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?”