The subtitle "The New York Avant-Garde and its Limits" gave me a bit of pause at first. Was this going to be a broadside about how experimental music fans are worshipping a dead god of fake innovation? It's not. "Limits" here is an open-ended term. As Piekut notes in the intro, the limits are not just walls that you crash into, but learning experiences and opportunities to reconsider your options and your limitations. John Cage loves talking about how, upon being told by Schoenberg, "[the concept of] harmony is a wall that you will never be able to break through," replied, "then I shall spend the rest of my life beating my head against that wall," implying that limitations could also be strengths. Piekut examines four moments of seeming disaster in experimentalism (as he calls it) which he attempts to open up with rigorous research, interviews, and what he calls "reshuffling the deck" with regard to which facts and aspects count as the dominant story-tellers in each narrative.
Take the opening piece, about John Cage's disastrous encounter with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, under the direction of Leonard Bernstein. As part of his series on New Music, Bernstein conducted Cage's "Atlas Eclipticalis," along with pieces by Feldman, Brown, and Wolff and others, for the benefit of a member crowd that was none too interested. The dominant narrative is that the Philharmonic players intentionally sabotaged Cage's work (he likened them not to spoilt children, but rather to deliberately malicious mafiosi). In what is easily the most theory-heavy portion of the book (a bit of a slog for me and my little ant-brain), Piekut breaks down several mitigating circumstances that prevent such a clear-cut I'm-the-good-guy-they're-the-bad-guys approach. Looking at interviews and reports of the time, we find that Bernstein was less than enthusiastic about presenting this "New Music," which he didn't like or respect. The performers saw it as a threat to their talent and the work-a-day discipline (the score called for long stretches of non-playing). Cage was seen as effeminate, and not able to interact with the band or play with them. But through all of these mitigating circumstances (which may or may not add up to Piekut's verdict in your mind), the author comes up with a pretty new point, one that had floated in the back of my head for some time. Cage, though brilliant, though amazing, isn't the freedom-loving free spirit he's often portrayed as, but is more of an authoritarian didact in the way he likes his works performed. As such, he "depended upon a performer who had already internalized the expectations of the composer," rather than a young upstart who might want to put his own ideas (inferior ones, it's implied) into the work. It's no wonder that Cage had a stable of stock performers who "got him" and who could reproduce his seemingly anarchic scores with an almost clockwork regularity, whether it's David Tudor or Malcolm Goldstein or others. It sort of explains why Cage's pieces often have a certain inbound rhythm or sound or feel to them, especially the canonical pieces, or at least allows us to think about his processes in a different way. Piekut doesn't excuse the Philharmonic or Bernstein, but does help us to get a different look at why the event might have unfolded the way it did.
The book follows this path, taking an event with an assumed set of reasons, and uncovering mitigating circumstances. Henry Flynt's public boycott of Stockhausen's "Originale" feels to me like the weakest of the four pieces maybe because I, with my in inbound prejudices, find Henry Flynt to be a bit of a twerp. I'm not opposed to anyone protesting an injustice if they see it as truly damaging, and Piekut goes into his involvement with African American musics and his work with the Workers World Party and related political movements to explain why his view of Stockhausen is seen through the crimson lenses of perceived Imperialism and the dominance of Eurocentric thinking in the Avant Garde. I can see his point...the avant garde was assuredly quite lily-white at the time (as the next chapter notes), and Stockhausen was pretty clear about his taste in high art vs. "peasant" musics. Fine, so Stockhausen wasn't someone I'd want to spend a lot of time with. But two things pop up here for me: 1. high art of any kind doesn't change society as much as you'd like to hope, and even less does it reinforce existing standards. If you want to go after Imperialism (a worthy foe), I'd start with more direct causes of the injustice; 2. trying to stop something from happening brings about less positive change of the time you seek than creating something new. A more effective counter-protest might have been some jazz or roots music coming from across the street; 3. the carnival-like nature of the Stockhausen piece insured that most people would think this was part of the show, and 4. this is a bit dickish of me to say, but I'd rather listen to Stockhausen's worst piece than Flynt's finest hour. It's not even a competition. That's, of course, the conundrum of living in the world and trying to be moral. The people on the side of the angels are often insufferable boors, while the worst of them can play a mean ring-modulator.
