Happy Birthday Elliott! Again. Ugh.

Another smattering of birthday celebrations; a few newly inked scores; and yet another chance for our critic brethren to reflect upon the miraculous music and career of one of the world’s most vital centenarian composers.

New Yorker Elliott Carter’s 102nd birthday a perfect excuse to venture into his complex world
John Teruads
Toronto Star, A Sound Mind, Classical Music Blog

…with a title that says, “Eh, well, he’s 102; that’s something, at least.”

As the title may suggest, this little puff piece, doesn’t…what’s the word? Puff.

New Music Concerts was not able to get Elliott Carter to Toronto for tonight's celebration of his 102nd birthday at the Isabel Bader Theatre (the actual birthday is tomorrow).

Downer. “Now that’s a concert I want to go to!”

It's not just by virtue of longevity that Carter has become known as a connoisseur's composer.

For those who may be new to the DR, “connoisseur’s composer” means no audience, often for a reason. And what that has to do with longevity, which is a virtue according to our author, I have no clue.

Long ago,

In a galaxy quite removed from today’s schmaltzy nostalgia for tonality…

Long ago, when the art music world was in the thrall of atonal composition, Carter (like his French counterpart, Olivier Messiaen) developed his very own musical grammar.

And all by himself!

Figure 1: Who’s a big boy? Who’s a big boy? You are!

I'm oversimplifying…

No shit. Maybe you should mention that these guys were also atonalists.

…but his music starts with a layering of diverse rhythms.

First of all, “diverse rhythms.” Are you saying that he used both eighth notes and sixteenth notes? Or that the rhythms are more complex than that? Didn’t he exploit metric modulation with some notoriety in the 40s?

Second, I learned metric modulation in third grade. So…

For his sound palette, Carter assembled a catalogue of (unusual) chords…

…based on intervallic content, as in atonal set-theory, which is perfectly adaptable to serialization, which he did.

…Carter assembled a catalogue of (unusual) chords, not a set of tone rows, as his serialist peers would usw [sic].

Serialism is dead, therefore, Elliott Carter is not a serialist, right?

The results are no easier to grasp at first hearing.

His own musical grammar + diverse rhythms + unusual chords = the results. Fucking spot on, John!

Like a lot of expressionist visual art, Carter's music rewards multiple visits and analytical listening.

Okay, I am about to link to Wikipedia, which is something I usually hesitate to do, because…

Well, it’s like this: while there are some awesome-smart people in this world, if I were ever to be charged with, say, murder, I would do everything in my abilities to avoid a trial and, thus, avoid being judged by my peers. Got it?

In this case, however, I’m going to link to the Wikipedia article on Expressionism, because it took me nearly three seconds to find it, which only shows how little research it took to find something to the contrary (it’s also cited):

[Expressionism’s] typical trait is to present the world in an utterly subjective perspective, radically distorting it for emotional effect, to evoke moods or ideas.

Ahem. Either John doesn’t know what expressionism is about or Elliott is getting it wrong. I’ll leave it to you, dear reader, to judge for yourself.

Hold on a minute! This is a concert puff piece, right? So why should I go, again?

The Isabel Bader Theatre is normally a horrible place to hear classical music because of its dry-as-dust acoustics.

But, for Carter’s music…?

Figure 2 (courtesy of Opera Chic): Happy Birthday Mr. Carter!

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Slowly, Finally, Coming to Grips with Modernism?

Who's up for some well-intentioned propagation of the Myth of the Awful Modernist Music? I know I am!

As programming approaches go, the one that James Levine ventured in a concert by the Met Chamber Ensemble at Zankel Hall on Sunday evening was a doozy.

It''s artful the way the structure of the sentence seems to reflect the purported programming approach.

So what was so, uh, zany about this program? Or, rather, the Maestro's approach to the program?

Oh, sorry. The title of the article was:

Part 1: A Dose of Knotty Modernism. Part 2: Quaint Nostalgia.

(Steve Smith, New York Times, 1/11/2010)

Ah! Knotty, then quaint. Say, that is a doozy!

The first half of the program offered vocal works by Milton Babbitt and Elliott Carter, formidable modernists for whom Mr. Levine has shown a durable affinity;

Ha ha! His affinity is "durable" because, I mean, who really likes that knotty, formidable modernist crap anyway?

the second, Richard Strauss’s “Bürger als Edelmann” Suite, quaint, nostalgic music written for a staging of Molière’s play “Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme.”

