John Cage and the Graphic Score

As we look at the graphic scores of post-war avant-garde composers this coming week, a series of questions inevitably arise, such as: is the score decipherable by itself, or might some assistance or further instruction be necessary?  Does the new graphic language contain ideas that are vexing to performers schooled in the customs and values embodied by traditional notation, and if so, how might those issues be addressed?  Is it possible to follow the rules laid out in a graphic score and still not "get it right"?  It's important to remember that in most cases these scores were performed by ensembles or soloists working closely--often in ongoing collaboration--with the composers themselves; in that way, the music had its best chance of being brought to life by a sympathetic performer.  But what happens in the more conventional context of a symphony orchestra, where performers are bound by contract to accept their musical director's choices?

The New York Philharmonic's 1964 performance of John Cage's Atlas Eclipticalis gives us a particularly vivid example of all that can go wrong.  Originally premiered in 1961 and using an astronomical star chart as its template, the piece was Cage's most ambitious large ensemble effort up to that point.  At the time--and it's not so different now--major orchestras were criticized for ignoring the work of living composers and enforcing their obscurity; however difficult the music might be for the average Mozart devotee, the refusal of orchestras to engage on some level with serious music of the present, critics claimed, would doom them to be nothing more than a cultural mausoleum.

Detail of score for John Cage's Atlas Eclipticalis

But Cage's piece was dead on arrival; the piece was only granted two brief rehearsals, barely enough time for even proper instruction on how to read the score, much less play it (Benjamin Piekut gives a very thorough account of the concert, along with considerable insight into the piece itself, here). Conductor Leonard Bernstein, otherwise lauded for the tirelessness of his educational outreach--working with TV, radio, and his ongoing series of Young People's Concerts--reveals his blind spots here, unable (or unwilling) to distinguish between the various places Cage courted chance in composition or performance; at certain moments in his spoken introduction above, he seems to have bent over backwards to undermine the presentation of the piece and any possibility that the Philharmonic audience might make up its own mind about it.  The orchestra's commitment to honoring Cage's intentions, grudging at best, was questioned later by the composer, who referred to the musicians as "gangsters."

Cartoon by Ad Reinhardt from PM Magazine, late 1940s