From our perspective, more than a century on from the artistic upheavals that produced the first Modernist offshoots from mainstream classical music, it’s hard to grasp the trepidation those composers must have experienced. But choosing to write an extended passage in an odd meter, or flouting traditional consonance-dissonance treatment, or defying almighty Wagner and populating your textures with circus tunes, or writing an absurdist opera drenched with social satire took a lot of courage.

Especially, that is, in the dying days of a society that still counted art music as a pillar of civilization.

And when I read reports of rioting during and after a concert or the enraged reviews these early works received, or the ignorant misrepresentations (“like a cat walking over the keyboard.”) that they received, I’m reminded that these artists actually put themselves on the line.  

With that in mind, I wonder if the risk-taking vitality and unstoppable insouciance of the last century’s musical big shots is truly rewarded by the musical world we live in now. That is, leaving aside the commercial poppification of Western music, even within the small circle of global Keepers of the Flame. Is what’s being written now paying off the visionary work of the early 1900s, the 1920s or 1930s?

As always, there are no absolute answers to such questions. But I can hazard a guess that the founders of Modernism didn’t take so many socially isolating risks so that the field of classical composition could become more tidy. Yet today, as I continue to explore — to seek new life and new civilizations outside of my cloistered worldview — I find a disturbing number of highly trained, highly competent and gifted composers whose apparent goal is to ensure that their work is the epitome of order, control, “organicism” and, more often than not, anomie.

One such composer, it seems to me is the acclaimed Brit, George Benjamin. A wunderkind who studied with Messiaen at a young age, he is talked about, performed, and has his own key to the ensemble intercontemporain washroom. Make no mistake. There are no grounds for saying his music is anything other than the work of a consummate craftsman with a highly refined ear for sonority — who has earned his place in musical culture by producing top-flight work.

And yet, it’s so tidy. 

For a composer who has just entered his sixties, we might reasonably expect him to have observed, over his adult life, that nothing in his surroundings fits together so neatly. Yet in both the Three Inventions (1993-95)  and Dance Figures (2004)  we are simply presented with an elaborate series of Russian nesting dolls.

Undoubtedly, the locus classicus for this fragmented, motive-driven texture are the Webern Symphony Op. 21 (1928) and his Variations, Op. 30 (1940). Both pieces have been widely imitated, most famously by Stravinsky, though it’s safe to say that the latter’s assimilation of Webern is skin deep. While Webern apparently chased an ideal of artistic purity, Stravinsky’s lifelong preoccupation with tangible, sensual sound, rooted in real-world phenomena, combined with his ineffable ear for rhythm, takes us to very different stops on the pointillism train.

Regardless, Webern had the last laugh for two generations, before other “movements” closed in on his supremacy. Yet I’d argue that even the anti-establishment platform of Reich, Glass, Terry Riley and perhaps even the more expansive John Adams, would never have reached escape velocity so quickly, unless Webern and his imitators hadn’t already validated textures dominated by tiny little gestures. To test this proposition, put a few three-measure chunks of Op. 30 on a tape loop, accompany it with “world music” percussion and see how many foundation grants you can garner. 

A less often acknowledged precursor of today’s fragmented lingua franca is the orchestral texture in Schoenberg’s “Erwartung,” a work whose reputation is severely undercut by its pseudo-Freudian/drive-in movie-“horror”-libretto. I’d recommend some brave soul produce a recording without the vocal part just to give it a boost in the ratings. But that way lies madness, I’m sure. 

What matters, of course is not George Benjamin’s relative originality, but the impact of the end result. In an interview, with Tristan Labouret, at bachtrack.com, the composer says:

“I’ve developed compositional techniques that are abstract and so simple that I am able, from one work to the next, to play with these elements without the listeners being aware that I’m doing it. These techniques are sufficiently abstract that there’s no possibility of setting them out here.”

While the techniques are not self-evident, their impact is crystal clear: The music is devoid of drama. Even in Benjamin’s operas, where one might reasonably expect drama, the dominant sound is standard Modernist chanting over sustained chords at various volumes. It occurs in a way that shows no awareness of Britten’s experiments in “Death in Venice,” which I had thought would guide subsequent British composers away from such things.

Sure, occasionally, there’s a surprise shift of texture. Like thousands of composers, Benjamin likes to ensure there’s at least one “Rite of Spring” moment in every piece. But where Stravinsky gives us wild, prehistoric beasts, Benjamin’s freak-out moments are the musical equivalent of a young child’s terrycloth dinosaur. That’s partly due to the familiarity of his gestures and partly due to how well-regulated his irregularity is. He has also fallen into the trap of equating “dramatic intensity” with “decibel level.” Commonplace scraps of dissonance don’t become more emotionally compelling as they grow louder. They just get harder to listen to. And after a few minutes of listening, you can’t help noticing a baseline similarity between every gesture, whether nominally “mournful,” “exuberant,” “aggressive,” or whatever.

Yet I suppose that the only fair way to evaluate an artistic product is in terms of what it is, as opposed to what we wish it were. From that vantage point, Benjamin’s “Three Inventions” has more than a few things going for it, including and inventive ear for sonority and the flexibility to give the occasional solo instrument an idiomatic turn of phrase. Much of the time, however, I can’t stop myself from wondering what Stephan Wolpe might have done with a similarly diverse ensemble. What am I missing? A sense of purpose, a dramatic through line. 

But, again, in Benjamin’s terms, his discursive rollout of one clever texture after another creates what must have been intended as a processional feeling — even if it’s decidedly unclear where the procession is heading. A similar effect is achieved in the composer’s “Dance Figures,” though the accommodations he made to a full orchestra tend to smooth out many of the Inventions’ rough edges. In any case, we’re treated to a contemplative succession rather than a meaningful progression of ideas. 

For, based on his interview comments, it seems Benjamin carries out his “abstract compositional techniques” until he has enough music to fill the space he’s designated for each composition. And while the effect isn’t exactly analogous to the process of carpeting an apartment — in, mind you, very well-crafted and attractive rugs — I wish I could say the effect, on a human level was measurably different. 

In the end, the case of George Benjamin, as I see it, is an object lesson in the limits of talent, training, or even musical genius. None of the three guarantee the delivery of a great work. What’s also needed is a fresh, emotionally charged and intellectually grounded worldview — that has nothing to do with “musical techniques” and everything to do with a deep-seated understanding of what it is to be a lonely human in a vast, unknowable universe.  

^^^

Mark Laporta is a musician, composer and novelist. His science fiction series, Against the Glare of Darkness, is published by Chickadee Prince Books, and is available  in paperback or ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or at a bookstore near you. His latest space opera saga is being serialized in Oblivioni Magazine, which you can read from the beginning. Or listen to his musical compositions here.

Image design: Kalyee Srithnam.