Now that's more like it. Nostalgia is outstanding. Things were better back when things were awesome.

Finding offers for midconcert ticket handoffs on Craigslist would have been no surprise.

I know, right? Sheesh, people were probably giving their tickets away for free. I mean, what's wrong with Mozart? Could we please get some Beethoven up in this bitch?

It was surely a sign of faith in Mr. Levine’s judgment, and in the talents of his collaborators onstage, that a sizable audience assembled for Sunday’s quirky concert and seemed to appreciate it throughout.

Because there's no fucking way that 599 people in all of New York City would possibly want to hear Elliott Carter and Milton Babbitt's music. Even, presumably, if you bribe them with nostalgia after the intermission, .00723% of New Yorkers would not go downtown for that shit.

They must, therefore, "surely" really, really trust James Levine.

Figure 1: The Face of Trustworthiness, even vis-a-vis Modernsim.

If there was a unifying element to be found, perhaps it was in how far each composer had bent to accommodate the particular demands of a text.

The doozy of the (perceived) programming approach was that its unifying element (if there indeed was one) was the degree to which each composer accommodated the text?

Okay. That kind of is a, uh...doozy.

In “The Head of the Bed,” Mr. Babbitt’s 1981 setting of a 1974 poem by John Hollander, the answer was, evidently, not much.

Ah. Oh, Milton. You're no fun, and you never let the text have any fun, either.

Figure 2: Fun!

Mr. Hollander’s text, parceled out in 15 stanzas of 15 lines apiece, offers a haunting barrage of vivid impressions dealing with sleep and dreaming.

15 X 15 sounds like extra serial goodness. So in what way did Uncle Milton not accommodate the text?

Mr. Babbitt varied the instrumental combinations to indicate the poem’s formal boundaries;

Man, delineating the formal structure of the text with instrumentation is totally unfair to the text. That's the text's form, man! Get your own damn form!

...vocal lines wrinkled and leapt over a constant rustle that could be interpreted as unconscious fitfulness.

That sounds pretty good. What's the catch? What was his big non-text-accommodating faux pas?

Still,

Oh, here we go...

...it would be hard to imagine this poem set more convincingly by any conventional method.

Still...what? That sounds...good. What the hell? Where was the...

And the soprano Judith Bettina, a seasoned, persuasive interpreter of Mr. Babbitt’s music, was dazzling in her lucidity and commitment.

That sounds great!

I'm confused.

Not for nothing, but without all of the appeals to the "nobody likes/wants to hear this music" meme in the opening paragraphs, this comes off as really positive.

Instead, though, after being warned that the music is knotty and formidable, taken quasi-medicinally in "doses", and remarking that it's surprising that anyone at all came to hear it instead of giving their goddamn tickets away on Craigslist, the ultimately positive review is rather tepid.

Look: I'm not saying the music's not sometimes hard, but rather that those descriptors have a loaded, negative connotation which ultimately dissuade the prospective listener from giving it a serious hearing.

[deep breaths]

So, where were we? Carter?

But where Mr. Babbitt’s work resounded for its formal accomplishment, Mr. Carter’s “Syringa,” a 1978 setting of ancient Greek texts and a modern poem by John Ashbery, rang out as an instantly perceptible masterwork.

Figure 3: Elliott Carter (l) with Frederic Rzewski in Berlin, 1964. (He was 55!)

Interesting. A Carter masterwork, eh? High praise for thorny modernism!

Through long acquaintance, Mr. Carter’s complex webbings of simultaneous sensations have become not only approachable but also familiar.

Who knew that if one became familiar with a style or musical language it'd be easier to understand?

More and more, he has come to seem like a prescient sage of a multitasking era:

Ooh, careful. That almost sounds postmodern.

...so much the better for a listener to respond as Evan Hughes, a bass-baritone, barked lines of myth in Greek, while Kristin Hoff, a mezzo soprano, patiently intoned Mr. Ashbery’s parenthetical observations in English. Mr. Carter’s music sounded responsive to the words, even voluptuous at times. The guitarist Oren Fader, the work’s third featured performer, played brilliantly.

