In Joseph’s own mind, music, like Orpheus, looked back, then looked back again, just as every composer wrote with ancestral harmonies in his head; so the contemporary period that was his subject could only be comprehended if the changes brought about by the invention of musical notation were clearly recognized, even though that revolution was centuries ago; and only if the consequences of Music’s First Freedom — won in its dim beginnings — were understood: namely when the dominance of voice and dance was replaced by the rule of the instrument in both composition and performance; for that was when pure music came with pain and exhilaration into being. After all, he would explain, contemporary electronic music was stagnant because it hadn’t discovered how to represent on nicely ruled paper what it was doing. He had read that symbolic logic had been in the same fix, whatever symbolic logic was.
Joseph could accept the overthrow of the voice without a qualm because it was a benevolent coup. He would make his students understand that a music freed from song, like a son who has sailed away a seaman and returned at the head of a fleet, will give back to that most human of all instruments such songs as had hitherto been inaudible: there would be mournful lieder beyond number, bloody operas galore, even majestic masses from devout atheists. Oh, Miss Ankle Jingle, who sits in the first row and widens her thighs to disconcert her teacher, the long line of Les Nuit d’Été will run ardently up your spine; ah, Mr. Moonfaced Boy with the smile you’ve had painted on your head to disconcert your teacher, Heitor Villa-Lobos’s sublime hum will cause your ears to flower; hey there, Mr. Notebook whose cover opens and closes with the measured rhythm of a feeding butterfly so as to disconcert the teacher, the melancholy beauty of Das Lied von der Erde will make your eyes water with relief, and Vier letzte Lieder, a summa without a sum, close them on a heavy sigh.
The entire class will be happy to realize that the music they fill arenas to hear now — the wail, the stomp, the pounded drum, the rhythmic clap, the frantic strum — could be fit company for an ending, as it was in the beginning, even of the world.
Joseph realized, as he faced his task, that he had no mentors to whom he might turn, for he had never taken a course in music much less one allegedly this up-to-date. How others might have taught it — managed this material, ordered its presentation, emphasized Varèse rather than Antheil — was a mystery. What did he know about his teachers anyway? only that he had been greeted by one in a provocative dress amid pillows and the smell of pot. Or was it in a dirndl with a stein of beer? His own history was learning to be hazy.
In the short time since he’d left Augsburg, the Whittlebauer semester had been shortened by a bad barber. A week of reading had been installed just before exams, during which time louts, like the one Joseph had been, might chase the tale of an entire semester and — worn out by all-nighters and cramming — recite it while asleep. Finals swallowed another opportunity. Add the three hourly exams that usually dotted the semester and one more week was gone. Good heavens — he had but thirteen left in which to expose his unfitness. Panic followed him like a jackal waiting for a show of weakness — a slowing limp in his Anton Webern or an out-of-breath Alban Berg.
Students tend to slink to the rear of a classroom and will advance toward the front only when threatened, but the Boy took a first-row seat on the first day, looked at Joseph as if listening to him, not vacant-faced as most were, not nervous like the impassive young woman whose left leg nevertheless wagged rhythmically, jingling her ankle bracelet, and certainly not wearily like the girl who bore to class a backpack bigger than a camel’s hump, or morosely as the guy who was staring down at the closed covers of a notebook embossed with the school’s insignia as if he had been asked to memorize the medallion. How about the sallow fellow who Joseph feared might bite through the temples of his eyeglasses and made his teacher anxious with the expectation? By the time he had become, in truth, Professor Skizzen, he had learned not to look at his students directly. Rather he allowed his gaze to pass swiftly over the tops of their heads, unless, of course, the heavens fell, and someone asked him a question. Then he would fix the presumptuous fellow (as the fellow usually was) with an attention so intense the student often stammered. However, Skizzen also knew how important it was to treat every query with polite and devoted concern, to let his look rise eventually, as if it were seeking a solution in the skies. This upward gaze was not entirely for show, since his answers were often made up and he might well have found them there — immersed in cloud.
My name is Joseph Skizzen. I have written my office hours on the board. He looked at the board. I should say I’ve printed. He smiled into a silence wholly empty of affect. I mean I’ve lettered my name there where you see it. I encourage you to come to me about any relevant concerns. If you can’t speak to me after class, make an appointment. He stood in a puddle of silence as though he had wet his pants. Oh my, that was an additional worry. By now everybody should have a copy of the syllabus. There is one at just those seats I want you to occupy. Up front. I shall wait while you resettle yourselves … The game is called “musical chairs.” In … He had made another big mistake. They were not used to this. It also defeated the democracy of the classroom.
[Pause whilst everyone repositions.]
During this semester we shall be following the course of contemporary music, by which I mean those composers who flourished from, roughly, the turn of the century to this one’s belly-button, which, if you haven’t forgotten, is halfway.
Someone tittered. Good. Who? it wasn’t the youngster with the pageboy haircut; it wasn’t the medallion examiner; and ankle bracelet hadn’t missed a jink. He had committed a stupid bit of high school humor. It was a measure of his nervousness.
He suddenly recalled a ramshackle London classroom where everyone sat in all kinds of chairs the teacher had collected, each with a name pasted on it. Why had he not remembered this experience earlier, when he was contemplating the installation of a similar kindergarten regimen?
Those who like to christen schools of literature, art, and music often overlook differences in order to hang their chosen clothes in the same closet, but we shall pay particular attention to them. To differences, I mean. Not only do many streams feed our river, it, in turn, forks as often as you do at dinner. From the Boy a smile — beatific. Joseph was so lacking in confidence by this time, small gratuities were gratefully received.
Where had the clothes and the closet come from? Joseph thought he had worried about every eventuality, but lecturing had dangers he had not anticipated. You might fail for words or lose the thread or express yourself poorly. Now he knew that you might also run on, revealing yourself not your subject as you rambled. Because, when a house had been found for Miriam and Deborah, he had wanted his clothes to hang in the same closet as his sister’s and had a tantrum when his wish was laughingly denied.
He proceeded to explain the mechanics of the course and hand out a sheet on which texts and assignments, as well as points of examination, were listed. Then he realized that he had already placed one on each chair’s swollen arm. To signify where he wanted them to sit. So he waved his extras as if at a gnat. Of particular concern were the pieces he expected the students to listen (even attend) to. These were listed beneath each reading and were starred: essential, three, suggested, two, additional, one. By asterisks. Find them? … the asterisks? His tongue was as furry as a sheep is … furry. Okay.