I was recently at a reception where I found myself among three other authors who had written admirable, major books on American music. Every one of them said he or she was thinking about putting their next book on the internet, specifically to avoid the peer-review process. I empathized completely. I’m going through it now with my Concord Sonata book, and I’m committed to it one more time, for my Arithmetic of Listening book with U. of Illinois Press, and, because microtonalists are so argumentative, I’m already dreading that ordeal. It’s mission creep: peer review is supposed, one assumes, to prevent the publication of misinformation, to verify that an author knows what he’s talking about, but anonymous readers take the opportunity to tell you how they would have written the book and push you towards conformity with their opinions. “I can’t recommend publishing this book until the author rewrites it to agree with my views!” And it’s insidious: a phalanx of scholars who have decided that a certain reading of the facts is the only legitimate one can prevent a writer who disagrees from being published; enough like-minded book reviewers can succeed, for a time, in stifling dissent. Peer review’s effect is to discourage all would-be writers except for the most sycophantically conformist. I find that just mentioning peer review is often enough to make a colleague’s face wrinkle in disgust.

So far, I have only been a reviewer in the cases of young, inexperienced scholars on their first book. They tend to make typical mistakes. The ambitious young scholar (the male especially) is eager to show off how smart he is, yet paradoxically convinced that his readers have read all the same up-to-date books and articles he has, and so he makes confoundingly elliptical reference to abstruse concepts and obscure writers that haven’t yet entered public currency. That was exactly me, at age 29. And my role as reader has been mostly to say, “You seem to know your business, but I have no idea what you’re talking about, and since I don’t want to read all those other books before I can read yours, will you please unpack your references and provide some context?” I tell them what I can’t understand as a reader, but I would never presume to tell them how to write the book, nor what opinions to express. But then, this isn’t really peer review, because I’m an old, experienced writer looking at a first-timer. And I insist that when scholars who have published less than I have are reviewing my work, that’s not really peer review either, but the less experienced taking potshots at the more experienced. I think by the time you’re on your fifth or sixth book and still in good academic standing, publishers should pay you the compliment of skipping the process.

I really shouldn’t complain about the readers’ reviews for my Concord Sonata book, because they were broadly complimentary and willing to attest that the path I had taken was both sound and original, and for once they didn’t even cavil about my colloquial writing style. (Perhaps my blog harangues are having some effect.) But their stern admonition du jour is that my writing shows “insufficient engagement with work in the field.” I’ve been studying the Concord since 1969, and 99 percent of what I have to say about it I learned on my own, but apparently if I mention a chord on page 17, and another author mentioned the same chord in a book written in 1994, I’m expected to preface my remark with, “As Professor X has aptly pointed out….” – lest the reader think I am arrogant enough to speak on my own authority, or – saints preserve us! – that I must not have read Professor X’s book!

Let me say at once that I quote many, many Ives scholars in the book, to an extent that guiltily felt, to me, like I would be perceived as going overboard to flatter my colleagues. I usually write books about topics that hardly anyone else has written about, but I knew what would be expected of me in this well-traveled terrain and gamely tried to comply. And yet, apparently, I should have done ten times more in this regard. I was directed toward an exemplary journal article, which I read, and saw what my reader meant: every paragraph contained quotations from other writers, strings of such quotations in series, a veritable quodlibet of borrowed scholarship, written in the apparent conviction that the juxtaposition of these familiar gems from the Ivesian literature would add up to some new and revealing picture. But since I had already read every book and article quoted, the essay gave me no new information, just the ersatz glow of a trip down memory lane. What would conceivably compel a scholar to collect so many sentences from other writers to bundle up in new packages? Outside of an upcoming tenure review, I can’t imagine. Can’t a person stand up in public and speak his or her own mind? I’m curious to know what the writer thinks.

A quotation is an ornament to a piece of writing when the quoted phrase is so striking and memorable that the author couldn’t have come up with anything as evocative himself. But if I can state an idea clearly (and little academic writing is as readable as mine), why would it carry more authority if put into a sentence I stole from another writer? If what I say is false, and its falsity has been demonstrated in a previous publication, then I should be told to do my homework. But if what I say is demonstrably true, what does it matter whether someone else has said it before? We are not medieval monks, that we fear to record the fact in front of us unless we can find a citation for it in Aristotle.

