My parents loved the big bands, polkas, and what they called "real" classical music — i.e. the music of Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and most of their contemporaries. They disliked the music of Gustav Mahler, Arnold Schoenberg, and anything else they deemed to be "noise." To my dismay, they also lumped the Beatles in that category. Otherwise, I accepted their musical taste without question.
When I was studying in Vienna during my junior year in college, a friend urged me to take a course about 20th century music taught by Professor Klaus Peter Sattler. Feeling a bit queasy, I signed up for the year-long course. At the first class, Prof. Sattler introduced himself as a working composer who had studied with Gottfried von Einem and Friedrich Cerha. He then outlined what we'd be studying. To my cringing dismay, the course would cover all the music I'd learned from my parents to not accept as music — beginning with Richard Wagner's Tristan und Isolde and the music of Gustav Mahler.
After the class, I went up to Prof. Sattler, introduced myself, and said that unfortunately I didn't think I belonged in his class.
"Why?" he said with an expression of genuine interest.
"Well, I don't like 20th century music."
"Why?"
"I don't like the way it sounds."
"Why?"
At this point, I was flummoxed. I had no answer for him, and was wondering why he didn't accept the answers I'd given.
He smiled and said, "When you can tell me why, with specific examples and explanations, then I will accept that you don't belong here. But right now, I think that you definitely belong in this class."
To my surprise, I realized that what he said made sense. I really didn't know specifically why I didn't like the music — why it sounded the way it did to me, for example — and maybe I needed to find out. So I remained in the class.
We began with the late 19th century, then the changes that came in the early 20th century with new ways to organize music, and how visual art mirrored those changes. We listened to Mahler, Wagner, the Viennese School, experimental music, and atonal music — and I learned to think more like a composer when listening to music.
To my surprise, I liked Arnold Schoenberg's music. Once I understood what he was doing, I also understood that he was successful. It did take a while to get used to the sound of it, but at least I knew the reason: his unconventional organization of tones.
Another composer whose music blew me away was Witold Lutoslawski. I fell in love with his string quartet and actually bought a recording once I'd returned home. (I did not, however, play it for my parents.)
Luciano Berio also became a favorite. He had experimented with taped sounds and music in order to create his pieces. I am still riveted by his Homage to Joyce. After I moved to the Twin Cities, I attended a Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra concert dedicated to Berio's music, conducted by Dennis Russell Davies. The composer was in attendance — as well as soprano Cathy Berberian, who had worked closely with him.
Prof. Sattler opened my ears as well as my mind, and I will be forever grateful for that. He also taught me an important lesson that I've used in every area of my life: to not dismiss something until I understood what it was and had tried it. Now, when someone tells me that he or she hates modern music, I ask "Why?" and smile.
Cinda Yager writes essays, fiction, and two blogs in Minneapolis. She loves classical music and has just published an e-book novel set in the classical music world, Perceval's Secret.
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