As a student of composition and and lover of contemporary music, I’ve always held Elliott Carter in high regard. Admittedly, he has achieved a great deal: redefining himself at a (relatively) late age, securing two Pulitzers, receiving excellent and prestigious performances, and not being forced to devote large amounts of time to pedagogy. Undoubtedly, he is one of the most important composers in 20th century American music.
During my years as an undergraduate, I was drawn to the avant-garde traditions of both Europe and the United States. I relished the idea of a piece of music where every single pitch, chord, or what-have-you could be explained in a cool, rational manner. This is most certainly a result of the way that I think about and listen to music. I have never assigned programs to pieces in order to better understand them, nor have I had the desire to understand a piece in terms of its extra-musical meaning. I’ve always felt that the most immediate and important aspect of a piece, and what ultimately defined it, was simply its content and musical narrative. One can write all of the fancy program notes and interesting titles that they want, but if the music suffers from a lack of engaging material, it’s all for nought. This is what I love about Elliott Carter.
I recently began reading David Schiff’s excellent monograph on the music of Elliott Carter up until about the 1990s. As I sifted through his concise and helpful analyses, I once again rediscovered my love for the abstract, thorny, and subtle in contemporary music. Suddenly, I began reviewing my recent pieces, lamenting the simplicity and harmonic stability that had somehow crept in without notice. I began to wish that I could once again write in this rarefied style – and then, I wondered why I even needed to wish for it. Oh yeah, now I remember: because no one on God’s green Earth will play it. And here begin my conflicted feelings about Elliott Carter and his music.
As much as Schiff explains and reveals the musical elements of Carter’s music (at least from the 1970s-80s), a few casual listens still fail to reveal much of the inner working of his craft. Instead, one only really discerns a continually frenetic texture that fails to give context to itself. Justin Davidson, writing in New York Magazine, put it better:
It’s often suggested that appreciating Carter requires a special kind of training—that some secret knowledge would make all those vinegary chords and dribbling rhythms suddenly make sense. Actually, the ideal listener would be one who had experienced total short-term memory loss. I could love all those little auroras, those dazzling bursts of iridescence, so much more if only I were relieved of the need to relate them to what came before or to wonder—the title of Carter’s only opera—“What next?” After the first minute or so of his mazelike music, I lose all sense of how deeply I have wandered in. Each passage blots out its own past, and at any given moment the possibilities for what the ensuing few bars might hold are virtually infinite. Carter creates no expectations, and so he cannot defy expectations, either. I will accept any dénouement, but I do so without investment in the outcome. A single blinding moment might be worth a standing ovation; a long chain of them gets only an irritated shrug.
Strong words, but not far off the mark. Now, I don’t mean to get all proletarian on you, but I wonder if much of Carter’s style and success can be attributed to his mostly patrician background. With no real need for financial gain from his compositional work, Carter has always been free to pursue whatever aesthetic goal he pleases, regardless of commissions or prizes. He’s been able to finance the highest education and premier musical studies in France and otherwise. Of course, one can’t help their upbringing, and I certainly don’t think that takes anything away from the marvelous innovations in his music, but I do believe that his automatic membership in the upper-echelon of the uptown elite is certainly a boon to success. By creating a commodity that can only “really be enjoyed” by a small set of connoisseurs, he’s gained a level of prestige that not even Milton Babbitt enjoyed, mainly due to his financial dependence upon Princeton University.
From this perspective, I can’t relate to Elliott Carter in the least bit. In fact, I’m almost resentful (I’ll talk about this some other time). So, which do I choose? Do I simply love his music for its complexity although it reeks of the cultural elitism of the upper-classes that I disdain so much? Or do I simply relax and appreciate the innovations that he’s developed and the highly individual style that he’s so carefully honed?
Before answering, I also must consider the music that he’s composed in the last 15 years, which has become noticeably clearer, allowing the listener to actually follow a single idea through a piece. This, for me, is an amazing achievement. How many people at 85 years of age are able to still adapt and develop their musical syntax, especially after having achieved so much through their previous means? In my view, this shows that Carter is still hungry. In other words, he’s not let his success cause him to be complacent in his music. Instead, he’s continued to stretch and mold his output, continually searching for that aesthetic ideal that all creative artists strive for. For me, this overshadows any of my criticisms of his music, societal position, or outlook on American music. In other words, long live Elliott Carter!
Below is a performance of Shard, an example of his late late style.