The hard truth, which perhaps they suspect, is that I sometimes ignore a book or article because I find it wrongheaded and uninsightful. (Perhaps the reviewer even wrote one of those books.) I have no reason to create new enemies by criticizing the argument of some journal article that my reader may not have read. If my argument diverges from Professor X’s, the reader can judge which is more convincing without my trying to downgrade Professor X. Part of my reason for writing the book, as I detail in the preface and footnotes but try not to bore the reader with, was my strong dissatisfaction with tendencies in recent Ives scholarship, and it was my gentlemanly strategy to set a superior example rather than engage others in intellectual combat; I was a critic for decades, and I’m tired of arguing. Books I read and disagreed with are listed in the bibliography along with the rest. If you decide to assume that because I didn’t refer to one I must not have read it, so what? And then, I don’t always disagree with everything I don’t quote. Occasionally I will say to myself, “Well, that’s a clever insight, but I didn’t come up with it, and there’s no need for me to partly obviate the reason for reading her book by reprinting its best idea elsewhere.” Sometimes an author is right, but his sentences are too clogged with jargon to be of use to me. I’m really good at analyzing music, and I read hardly anything analytical about the Concord that I hadn’t already figured out myself: if I had the insight independently, why quote someone else?

Is it not obvious how vanity-driven all this is? A friend of mine in the philosophy department says that to get published young philosophers have to quote articles by the editors of the journal they’re trying to get into; this is not intellectual discourse, but a petty brand of payola. Is the scholar’s life really so meager of reward that we have to ostracize the writer who fails to scatter enough crumbs of citation for his fellows on every page? Do we let external readers blackmail authors into mentioning their books? I will confess, when I see a new book on American music, to sometimes looking first in the index to see how often I’m cited, but I don’t think we should warp the discourse by catering to this; the absence of my name stings for a second, and then I forget about it. About a year ago I read an article that quoted me so many times that I felt rather more plagiarized than flattered, and wondered why the author couldn’t have come up with his own ideas. A wise and mature person will not take offense every time a subject he’s written about is written about again without paying him obeisance.

I did not write a book to flatter my colleagues, but to give a truer picture of the Concord Sonata than has been given before. I am already ashamed of the extent to which I went obsequiously fishing for quotations beyond the ones that leapt to mind as felicitous. Like Thoreau, I’m always regretting my good behavior. If we’re stuck with the peer-review process, as we seem to be for now, we could all contribute to making it a cleaner, more honest experience. It should not be an opportunity for getting ego strokes at the author’s expense and settling professional grievances. The author of five books does not need to be told how to write a sixth. Is the logic clear? Are the statements arguably true? All else is vanity.

From Bernard Shaw’s January 25, 1893, review of Dame Ethel Smyth’s Mass in D:

Whenever I hear the dictum, “Women cannot compose,” uttered by some male musician whose whole endowment, intellectual and artistic, might be generously estimated as equivalent to that of the little finger of Miss Braddon or Miss Broughton, I always chuckle and say to myself, “Wait a bit, my lad, until they find out how much easier it is than literature, and how little the public shares your objection to hidden consecutives, descending leading notes, ascending sevenths, false relations, and all the other items in your index ex-purgatorius!”

…Since women have succeeded conspicuously in Victor Hugo’s profession, I cannot see why they should not succeed equally in Liszt’s if they turned their attention to it.

Shaw’s review of Smyth’s noble and impressive if conservative mass was somewhat condescending, though he preferred it to the choral music of Dvorak and Brahms, with a suggestion that that was faint praise. Upon convalescence from minor surgery, I’m contemplating a course on woman composers. I don’t even dare make a public repertoire list for fear of controversies.

From one of the anonymous readers’ reviews of my Concord Sonata book:

There was a time when scholars would have dismissed an informal, personal tone for a work of scholarship, but I believe that those days are gone. Frankly, Gann has earned some license to write in whatever style he prefers. And even when the prose is technical and dense, it is a model of clarity.