Outstanding. This isn't the same performance, but here's a clip:

Embeddence 1: Carter, "Syringa" (part 1 of 2)

Had Mr. Levine not been sidelined by spinal surgery for several months, he might now be conducting Strauss’s luscious “Rosenkavalier” at the Metropolitan Opera.

He...might be?

The same mix of flamboyant technique and wistful nostalgia found in that opera saturates the zingy Neo-Classical “Bürger als Edelmann” music to slighter effect, and Mr. Levine and his players — especially David Chan, the principal violinist — had an easygoing loll in it.

That sounds dreadful, but maybe I'm just not in the mood for "flamboyant technique and wistful nostalgia".

Figure 4: Oh, no thanks. I had too much casual Orientalism over the holidays, I'm trying to cut down.

Yeah, no. I'll take a dose of Thorny Modernism for a thousand, Alex.

Figure 5: Trebek, cannily presaging Levine's hair-thing (see Figure 1).

Titles Are Meaningless

As titles go, some are pretty disconnected from the gist of the text, and since they aren’t always chosen by the author, it’s a double-edged sword, a "chicken or the egg?" question: who’s to blame? The author or the editor?

Take this gem from The Barre-Montpillier Times Argus:

Is new music cutting edge anymore?

Thinking to myself: Hmmm. That’s good question. Isn’t it? I suppose I have my opinion, but I’ll reserve that until I read the rest of the article. I’m reasonable, right? Right.

To all the Detritusites: Given the title, it would seem to follow that we’re about to read a piece about how new music is, or is not, pushing the boundaries. Are you on the same page with me?

Good. Let’s go.

It's been a long time since Vermont audiences have had to be conned into listening to contemporary music, particularly music from their own state.

Uh, two things. One, define “a long time,” please. Seems to me I remember a concert on November 15th, featuring Elliott Cater and Olivier Messiaen, another the 14th before that, and two more October 18th and 17th before that. And those just by the ensemble about whom this article was written.

Moreover, “conned?” If the title is any indicator, then it sounds like our author hasn’t been conned for a long while, the last time only because they featured a raffle for a brand new Sega Genesis.

But it was the Vermont Contemporary Music Ensemble, a group of central Vermont professional musicians, that broke the ice – beginning its crusade to bring today's music to today's audiences more than 20 years ago.

Huh. So really our author means, “Back in 1989, it had been a long time since Vermont audiences were conned.”

Or the title’s “cutting edge” refers to breaking the ice, somehow. I don’t know.

But what I do know is that the rest of the article is a neutral sort of puff piece, kindly describing the new pieces on the upcoming program, putting the performers under the spotlight, etc., etc.

So what gives? Is new music cutting edge? Hello? Did the editor actually read the piece? Or did the author decide to inject his opinion in the title and proceed to write some rather pleasant puffery?

Titles are meaningless.

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One more “chicken or the egg?” gaffe:

Unlike the recent [Vermont Symphony Orchestra] program titled "Romance," there's no theme here.

But earlier:

Next weekend, the VCME will present "Enchanted," [...].
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In Defense of Anne

We make it a point to check in on Anne Midgette of the Washington Times [Edit: Er, post] every so often, as we do all our friends in the critics’ circle, just to see how she’s getting along. Maybe we’ll find something to poke fun at, but, more often than not, we won’t. She’s a strong writer who covers a ton of concerts and recordings each week. It’s a tough job.

That is why I think this deserves some attention. It’s a published response to one of her reviews in the Opinions/Feedback section.

Her writing was woefully poor, both in its structure and the specifics of her observations.

Since we don’t make it a priority to comment on comments, I’m a bit apprehensive about this endeavor. But, in the past year, we’ve seen many far, far worse tidbits of poor writing. That’s why I think Anne deserves some Detritus Credit (new low introductory rates, for qualified customers only). Here’s what the opinion writer finds troublesome:

This passage in particular represents how turgid and incomprehensible I often find her:

"Much of [Elliott Carter’s] work, to me, is like the product of an elaborate, state-of-the-art camera used to take black-and-white greeting-card images of urban environments: The technology can outweigh the impact of what's actually being conveyed."

