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.