Fear of Music: Why We Like Rothko But Not Stockhausen

I read David Stubbs' Fear of Music and Mars by 1980 recently. The second is a history of electronic music in the West, focussing heavily on the bands of the 1970's - 1990's. The first is an attempt to understand why Basquiat sells for millions, but David Bailey is pretty much broke. (You know who Derek Bailey is, right? See, that's his point.)

 

(Why you don't know who Derek Bailey is)

Stubbs love of this kind of music, from Edgar Varese to Sonic Youth, is sincere and deeply woven into his youth. He knows whereof he speaks.

So do I. I have a special section in my CD collection, where I keep Ligeti, Xenakis, Boulez, John Cage, Penderecki, Edgar Varese, Stockhausen, Luciano Berio and even Sally Beamish. Anyone interested in music should know some of this stuff, and my dutiful listening was well before streaming. (You should stream it. Most of these people are dead, have academic jobs or quite enough money.) The only recording made by Mirror/Dash is in my Quboz favourites. I commend Olivier Assayes' film Noise to you: I was rooted to the sofa. As an undergraduate I went to the only performance at my university by Derek Bailey. I have heard Iskra 1903 on late-night Radio Three programs. In the right circumstances, I do like a bit of noise guitar. Those circumstances are not frequent, but Stubbs' book has made me think I should devote a little more time to the genre over the next few months.

 

(Stockhausen's Kontakte: I found it so you don't have to.)

A little bit of theory.

There are two broad business orientations: producer, and, consumer. The producer makes something, tries to sell it, and then blames the public when they don't buy it, or tries to get a Government grant to subsidise his operation. The consumer finds out what he can provide that the customer wants, checks that the customer is willing to pay an economic price, and provides it. Producers tend to think they are mis-understood and the audience doesn't want to put in the work to appreciate their challenging work. Consumers tend to follow the money and can have a wilting effect on high culture.

Old-school publishing houses used to do both: they had an imprint for books that the public would buy but were not what anyone would call fine literature, and the money from that subsidised the low but prestigious sales of the fine literature. The publisher had social cachet from supporting well-connected authors, paid for by books the public wanted to read. It worked fine until the conglomerates came along, and dumped the fine literature imprints, because why lose money?

The Romantic conception of the artist is pure producer. The artist has their vision, is driven to produce what they have to produce, and it's the public's task to understand it, like it, and buy it. Otherwise the Romantic artist either starves to death, or gets embittered or cynical while living off a private income.

What is striking about the development of noise / electronic music up to about 1970 is just how much of it was supported by universities, Ministries of Culture, and State broadcasters. Everyone from Stockhausen to Delia Derbyshire was paid for by the taxpayer. After that, it seems to have moved into the private sector, with the invention of the Mood Synthesiser and its successors, until a simple Mac Air has ten times the music-making capabilities of the entire European avant-garde scene in (say) 1960, and with a friendly user-interface. State subsidies is very producer.

Stubbs is a producer. He likes weird noisy music and can't understand why the rest of us don't. He thinks it's our fault - after all, we can take Jackson Pollock, so why won't we listen to Edgar Varese? Why does Warhol sell and Xenakis doesn't?

 

(Ameriques by Edgar Varese. David Stubbs loves it.)

For one thing, the comparison is off. The pictorial analogue of a lot of the music he is taking about, is not Rothko or Pollock, but an especially impasto'd de Kooning at his misogynist peak, or a raw meat paintings by Chaim Soutine. Not what anyone wants to look at just before lunch in the restaurant at the Tate Modern. Or afterwards.

(Xenakis is more like this)

For another, the expectation is off. Avant-garde music is not the only art-form with small audiences. Go to a fringe theatre in London (when this nonsense is over). (I have been in one where there were more people in the audience than on the stage.) Morvern Callar, one of the best films of 2002, had a total first-run audience of about two thousand people in the whole UK. Unless they are an established name, a poet is lucky to sell fifty copies. So are some novelists. Many papers in science and mathematics are comprehensible to perhaps ten people in the world. All those people beavering away in Head Offices producing powerpoints, are doing so for audiences of less than twenty.

Small audiences are the norm. Large audiences need an explanation.

The avant-garde music scene is nowhere near as socially sexy as the avant-garde art scene was and the pop / contemporary art scene is now. The rich gather and network at Christies and Sotheby's, not at the Wigmore Hall. The reason is very simple: they can buy art, but they can't buy music.(*) The era of the court composer is over - blame the repeal of the Corn Laws.

The arts are not an examination that the audience has to pass. With some exceptions. If you don't like the music of J S Bach, you can say so and not listen to it. If you say that it is bad music, well, you would just be wrong. Audiences show their dislike of Luciano Berio by staying away. If they say it is bad music, well, they would be wrong about that. If they said it was wilfully harsh, discordant, and lacked a decent groove, could anyone disagree?

And then there's the whole attitude thing. Here's Evan Parker, a legend of the British avant garde music scene.



You can't dance to it. You can't **** to it. You can't study to it. You can't play along with it.

On the other hand, here's Kim Gordon, who has been doing this stuff for literally decades.



You can't dance to it. You can't **** to it. You can't study to it. You can't play along with it. But I couldn't stop watching and listening.

In an earlier post, I said that, amongst other things, art had to be self-sufficient. A piece had to stand on its own. Another thing art has to do is fascinate, a verb that descends from 'bewitching'. It has to reward our attention and focus, to let us sink in to it. Maybe we sink in meditatively, as before a painting in the National Gallery, or we give ourselves up to it, as with a favourite dance track.

A lot of avant garde music is intentionally off-putting and detached. It doesn't let us in, but keeps on slapping us about with sudden noises and shocks. Most people don't respond to that: I don't. Perhaps David Stubbs does. But he is in a minority.

And that's the answer to his question.

(*) The exception, and it's the only one, is the one copy of a Wu Tang Klan album Once Upon A Time In Shaolin. Its history is worth reading.