Okay, the simile might be a tad convoluted, but I see Anne’s point. And while I disagree with her sentiment, I’m also familiar with a hoard of other writers who wouldn’t be so tactful, or so aware of their falibility.

What’s more, and more importantly, Anne prefaced her opinion of Carter’s music with the all-exclusive pronoun, “me.” It’s her opinion, no one else’s; the reader is free to disagree. Therefore, it’s “silly” to take it as something else other than an honest, indisputable opinion.

Getting through that sentence was a slog, and what I understood struck me as silly.

Well, it’s silly to be hypersensitive about a colorful simile hedged by “me,” too. (I’d have no problems ripping this a new one if she had said, “Carter’s music is an elaborate...”; stated as fact, that would have sent me Segwaying to a gun show in San Antonio.) The point is subtle, I suppose.















Fig. 1. Bloggers Segwaying

When she said of Carter's music that its "hallmark is a complexity too intricate to be apprehended by the ear," she could have been describing the limits of her own ear.

I do not have, by any means, an infallible ear, but it’s pretty decent. And I’ll tell ya something, Joe Opinion Holder, I can’t hear half the “technical” stuff going on in his music, especially without a score of some form of a priori information. Most can’t (I’ve only met one person who could, and that’s freakishly rare.). So, for most (by most, I mean 99.9999% of people), this is a truism. Are you implying that you possess a set of special, one-in-a-million ears? I think not, Joe.

While I applaud your defense of Carter’s music, Joe O. Holder, your critique of Anne is well off-base.

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Also, what’s with the opinion Editors over at the Post? Remember this?
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Anti-Anti-Modernism

Ah, New York City, where you can go to contemporary music concerts on…barges?

Floating, Personalizing, and Performing

Everyone knows about the three B’s of classical music: Bach, Beethoven and Brahms.

Here is a list of classical composers whose last names start with “B”. But that’s not the point. Chiding a well-known pithy truism is the point, Well, actually, that’s not the point either.

The pianist David Holzman, speaking from the Bargemusic stage before his recital on Friday night, introduced a new wrinkle with three A’s: austere, abstract and academic.

Oh, here we go again with the modernist-hating again. Wait, I thought Mr. Holzman was a specialist in the contemporary piano repertory?

Mr. Holzman, a specialist in the contemporary piano repertory and a congenial commentator, brought up those qualities to debunk them.

Ah, pity poor Sator Arepo; his straw man has been set up and knocked down before he could even get there. Well played, Steve Smith of the New York Times.

True, his program was chock full of challenging works by some of the 20th century’s more formidable musical thinkers, including Roger Sessions, Ralph Shapey, Stefan Wolpe and the now ubiquitous Elliott Carter. But Mr. Holzman’s intent was to humanize these figures and to provide an entry point for comprehending their music.

Awesome. Slightly subjective, perhaps, but awesome.

The first half of the program was largely devoted to works by Sessions and Shapey, whose music is also paired on the Holzman CD issued in December by Bridge. He spoke of Sessions’s patrician upbringing and personal melancholy and of Shapey’s rebellious contempt for polite society.

Ah, Shapey, the consummate curmudgeon. And..?

The music supported his comments. Sessions’s lean, muscular Piano Sonata No. 1, a Neo-Classical work from 1930, was tonal and even jazzy at times. But its melodies were usually limited to solitary lines with little counterpoint: a sign of isolation, Mr. Holzman said. In Shapey’s “Mutations” (1956) and “Mutations II” (1966), flinty, atonal kernels were objects of cool, obsessive scrutiny from varying angles.

First: “flinty”?

Second: This is a great way to (at least) give listeners who are perhaps [read: probably] unfamiliar with the rep to get some leg up on a way to try to understand the music.

In his comments Mr. Holzman also made a connection between Sessions’s piece and Mr. Carter’s Piano Sonata (1946), which opened the second half of the program. Mr. Carter considers Sessions to have been a major influence. But in place of his mentor’s melancholy, Mr. Carter offers an exuberant optimism, maybe even a cocky flexing of newly honed muscles. Mr. Holzman’s account was not spotless. But a few missed notes during the work’s most agitated passages were a small price to pay for playing so full of blood, steel and unshakable conviction.