It is ludicrous how difficult it has been to advance in academic circles the principle that clear, unpretentious, readable prose, even in the discussion of technical topics, is a feature, not a bug.

The news is so disgusting these days I try not to follow it. But I have followed the Michael Brown case in Ferguson, MO, closely. Because we are all Michael Brown.

UPDATE: Look, before anyone else writes in, I did not mean to say that we are all literally Michael Brown. I, for instance, am Kyle Gann. But in 2004, some of my students peacefully protested the election and were physically harassed by the cops, one girl pushed to the ground and injured for having “stepped over the white line in the street.” Some local cops pulled a gay gentleman out of a public meeting, a business leader of the community, and beat up on him just because he was gay. I myself have been treated with unwarranted rudeness by local police, all of whom are Republican and at least some of whom hate Bard as a liberal bastion. You don’t have to be black to get mistreated by the police, though it certainly helps. My students were deeply affected by the verdict, and left class early today to attend a vigil on campus, with my blessing. So I am going to express my solidarity with the victim, and, because I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks of my doing so, close comments.

 

Composer Andrew Violette came to Bard to give a composer’s forum last week. I’d followed his music via CDs for years and we’d corresponded, but I’d never met him. He’s known for some really long, intense pieces, such as his three-hour-long Seventh Piano Sonata, which I wrote about years ago. He looks less tough in person than he does in his photos, and he spent several years as a Benedictine monk. He wanted to play something live, and since he hadn’t written anything for piano since that 2001 sonata, he chose to play half of a book of chorale harmonizations he’d written decades ago, 1982-3. And they were quite amazing, partly because he played them with such grace and energy. He puts his recordings on YouTube, and you can hear his Harmonizations here, here, here, here, and here. He harmonized hymns for the entire liturgical year using atonal modes – Messiaen’s “modes of limited transposition,” and all subsets of the octatonic, made up of triads with roots a tritone apart. I knew almost all of the hymns and chorale melodies, and it was kind of wonderful hearing the familiar tunes relegated to such exotic contexts. I had an advantage in this respect over my students, who seemed to enjoy the Christmas tunes most because they recognized those.

Andrew then played an excerpt from his two-hour, six-voice, a capella Mass, an absolutely stunning work of Gesualdo-like chromaticism, continuously vibrant throughout its marathon length. Astonishing that he got six singers to sing so difficult and demanding a work so beautifully. He puts all his scores up for free at ismlp.org, too, so I’ve been on a downloading frenzy since he left. He’s a total original, what some would call an eccentric, a dropout from the new-music world (trained at Juilliard, refuses to teach), and someone who, as he puts it, is driven to write long works from the need to create an entire world with each piece. [UPDATE:] In addition, talking afterward Andrew and I discovered that we share some enthusiasms for insufficiently recognized composers in common, including M.C. Maguire and Monroe Golden – and also a conviction that there is no correlation between those composers who are most celebrated and those who make the best music.

I wrote a symphony. It came to pass in this wise. I visited my friend Robert Carl at Yaddo. He was telling me his plans for his next two symphonies, one of which would be an orchestration of a two-piano piece he had written. I replied that I had a two-piano piece myself, in five movements (Implausible Sketches) that I think of as an unorchestrated symphony. He said I should arrange it for orchestra. I replied, Nah, I wouldn’t do that. The next morning I woke up obsessed with the certainty that I needed to make an orchestral version of Implausible Sketches. Of course, all the movements needed to be expanded as well as orchestrated, so the Symphony is forty minutes long, as compared to the two-piano piece’s thirty-one. Because of the source and because no performance is remotely anticipated (I haven’t been able to get Implausible Sketches played either, despite several piano duos looking at it), I call it the “Implausible” Symphony. I’m thinking of following it up with Symphony No. 2, the “Irredeemable,” and Symphony No. 3, the “Unforgivable.”