Part three takes us through the formation and quick flameout of the Jazz Composers Orchestra, led by Bill Dixon, Archie Shepp, Amiri Baraka, and others, and their difficulty in creating a viable avant garde/jazz sponsorship, performance, and distribution network. As mentioned above, the overbearing whiteness/Eurocentrism of the avant garde of the time, not to mention the prevailing idea that even the most "out" free jazz was not avant garde so much as some roots holler for drinkin' and dancin' made for a steep climb for the JCO. Despite an integrated organization (Carla and Paul Bley, Michael Mantler, Roswell Rudd, and others sat in meetings alongside Shepp, Sun Ra, Marion Brown, Baraka, and Dixon), there was confusion over not only what the goals were, but even what obstacles they faced. Piekut nicely dissects the two dominant approaches to understanding race after WWII...the "color-blind" idea favored by white musicians who basically called things the '60s equivalent of "post-racial," and the "race conscious" approach favored by black musicians, who knew the full extent of what was at stake. There's a lot of interesting stuff in this chapter, but I must admit, and maybe it's my own prejudices as well, but this chapter felt like it was imported from another book. A book I'd like to read, to be sure, but it was the only one of the four that approached things from a mostly cultural and monetary standpoint. Tied with Flynt's work with labor groups, the middle two sections form a core of economic and quality-of-life concerns, while being framed by two chapters dealing with Cage, which mostly cover aesthetics.
Chapter four is about Charlotte Moorman and more specifically about her many performances of John Cage's "26' 1.1449" For A String Player," a chance-generated piece that requires unimaginable mental and physical dexterity to play. As noted, Cage often asked his player to play in a manner that goes against classical cello training, in which the pressure and angle of attack of the bow and fingering goes against decades of neural programming that is the results of decades of "classical" cello practice. Moorman approaches the piece with great difficulty, and of her first performance of it, Cage analogized her performance to a "murder" of his composition. If that first performance was murder, Moorman spent the next 10 years rubbing her crotch on the composition's grave. In collaboration with her partner in crime, Nam June Paik, Moorman incorporated many other element's into Cage's piece that were not only counter to the original intentions, but deeply distasteful to the composer's rather puritanical approach to the world. There's an old story about how Cage harshly disciplined Julius Eastman after his young student ruined one of his performances (one of the text pieces) by reading a piece about undressing a man and having homosexual sex. "The freedom in my music is not the freedom to be irresponsible!" was Cage's supposed scold to Eastman. Similarly, Moorman began disregarding aspects of Cage's score (which included non-musical sounds like garbage can lids, tin whistles, gravel, shouts, and radio), lengthening certain elements, and including her own ideas. As the piece grew and morphed, Moorman began reading texts involving sexual assault, contraception, tapes of her having an orgasm, and talk of menstruation, as well as long snippets from the Beatles and other emerging rock bands. Cage felt the politicized work to be not in the tradition as he had created it. Piekut initially sides with Moorman, rightly pointing out that the white males of the traditional avant garde pretty much dispensed with the idea of experimentation as shock around the same time that women, minorities, and homosexuals began getting a foothold in society, effectively slamming the door of "shock value" in their face before they could have their turn. But then, Piekut does an interesting thing. He takes the turnaround and turns it around again. In a later turn of events, Moorman was arrested for performing Nam June Paik's "Opera Sextronique," which involved Moorman stripping down to partial nudity during the performance, which led to an arrest for violating indecency laws. Though she claimed that she and Paik were in all way collaborators on the composition in previous interviews, and though she claimed her modifications to Cage's piece were in the spirit of collaboration, she disavowed all of this when upon the witness stand. It was Paik's composition. I just did what I was told. I'd never dream of tampering with the composer's intention. Of all the chapters, this one is the most contradictory at the end, as it seems to argue both sides of the coin. It's a fascinating discussion, though.
The epilogue, which barely cracks into the confluence of Iggy Pop and the Ann Arbor-based ONCE Group and his subsequent rock-based experimentation is very interesting, but reads like a trailer for the sequel in the closing credits of the movie you finished watching. He suggests that "someone" needs to write the book about the confluence of rock and experimentalism before saying outright that "it would be very difficult." Indeed.
Like "No Such Thing As Silence," "Experimentalism Otherwise" succeeds so handily because it focuses tightly on pinpoint events and precise moments, rather than trying to explain everything everywhere. Although it gets pretty heavy with the academic jargon and theoretical constructs, it passes the smell test for me because, after all the critical theory terminology is stripped away, I can boil each chapter down to a core sentence or two that makes sense. As such, it's a big success. It changed my thoughts not only about music I care strongly about, but also about the ways it can be discussed. Highest possible recommendation.