Again, a noble pursuit. Sorry so little snark. I really liked the article and the concept. Last but not least:

In Pozzi Escot’s Sonatina No. 5 (“For Hobie,” 2006), serene bell tones alternated with manic outbursts of Ivesian cacophony.

Yay! Pozzi Escot!

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[Edit] This post, in fact, was composed by Sator Arepo (if you couldn't tell already), which may account for the unfamiliarity with barge music. See: Alvin Curran.]
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Oh No He Didn't

After a beautifully written piece on Elliott Carter at Tanglewood, Jeremy Eichler of the Boston Globe takes the usual low road by painting Elliott as a difficult, senile centenarian.

When Carter took his bows from the stage, aided only by a cane, he was beaming.

"These pieces of music," he said in a public interview, "if they spoke English instead of notes, they would be very grateful."

I mean, he could have omitted it. Instead, there it is in plain view for everyone to see. Because, as we all know, pieces can’t speak—they’re just black dots, after all. Sheesh.

You should read the article.

And a happy three-hundredth post to us!

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[Edit 8/8/8]

I neglected to mention Soho the Dog's awesome eight-part series, Magna Carter, on the same very subject. In fact, it came first. And it's better. Well, it's more in depth and not all "I wrote this for the Globe and I have glasses so it must be good and there are a lot of big words in it. So there." You should check out Magna Carter. Good job Matthew.
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Wait, is this something I've heard before?

Wait, is that a melody?

No, I’m mistaken.

No, just a fleeting fragment.

Hey, I heard that before, right?

Didn’t we hear that figure before?

Yes.

Maybe.

Well, not that exact phraseology.

But not in that exact form.

I remember now. Didn’t everyone who ever reviewed Elliott Carter say as much? That’s consistent, at least.

The sound world of Elliott Carter is not the most obvious one to navigate, but his aesthetic at least is consistent.

If you’re going for consistency, where’s the dissonance? The anger? The intellectual rigor? The violence? The punchiness? The lack of tonality? The necessity of repeated listening? The legendary inscrutability? The 100 years? The worn-out clichés and lazy interpretation?

It’s right here.

All provided for you by Peter Dorbin of the Philadelphia Inquirer.

Addendum: Here's a really, really cool link to a video interview with the 99-year old Elliott Carter in celebration of his centenary. What a sweety.

911. Is this an emergency?

I’m not sure.

What is the nature of your problem?

There’s this couple at Weill Recital Hall. They’re fighting, again. The man seems to be instigating the fight.

I’ll send the police, sir. Can you stay on the line?

Yeah, sure.

Can you describe what the man is doing?

It’s difficult to describe. I’ve seen them do this before. The woman has a temper, but she usually keeps it in check. But this guy, he just seems to have "brought out the worst in her." And what’s more, she takes it out on everyone there.

How do you mean, sir?

Well. She’s a pianist.

Excuse me, sir. Did you say pianist?

Yes. Hold on! (ducks from hard-flung tritone, followed by a minor second)

Can you describe what the pianist is doing?

She’s playing.

Playing what, sir?

Elliott Carter’s Piano Sonata from 1946.

Can you describe the pianist, sir?

Uh, If this pianist has a principal trait, it is a big, hearty and sometimes brutal relationship with her instrument.

Can you describe her relationship with the instrument, sir?

It’s like she seemed to play the piece with fluency and enjoyment. I mean, she just snapped.

Can you please describe the man?

He’s not actually here.

Can you repeat that for me, sir?

He’s not actually here. His name is Elliott Carter, though. He's a composer. I’ve seen him before. He’s "pugnacious" and "invites the performer's aggression."

Can you describe what he looks like?

He has white hair. He’s a little slow. Oh! And he’s 99.

99 what, sir?

Years old.

(911 operator hangs up. End of recording/transcription)

Elliott Carter Rounds Third, Heads for Home

Edward Ortiz of the Sacramento Bee recently reviewed a Naxos recording of Elliott Carter’s First and Fifth String Quartets as favorably as one can. Aside from the usual Carter clichés, such as aloof, cerebral and difficult, Ortiz manages to celebrate the music. In fact, it is one of the best reviews I’ve seen in a while, short as it may be.

Only, Ortiz forgot to do any research or read any newspapers, because it took me only .17 seconds on Google to contradict his opening sentence.

