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American Magic and Dread
From the Crying Aesthetic to Zooropa
Tracing Revolution from Schoenberg to U2
by ADM
There is no melody, only notes, a myriad of tiny jolts.… It is a small happiness of Nausea.
— JeanPaul Sartre, Nausea
It started when Bono walked into the studio one day with those fly shades…It was like a whole
moving into a more ironic point of view.
—The Edge, U2
The big players: Schoenberg, Cage, Coltrane, Sex Pistols, U2.
The big ideas: Commodification, Authorship, Intensity, Revolution.
Schoenberg lost his lay audience because of his obsessive attention to composing. Designs too
intricate to hear sacrifice popularity for intellect, clarity for selfsatisfaction. After Schoenberg,
music moved toward an avantgarde that could reach the masses without destroying the
integrity of the composer. Had Schoenberg written symphonies aimed at appealing to his
audience’s aesthetic sensibilities, his feeling of artistic significance may have been ruined. The
music discipline for nearly a century seems to have been yearning for a synthesis of innovation,
beauty, and intellect that would have a broad, appeal to the untrained ear. This movement
drove the careers of many major figures in twentiethcentury music in Classical, Jazz, Punk, and
Rock, but is perhaps best exemplified in the works of Schoenberg, John Cage, John Coltrane, the
Sex Pistols, and, today, U2.
Each of these artists, in attempts to reach the best form of music (for both themselves and their
audience) had to balance many elements, artistically and personally. They each found ways of
coping with the necessary commodification of their music, their authorship of a given piece, the
intensity and predictably of their lives and work, the deconstruction of previous rules of music,
and the construction of new ones. Over the last hundred years or so, the ways in which artists
have addressed these concerns has changed significantly, but their actions seem to be moving
away from the obsessive composer alienating his audience, toward the ironic band parodying
and commodifying themselves to critical applause. In tracing music from Schoenberg to U2, we
will see shifts and cycles from severity to laughter, from the modern to the postmodern, from
nausea to elation.
This is a piece which never fails to move and impress me,
but always leaves me feeling a little bit sick.
—Leonard Bernstein, on Schoenberg’s Pierrot Lunaire (1912)
Schoenberg, in his prime (c. 19001915), did not have to worry about selling records. Young and
brilliant, he spent his hours wondering at the reinvention of music. His approach could afford
to be purely intellectual, if only because the people he needed to impress were those who could
understand what he was doing, and who would (at least temporarily) put questions of euphony
aside. The mathematical relationships of one note to another, the exploration of the twelve
tones, the use of dissonance concerned Schoenberg more than the broad appeal of his music. His
is a deep music, one which pushes beyond the ear, and into the higher functions of the mind.
One might argue that Schoenberg brought the modern preoccupation with science into his
compositions, discovering the underlying truth of music through a scientific method.
In the process of discovering the truth, Schoenberg descended so deeply into his music, he
alienated his audience. Possibly, he had no desire to hold onto an audience beyond academics
and composers, but his impact on music may have been greater had his compositions been able
to appeal to the listener’s sense of beauty and harmony. Instead, obsessed with authorship,
Schoenberg wrote music that lingers in the collections of the few who understand what he did
to music.1
1Perhaps Schoenberg’s disciples were more concerned with commercial success than the
masters. One of his apprentices, Anton Webern, wrote many extremely short pieces, each just
long enough to fill one side (three minutes) of a 78rpm record.
Perhaps angered with the state of his contemporary musicians, and tired of the same old thing,
Schoenberg dispensed with the old rules to bring a level of intensity and unpredictability to
music. Other artists of the period were engrossed in ideas of banality and regularity. The
greatest novel of the period, James Joyce’s Ulysses, chronicles an average man’s average day in
Dublin, ironically alluding to Homer’s Odyssey, a epic of heroes and beasts. T.S. Eliot yearned
for regeneration of a cultural wasteland, in which people spoke flatly of a cultural tradition they
knew nothing about. Schoenberg’s work reacts against the sullenness of culture, challenging
audiences to question longheld tenets about the nature of music.
The intensity of his work grows because of its unpredictability. Because only the most
knowledgeable composers can predict the direction of a given piece, his work to everyone else as
a chaotic assemblage of notes. The jarring notes of “Moonfleck,” a portion of his Pierrot Lunaire ,
are innovative, to be sure, but as Bernstein suggests, they also inspire nausea. To Schoenberg,
however, this reaction is not necessarily negative. If he intended to overcome his audience’s
sense of unchanging drudgery, nausea is an appropriate response: we can appreciate the genius
of the music without enjoying its sound.
If someone kicked me—not my music, but me—then I might com
plain. But if they kicked my music…then who am I to complain?