And that’s not all, for I’ve unaccountably been spending every spare minute composing. Alex Ross has called blogging “public procrastination,” and I haven’t been blogging because I haven’t been procrastinating. In the past two months I’ve written a 23-minute song cycle – unusual for me to complete so much music during the semester, especially when as division chair I am overwhelmed with administrative meetings lately. But I had always, for thirty years, wanted to set a group of Transcendentalist poems to music. I had written a few small ones, only two of which I’ve kept, but singers are so hyper-cautious about taking on new repertoire that I never felt encouraged to expand my song output. Some of them I had written enough of in my head to go around humming vocal lines from them all these years. After I finished my Ives book (which is now stewing over at Yale UP, no news yet), I felt an urge to linger in a Transcendentalist mode, so I got out Perry Miller’s anthology and plunged into a project I’d carried around in my head for decades. I came up with seven new songs, on poems by Emerson, Thoreau, Margaret Fuller, Frederick Henry Hedge, Christopher Pearse Cranch (two songs), and Jones Very; Emerson and Thoreau are not the most settable poets, and the poems that had always been most urgent to me were philosophical ones emblematic of Transcendentalist thought, Cranch’s “Enosis” and Hedge’s “Questionings.” Hedge was central to the Transcendentalist Club formed in 1836, and his poem is a statement of the epistemological problem of solipsism:

Hath this world, without me wrought,
Other substance than my thought?
Lives it by my sense alone,
Or by essence of its own?
Will its life, with mine begun,
Cease to be when that is done,
Or another consciousness
With the self-same forms impress?

Doth yon fireball, poised in air,
Hang by my permission there?
Are the clouds that wander by
But the offspring of mine eye,
Born with every glance I cast,
Perishing when that is past?
And those thousand, thousand eyes,
Scattered through the twinkling skies,
Do they draw their life from mine,
Or of their own beauty shine?….

So it’s rather the philosophical song cycle I’ve always wanted, to complement the raft of philosophy courses I took at Oberlin and Northwestern. The other poems can be read here, and the score of Transcendentalist Songs is available on my web site. My songs may seem puzzling to new-music fans, because I write them imagining how the poem itself would want to be sung, and if it’s a 19th-century poem, it’s likely to come out in a 19th-century harmonic syntax; the whole song cycle may seem an effort more scholarly than creative. I don’t care. What interested me in this case was to translate the intellectual atmosphere of Transcendentalism into a musical atmosphere congruent with it, and since the American musical idiom of that era lagged behind the poetry and philosophy, I had to retrofit a kind of appropriately mystical, American-sounding impressionism. As with the symphony, I have no performances in sight, but Bard has so expanded its vocal program in recent years that I’m hoping someone there can be persuaded to take an interest.

Thursday, invited by composer Michael Hersch, to whom I am grateful for it, I gave a lecture on my music at Peabody Conservatory, and I give another this Wednesday at Hartt School of Music. I hadn’t done such a thing in two or three years, and my composing has become such a private, impulsive, unmotivated activity that I hardly know how to talk about it anymore. Plus, I’m creating a backlog of unperformed and unrecorded pieces, so to play examples I have to go back a ways and try to remember what I was thinking seven, eight years ago. But I feel like what I have to explain lately is how I got to where I am, because the composers who were my major reference points are ones students no longer hear about. The young composers seem totally attuned to Europeans these days – Haas, Dillon, Ades, Lindburg – and the ones at Peabody were accustomed, as guest lecturers, to orchestral regulars like John Adams, John Corigliano, Jennifer Higdon, and Christopher Rouse. So here I come out of left field, with my microtones and Disklaviers, and while the students were welcoming and curious, their questions expressed a skepticism understandable in context. I have to explain myself as an alien visitor from that mythical Brigadoon called the American Experimental Tradition. On the other hand: now I’m a symphonist. That ought to count for something.

This is late notice, but my son is supposedly on television tonight. His black metal band Liturgy is being used in the plot of the cop show The Blacklist, the episode featuring Peter Fonda as guest star. Fonda supposedly appears as a drummer in the band. No idea yet whether they’ll be on for 10 seconds or three minutes, but they filmed. I don’t have TV reception, so somebody please know what happened if you watch it. Thanks.