Composer Elliott Carter recently turned 100,

Well no. He’s 99 years and 83 days old (84 days at the time of this post), courtesy of my friend Wikipedia. Strike one, Ed.

and his centenary was only politely noticed in the U.S. classical music world.

Ahem. And in only .3 seconds I found roughly 200 upcoming performances of his music, found both here and here, which are conveniently located here; not to mention the hoards of performances in the past two months, including what seems to be a new premiere in Boston or New York, weekly. And how about the gaggle of articles, many of which we’ve ripped here at the Detritus? And don’t forget Julliard’s Focus!Festival devoted to Carter’s music. You didn’t forget that, did you Ed?

“Politely noticed!?” I would say that Carter is being thrust upon us—those of us who read the entertainment section of newspapers and/or go to concerts—like Cabbage Patch Dolls, or Pokémon, or Beanie Babies, or Tickle Me Elmo, or Wii, or Hannah Montana, or Ayn Rand, all because he’s almost 100. I’ve never heard of this kind of fanfare celebration for a living composer.

Strike two, Ed. That was very lazy. And out of touch, like someone programming Arnold Schoenberg (1884-1951) on a NEW music concert.

And just because, I change my mind. Strike three! for calling him aloof, cerebral and difficult. Those are lazy clichés—dilettante hand-me-downs that have been circulating across the country for decades without the benefit of critical reappraisal despite Carter’s growing familiarity and acceptance into the newer canon.

You’re out!

--Heidi Klum
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A Smelly, Half-Minute Quicky

This is just a brief “screw you” to Robert Batty of the Washington post, who took the time to pull out his thesaurus, find the word “spinose” and apply it to Elliott Carter.

Elliott Carter’s Second String Quartet is almost 50 years old,

That would put Carter at 49.

yet it remains as spinose and elusive as ever. Carter’s highly refracted and layered music lacks any conventional gestures (the instruments never play anything together),

Screw you.

let alone harmonic or melodic guideposts.

Screw. You.

But when essayed with such fervor as [the Julliard String Quartet], his vision is somehow compelling;

Somehow?! Screw you, somehow.

it is as though some complex scientific process like atom-splitting is rendered in sound. Not for every taste, but reflective of today’s clinical, minatory world.

Minatory: expressing or conveying a threat.
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Composer of the Day!

Today's Composer of the Day is Elliott Carter.

(b. 1908)

That's right. He's still alive! Mr. Carter will turn 100 this December. If I was a reasonable, patient man I would have waited until then to write about him. Oh, well.

Mr. Carter has written approximately one bazillion works.

He writes for voice, piano, chamber ensembles, orchestras, and about every combination you can think of. He is very prolific!

He is a longtime New Yorker.

Since it's the centenary of his birth, many many events are planned to celebrate him in New York, and elsewhere.

A good example of his early style is the Cello Sonata. It's neo-romantic-y and accessible.

His five String Quartets are justifiably popular, and famous. They are more abstract and thorny. They explore ideas about space and rhythm and time. He "invented" a technique called "metric modulation".

I also recommend his Concerto for Orchestra. It's...good.

You should listen to his music. Like Canaries for tympani. Oh, here is a score for you to look at!

Mr. Holland's Wooden Shoes

Get yourself a drink, or two, and settle in.

We’ve all been privy to those awkward moments when our elders regale about the old days of yore. Like when your grandfather, in a gruff voice, said something like, “I remember the day when people had to sharpen pencils in order to write things. You even had to write it by hand. Not like these new-fangled interwebs and their automatic typers. Then you’d have to lick a sticky paper stamp and fix it to an envelope, which was like taping a coin to the outside. I remember coins, you could buy a whole three-course meal, with a cherry pie at the end, with just one halfpenny, which took a week to earn on my paper route. Where was I? Pies. I remember pies, especially Mrs. Wilson’s pie. Her pie was delicious. Then you’d have to take that envelope to the local negro and have him go to the United States Post Office and send it off. Four months later, you might get a reply.”

Similarly awkward, Mr. Holland is still trying to tell us about the virtue of his wooden shoes, as opposed to those unfamiliar, difficult, soulless, unpopular new Converse High-tops. Or, if you prefer, substitute “wooden shoes” with “stuff he likes,” and substitute “Converse High-tops” with “Elliott Cater.”

