept which
would aim to limit this variety, or which would deny the validity of
this or that type of music, is ridiculous. However, we must insist on
distinctions and on the criteria that go with distinctions. It is not
to the music or the concept of music--folklorist, evocative, popular,
choose an adjective at will--that one should object, but to the
exclusivity of a system of values which pretends to furnish criteria
relevant to the development of music. Certainly the adjectives have
meaning, but in a different sphere.

The “great line of western tradition” provides the most fertile source
of nourishment also for American music. This is now being recognized
almost universally throughout the United States: and the recognition
appears as the premise for our music education, criticism, and, in
fact, for the responsible agencies of our entire music life. Today one
hears very little of musical nationalism. It has been relegated to the
provinces. The eternal quarrel between what is “esoteric” and what
“popular” has evolved into a quite urbane, almost friendly argument
between _diatonicism_ and _chromaticism_, the _tonalists_ and the
_atonalists_, or with overtones resounding from a very recent past,
between _neoclassicism_ and the _twelve-tone_ music. We are probably
in a period of calm before new storms, and such periods are not always
the happiest either for artists or for art. Those sensitive to shifting
currents will have an idea of the nature of the next big argument.

Before giving some hint as to the _possible nature_ of this
argument, as a concluding gesture, it seems relevant to comment on
two more points (unrelated though they are to one another) by no
means unimportant in our general picture. First: though the study of
the classics is all but universal in the United States, and is often
on a level equal to anything found elsewhere, traditionalism in the
European sense simply does not exist here, and we understand why this
is so. In the absence of an indigenous tradition expressing itself in
our criticism, our music education, and our practice of music, there
is no group of composers which would or could identify itself with a
conservative traditionalism, nor is there a means of opposition to new
music on that level. Opposition is abundant, as has been indicated in
the preceding pages; but, generally speaking, it is based on different
grounds, and at most there are remnants of this or that European
tradition: German, Italian French, Viennese, and sometimes even
British. However, the word “tradition” here assumes the most dynamic of
its senses: that which implies _continuity_ rather than that which
fosters domination by the past.

Second--and one may regard this point as controversial: the influence
Arnold Schönberg exerted during his lifetime in the United States, that
is, for nearly twenty years, is most noteworthy. Like many refugees
from Europe, he became a passionately enthusiastic citizen of our
country and here composed some of his most important works, possibly
the most important: the Fourth Quartet, the Violin Concerto, the String
Trio, and others. Though his career as such may not be relevant to our
present discussion, it is appropriate to stress the influence of this
great personality on American music life--an influence which has been
deeper than is generally assumed. It has always been in the direction
of intensified awareness of that “great line” to which reference was
made, and in the sense of that great line. From his pupils in this
country, as from those he had had previously in Europe, he demanded,
first and above all, striving toward such awareness. Though he
discovered the _twelve-tone_ method, he was far greater than this
or any other method, and he tried to inculcate upon his students and
disciples an awareness of the primacy of music itself: thus he refused
to teach the method to his students, insisting that they must come to
it naturally and as a result of their own creative requirements, or not
at all.

The _twelve-tone_ music has flourished here as elsewhere, and
is no longer problematical. This author, often identified with the
_twelve-tone_ or _dodecaphonic_ tendency, recently read an
article, as yet unpublished, on his music in which it was pointed out
that several of his colleagues, Walter Piston, Virgil Thomson, and
Aaron Copland, actually experimented with the method before he himself
used it in any literal sense, and this in spite of the fact that these
colleagues are considered as belonging to a different camp.

The fact is one more proof that the “system” no longer is an issue. The
issue, rather, is one of the resources of a composer, while the system
is available for use by any individual and in any way he sees fit. The
arguments which loom ahead and already have begun to resound in Europe,
are most likely those between composers who commit themselves to the
“system” as conceived by them, the “system” as a value in itself, and
those who regard it as a tool to be used in the forging of music valid
on quite different and perennially vital grounds. The attitude of
Schönberg, and for that matter and in equal measure of his followers
Alban Berg and Anton Webern, is appropriately summarized in a sentence
Schönberg once quoted in a letter to this author, and which is drawn
from one of his early lectures. “A Chinese philosopher,” Schönberg
wrote, “speaks Chinese, of course; but the important thing is: what
does he say?”

Let us conclude with this beautiful word from one of the truly great
figures of our time. With a slight change of emphasis we can take it
as a challenge to American music, and to any music from any source.
American musical maturity, or if one prefers, the drive toward that
cultural maturity, coincides with one of the most formidable crises
through which human imagination has passed, and one which demands
maturity, urgently, from every possible source. We have reason to hope
that we American musicians may learn to meet the challenge implied in
Schönberg’s words, the eternal challenge of art itself, in a worthy
manner which does full justice to the situation.



Transcriber’s Notes

The cover image was created by the transcriber from the title page and
is placed in the public domain.

As all other foreign words were in italics in the original, d’amore
has been italicized for consistency.



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