[UPDATE:] Well, somebody noticed, anyway.

One of my students decided not to apply to a certain grad school because it had too many white men with dreadlocks in one department. I agreed that that was probably indicative of a certain aesthetic narrowness.

 

I am in receipt of James Klosty’s handsome new coffee-table volume John Cage Was, a book of photographs of John Cage, many of them rare and unseen before, all of them telling. For the margins Klosty asked a lot of people connected with Cage to write descriptions of him of a hundred words or less, using the words “John Cage was….” For those who are unlikely to shell out for the book, here’s what I wrote:

John Cage was the figure who, for thousands of musicians, opened the door to the world beyond rationality. By introducing us to the I Ching, and showing us how to use it both artistically and practically, he made it seem safe and creative and irresistible to explore not only Eastern thought and Buddhism, but astrology, Tarot, Jungian theory, and any discipline based in an ineffable synchronicity. He freed us to not understand what we were doing, and making art has been more interesting ever since.

In college I did indeed spend years consulting the I Ching, though I found it rather opaque, and never settled into it well; it seemed to be forever telling me that “it furthers one to cross the great water.” In retrospect, I guess it was directing me to expatriate to Europe posthaste, and I wish I’d complied. Tarot cards (which Cage used in composing 4’33”, though no one knows how) I found attractive, and still do, but wasn’t intuitive enough to interpret them with any subtlety. Astrology was the synchronicity system that clicked with my mathematical brain. I once consulted with Cage’s astrologer, Julie Winter, and many of the books I read on astrology early on were by another composer whose music I am devoted to, Dane Rudhyar. The new-agey/occult side of Cage’s influence gets whitewashed from his public persona, but for some of us it was explicit.

 

The faculty is once again rethinking the distribution requirements, the obstacle course of varied classes every student has to take to make sure they all have a more well-rounded education than I do. So we’re having meetings about how to pitch courses to non-majors. I enjoy these. My colleagues in literature, the sciences, and the social sciences are so brilliant, so eloquent and thoughtful, that I’ve come to realize that I’m not all that smart – I’m just really smart for a musician. Today they asked what one thing I would want a non-music-major to get out of one of my classes. As so often happens, my mouth started rattling before my brain was even engaged, and what it said was good enough: “I want every student to realize that it is possible to fall completely in love with a piece of music that he or she didn’t like at all the first time they heard it.”

Because this is what I’m having a lot of trouble with. The closed-mindedness of some of my students seems like the worst thing about my life these days, and if that’s the biggest tragedy I’ve got to deal with, I guess I’ll survive. I’m talking about my composition students. I am prepared for our opera singers to turn up their noses at Stockhausen and Nancarrow, but these are young composers refusing to give modern masterworks a third hearing (actually, one of my singers is bugging me for the most dissonant Ives songs I can give her). I’ll play the Concord Sonata, or Bartok’s Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion, for a student, a music major, and they respond, “No no, I don’t like that, and I’m sure I never will.” Or I’ll play some astounding microtonal music, and they’ll say, “Oh, that just sounds out of tune, no one’s ever going to accept that.” No curiosity whatever, no openness, no wonder. Worse: it’s like, if they spend three hours listening to a 20- or 40-minute piece a few times, that’ll be three spoiled, precious hours of their life they’ll never get back. Or, maybe, if they learn to enjoy some peculiar-sounding piece, it will split them off from their peers, to whom they would have trouble relating the experience. I don’t get it. No one has ever called me un-opinionated, but when I was 18, I was going to be damned before I would admit that there was a piece of modern music in existence that I couldn’t understand. I’d listen to the same record a dozen times in a row until the piece started to make sense to me. I wasn’t committed to liking everything I heard, but I was going to understand every single piece well enough to understand why somebody liked it, even if I didn’t, and I was going to be able to articulate why, of all the complex and opaque pieces ever written, I’d decided I didn’t like this one. I withheld judgments for years, decades, until I felt I had done sufficient analysis to come to an opinion. After 20 years of full-time teaching, I’m still waiting to come across a student as totally committed to understanding the entire classical repertoire as I was at 18. Haven’t found one.

