THE BEETHOVEN OF THE NEW AGE

The following is my account of meeting the renowned minimalist composer Philip Glass. It was posted at the Classical Archives Jahoo group in 2002, but it deserves a retelling (not because of popular acclaim, but due to my vanity).

I wish to make it immediately clear that although my story seems to mock Mr. Glass, I have the highest respect for him and his music. He did, after all, come up with something original, which is more than can be said about the professors of composition ensconced in academia.

There are those reading this who will point out that Minimalism, the style of tediously repeated simple figures, was invented long before Mr. Glass took it up, and that perhaps Terry Riley should be given credit for the innovation. But as Ralph Vaughan Williams said, the big men come at the end of the period, the little men at the beginning. The fugue was a popular form long before J. S. Bach even strained his eyes analyzing one in his childhood. Philip Glass took minimalism and transformed it from a novelty into an art. In doing so he saved classical music from becoming merely a museum of relics.

Before Philip Glass breathed new life into it, contemporary classical music had become mired in dissonance, with each composer trying desperately to show how advanced his work was. Everyone wanted to be atonal, and the twelve-minute symphonies with twenty-three percussion parts all sounded like poor imitations of Edgar Varese—which of course they were. Ironically, in atonal music, dissonance is not possible, because with all twelve tones being equal, there is no consonance to relate to. The result is cacophony, but that's precisely what all the academic composers aimed for.

I always found it disgusting that audiences (being sheep) now usually go along with the ruse, and applaud heartily to demonstrate that they "understand" such demanding and modern "art." If you've witnessed such performances you may have noticed one boor somewhere in the audience rudely booing. That was me. I am quite vocal in expressing my displeasure, and whereas many concertgoers applaud to show that they are sophisticated enough to appreciate modern art and are receptive to its complexities, I go one step further and demonstrate that I understand the piece fully—that it is [ordure] produced by pretentious fools who couldn't compose a danceable jig if their life depended on it. These men (and women) are high-priced frauds and their masterpieces are transparent bunkum. I can see that the emperor is not wearing any clothes, and I'm not afraid to say so. (I would fain admit that my insight is usually aided by the fact that I am usually in liquor at the time—the proper state in which to listen to music—but that it was probably a good thing that they didn't allow me to enter the concert hall with a sack of tomatoes that time.)

With contemporary composers all "pushing the envelope" by writing noise—which has itself become a cliche—it's no wonder that audiences would prefer the concert war-horses that they are familiar with—thus endangering classical music with stagnation. Philip Glass has rescued classical music from this fate by introducing a new style that people can actually enjoy.

So it was that when my buddy the french-horn player called and told me that Philip Glass was coming to town to appear at a small venue, I eagerly accepted the invitation to attend. I wanted to get his autograph on one of my most treasured possessions. What do you suppose that was?