Prototypically American, Atypically Challenging

I bet Mr. Holland doesn’t like America.

Mr. Carter, approaching his 100th birthday and subject of the Focus! 2008 weeklong series of concerts at the Julliard School, could not be mistaken for a soulful Russian, a singing Italian or a Central European bearing the weight of the centuries.

So Americans are not soulful, like Russians; they aren’t songbirds, like Italians; they aren’t Jesuses, like Central Europeans. And neither is Elliott Carter. But what could his music be mistaken to be?

In his music there is no patina [the green film of oxidation on bronze after many years], only fresh paint.

Okay... his music is not old; it’s new. Yep. That’s exactly what his music could be mistaken to be, new! Well, not quite the answer I was looking for. I mean Russians are soulful! What are Americans? New!??

And what about Holland’s metaphor, paint? I don’t know if he really thought this one through, because paint, as I understand it, is something attached to a surface. Is Holland saying that Carter’s music lack depth? Or is it just new? Keep that one in mind as we go along. It might resurface.

The edges are not worn smooth but sharp to the touch.

Okay, it’s new. I got it. Everyone else got it. (keep in mind: “new,” and “sharp”)

James Levine conducted the Julliard Orchestra in the “Symphonia: sum fluxae pretieum spei” and the Cello Concerto, a very large mouthful of Mr. Carter’s art and one that assuredly left these splendid musicians and a packed Saturday night house...both satisfied and exhausted.

Keep in mind: “very large mouthful.” I omit “satisfied” and “exhausted,” for now, because this is not Holland’s opinion. I don’t think he has ever been satisfied with new music.

The cellist Dane Johansen was brave and virtuosic and needed to be both.

This, however, is Mr. Holland’s opinion. He thinks that the cellist needed to be brave. Why? To do what he has been training for his entire life, to play the cello? Or was Elliott’s music just that intimidating and the cellist had to be brave in order to face it, like an American Gladiator? I think that Holland thinks that Elliott Carter is a monster. What do you think?

The idea of Mr. Carter as American-made makes sense.

Oh yeah. How?

There are the reserves of psychic energy: the impulsiveness and aggression, the hard work achieved through high sophistication, the absence of neurosis.

Mr. Wooden Shoes calls Carter: impulsive, aggressive, highly sophisticated, and cold, cool and unexpressive. Gee-willickers, Wally. Is Holland saying that Americans are these things, too?

Please note, though, his use of “highly sophisticated.” It has been my experience that Holland uses this term ad libitum, for anything new that he doesn’t understand, or like (it’s placation—it sounds nicer). I’m sure, if he ever looked at, or heard, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” with any understanding of music whatsoever, that he’d find it a very sophisticated tune. It might not be as sophisticated as his Puccini, but it’s certainly complex and worthy of the moniker: “highly sophisticated.”

It’s one of the most egregious and backhanded compliments hands down. And remember, this is what he’s also saying about Americans, too.

The concerto greets us with the musical equivalent of gunshots.

Gunshots greet me with a sensation of fright and pain (my ears hurt). Thus, in Holland’s veiled words, Carter greets us with pants-wetting, ear pain. Nice. Carter is an American.

The contrasting lyrical writing sings gracefully; it shines but without a hint of sweetness.

And although Americans sing gracefully, they are not sweet, like Italians, who sing.

The “Symphonia” gathers three movements composed separately that together constitute an evening of listening all in themselves. Mr. Carter makes no pretense of simplicity. He has that American knack for making complex constructions work.

Americans work hard and Carter’s complex constructions work. But damn, it’s dense. That reminds me of a story my grandpa once told me about the war.

“Those damn mortar shells got my buddy, Danny. He had a girl back in Chattanooga, who always made him cookies. He’d go over to her place and put the bunny in the hole. Then she’d make him some cookies. Chocolate Chip, I think. Anyways, when we made it to Burgandy, I found a little doll on the side of a bombed-out road. It was covered in mud. Which was the name of my favorite beer, back in Toledo. I’d go to the bar there, and because I looked older than my age, they’d serve me up some Mud. But those chocolate chip cookies were hard as rock, Danny told me. He said they were so dense that you couldn’t swallow a bite without chugging a gallon of milk, which we used to have to get ourselves from the cow. But, oh, he said it was torture watching her make them. She used every dish in the house. I had myself a few dishes. Somehow, after all of the rigmarole, you could eat her cookies.”