Part of the problem is that “the canon” carries no weight anymore (and little enough with me). Students come to school already knowing everything worth knowing, or so they think, having heard the first minute of thousands of mp3s, and with a calcified, corporate-determined idea of what is musically acceptable. With so many alternative histories of music available, why should mine be privileged? I like Giacinto Scelsi, but they like some hiphop artist I’ve never heard, so we’re even, right? But I’m the 59-year-old professor, and I can look back at the opinions I firmly held at age 20 with embarrassment and condescension. It alienates me from them. When they refuse to consider, despite detailed argument, that there may be incredible qualities in modern works that they haven’t understood yet, attempting to teach them becomes a tedious bore. What the hell are they in college for? Why am I baby-sitting people who aren’t impressed with my experience and opinion? Is this a generational thing? a product of iPod and internet culture? Why would smart, likable, upscale students be so determined that no one’s going to educate them?

And while I’m at it, get off my lawn.

 

“[Composer Rinaldo Di Capua] thinks composers have nothing to do now but to write themselves and others over again, and the only chance they have for obtaining the reputation of novelty or invention must arise either from the ignorance or want of memory in the public – as everything both in melody and modulation that is worth doing has already been done over and over again.”

– Charles Burney, Music, Men, and Manners in France and Italy, 1770

It’s every bit as true now as it was then.

 

I am told that my copy of the French translation of No Such Thing as Silence – titled No Silence: 4’33” de John Cage (Allia Editions) – is in the mail.

UPDATE: The French edition, which has arrived, is very classy, and is decorated with hundreds of photos of Cage, Tudor, Rauschenberg, Coomaraswamy, and others that weren’t in the more austere American edition. Perhaps I should just publish my Ives book in French, they seem to have the money.

 

It’s almost official: my next book will be The Arithmetic of Listening: Tuning Theory and History for the Impractical Musician. I had given up trying to interest publishers in microtonality, but it seems to finally be an idea who’s time has come. This will be basically a textbook, though in my characteristic style which the New York Times has designated as “chatty.” There are worse words, I guess.

And yet I’m not in any hurry to sign the contract. I haven’t yet turned in my Concord Sonata book, which has been finished for weeks, because the publisher says I went way over my limit on musical examples (by about 30 percent). I had predicted how many examples I’d need, and wish now I’d cited a higher number – and that editor is gone anyway, as the original editor always is by the time one finishes a book. This Ives book is, I think, the greatest achievement of my life, and now I’m painfully poring through it trying to amalgamate and eliminate musical examples without making it harder to read. For my Robert Ashley book, of course, I had to put the musical examples on my web site, which I knew in advance was required. And now this new editor is suggesting that some of my microtonal charts and diagrams may have to go on the internet as well. Such a theoretical book will be rendered useless if the correlative web site is ever discontinued.

It used to be that a writer wrote a book, and the publisher published it. Then a writer wrote a book and the publisher made the writer pay for his indexing, and next the writer had to pay the fact-checker if he wanted one, and then the writer had to pay permissions for every quotation over 300 words, and there were some things you couldn’t say at all because you couldn’t get permission. And now the writer can’t use the illustrations needed to make the book readable. One might hope that, by age 58, with my sixth book going to press, I would have earned the right to say whatever I needed to say and no longer have to compromise, but in the current, increasingly corporate climate compromises are thrown at one from right and left. And it’s not like I’m going to make any money from any of these books. It has reached the point at which the completion of a book manuscript is just the beginning of the author’s tedious paperwork and heartbreak, and I really don’t know whether it will prove worthwhile to write another one. I’ve always threatened to internet-publish The Arithmetic of Listening, and I’d rather do that and give it to the world for free than put it out in a compromised state. If part of the book has to be on the internet, why refrain from putting the whole thing?

Several years ago I turned my energies to writing books because the new-music performance world was so unsatisfying, and now obsessions with copyright and cutting corners have made book-publishing equally unpalatable. I really can’t think what to do with the rest of my life that wouldn’t prove dispiriting in this corporate-poisoned world.