People on Saturday... struggled to find their seats, so concentrated and intense was this sophisticated gathering.

Of course, you didn’t think you were going to get away from a Bernard Converse-Hater article without mention of those elite fucks who go to these damn complex concerts, about which Holland writes and gets paid, did you? Americans who, like Carter, were sophisticated went to the concert, and seemed to be intrigued by it, or according to Holland, were so exhausted that they couldn’t muster the strength to find their own seats.

Yet in the larger world of classical-music audiences—those who find comfort in Mozart, inspiration in Beethoven and exotic fantasies fulfilled in Ravel or the young Stravinsky—Mr. Carter has virtually no audience at all.

In other words, most classically-minded audiences (who mostly live in Europe, by the way) don’t listen to Carter’s music for comfort, inspiration or to fulfill exotic fantasies. In other, other words, Elliott Cater sucks! I hate new music! I hate New American Music! I especially hate new American music that reminds me of Schoenberg!

Laughable running tally—

Carter IS NOT: oxidized, soulful, singing, a Jesus, smooth, simple, sweet, comforting, inspiring. Nor will he fulfill your exotic fantasies.

Carter IS: like paint, new, sharp, a monster, impulsive, aggressive, highly sophisticated, cold, unfeeling, frightening, complex.

I hope, after all this Carter bashing (By the way, he’s fucking 100 years-old! This just further exemplifies Holland’s intellectual cowardice, I believe), Holland will finally tell us what Americans are like. Please, Mr. Shoe? Pretty please? Pretty please with fulfilled exotic fantasies on top?

Like America as seen by some nations [Holland?], he is famous, admired and not particularly liked.

BINGO! In his own words, “America is famous, admired and not particularly liked.” And so is Carter.

I love how Holland draws a parallel between the dislike of America with Elliott Carter. Mr. Elliot writes music. You may not like it. But he just writes music. And to draw this baggage-laden parallel is childish, and sort of, in a way, racist. It’s as if Holland just started writing, like my grandfather rambling, typed enter, and Presto! His work was done.

But go on Mr. Tulip-Levees, I want to know why Carter is not liked, like Americans are not liked.

Also like many Americans in the postwar era, he was born into comfort, has lived in prosperity and functioned with a confidence bordering on impunity.

He just writes music. Why do I care if he is wealthy? Oh wait. Stop, stop, stop. I get it. Holland is saying that Elliott Cater is a social elite. And his bread and butter is to buy more oil companies and step on the little man. Right?

Most of us...

You know, us working-class, blue-collared folk going to Elliott Carter Concerts in New York.

...want everybody to love us, but Mr. Carter seems comfortable with the admiration of the chosen.

Don’t include me Holland Dyke! Speak for yourself. Apparently, Mr. Carter, who is 100 fucking years-old, only cares about himself and other elitist snobs who have money. This is fucking bat-shit crazy bullshit. He's comparing Carter to Eisner, which is like comparing apples to fulfilled erotic fantasies.

“I remember the Great Depression. I was going on fifty, or was it twenty? We lived in a Hooverville just outside of Stockton. My dad picked almonds and my mother picked tomatoes. I picked artichokes twenty hours a day for three pennies, which could buy a new house in those days, but they fired you before you could collect. The girls in the ‘ville would let you collect. The farmers said you didn’t work the whole day, so they couldn’t pay you. We were always trying to get the money, but the jobs weren’t coming. I remember once taking a job writing about the local symphony concerts. But I hated it. The money was good, but I couldn’t stand the clothes you had to wear. A tie and clean long pants. I remember having a pair of shoes that I got back in Modesto. Those were the good old days. I wrote columns about the concerts and the stupid people going to them. I don’t think anyone ever read my reviews, probably reading the more expensive paper across town. There was a good sandwich shop across town; we got the ham. Then...”


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“.... the Germans! (snort) Oh where was I? Oh. Then we’d get a soda from the street vendor. He used to go to those concerts. But he wasn’t rich. For some strange reason he just liked them because...”


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Check out this comparison article by Allan Kozinn.