—John Cage
After Schoenberg faded, certain members of the musical avantgarde seemed to realize the
danger of obsessing over composition, of losing the ability to laugh at oneself. Composers
moved toward methods of including their audiences in the production of the works, a major
step that took away the hierarchy involved in one person defining high art for an audience of
millions. Where Schoenberg tossed many of music’s rules, and replaced them with complex
formulas, the new avantgarde departed almost altogether from composition. In extreme cases,
such as some of the work of John Cage, the composer contributes only the idea for the piece, not
the specific notes or elements. Cage’s most famous work, 4'33", involved a pianist sitting in
silence for 4 minutes and 33 seconds, the only sound being the audience’s. “Compositions” such
as these deemphasized the role of the artist while more directly involving the audience, albeit
reluctantly, in the production process. Such a reliance on the audience removed the music from
the composer’s identity, thereby dissipating the kind of bonds Schoenberg felt toward his music.
Where in Schoenberg, the music alienates the audience, in Cage the audience is wrapped up in
it, and the composer is alienated. Works such as 4'33" once again reject traditional standards of
music, even the recent ones Schoenberg established, but fail to posit a new standard.
The lack of a standard in Cage’s eventually unnerved audiences who perhaps already were
uncomfortable at being used as living instruments in his work. Cage’s music, by the nature of it,
could not be constant — it changed with each performance — but neither could it be aurally
pleasing, mostly because the unpredictability factor rose too high. Since so little endured from
one night to the next, an audience could not trace or admire whatever beauty there may have
been in his work. Many compositions not only were unpredictable, but mostly random. Based
on the sounds of men tuning radios, broken pianos, and the nervous coughs of audience
members, Cage’s work evaded all efforts to transpose a logic on top of it. “This logic was not
put there by me, but was the result of chance operations. The thought that it is logical grows up
in you.… I think…that when we use our perception of logic we minimize the actual nature of the
thing we are experiencing,” explained Cage.
The absence of logic made it nearly impossible to commodify Cage’s work, a side effect Cage no
doubt anticipated. But by this time in the century, commodification served as the primary
means of establishing something in culture. If it couldn’t be advertised, mass produced, and
purchased, its effects could be only ephemeral. Cage’s music existed only in the presence of an
audience. As with Schoenberg, the novelty —perhaps the genius — of Cage’s work lost its
audience, which grew estranged with each further attempt to embrace it. With neither the
composer nor the listeners identifying with the music, it died.
Sometimes, I wish I could walk up to my music as if for the first
time, as if I had never heard it before. Being so inescapably a
part of it, I’ll never know what the listener gets, what the lis
tener feels, and that’s too bad.
—John Coltrane
Cage’s deconstruction of music occurred along side the rise of a far more melodic music of
harmony and ecstasy: Jazz. From the beginning, Jazz was an interactive music, designed to elicit
strong reactions from the audience, so they would feel the intensity of the musician. Jazz is a
music of people fed up with hierarchies and predetermined definitions of art. Spontaneous,
rhythmic, and rebellious, Jazz almost always has been on the avantgarde of the music scene.
One of its most talented practitioners, saxophonist and composer John Coltrane, helped
revolutionize Jazz with the “cool” and “hard bop” styles, both meticulously composed but
augmented with improvisation, and then moved into the deep fury of Free Jazz, a complicated,
chaotic form pioneered by Ornette Coleman. Having reached the limits of jazz composition,
Coltrane went beyond into previously untested territories. He rejected the tight structure of
earlier Jazz and drove toward a transcendent music, unwritten and unrehearsed, that would
propel him and his audience out of elation, through hysteria, and into what he called “unity.”
In some way, Om and music like it collapses the entirety of life into a moment. Being drawn into
a music such as this not only rejects old beliefs about the nature and purpose of art, but inspires
the doubting of issues outside the music. The sounds go beyond eliciting particular emotions,
and into promoting an altered state of being. Somewhere, Coltrane becomes more an instrument
than a composer. Music passes through him into the audience without apparent direction or
goal. No critic can classify the reaction of a listener. “If you find yourself responding…with any
feeling — listen on,” Nat Hentoff wrote in the album’s liner notes.
Each of Coltrane’s notes vanish for him as soon as he play them. Although others may record
and remember them, the producer of the notes only knows the intense magic of playing.
Problematically, the audience seems able to get something from the music Coltrane himself
cannot: the ability to hear it objectively. Unable to know or even separate himself from the
music, Coltrane cannot objectify it. Where Cage pushed his music away from him, Coltrane
(alienated from his own music) yearns to hold onto it, but realizes he can savor only the playing,
and gives the music to his audience. Only by playing can he know the intensity his audience
feels. Cage once described his own music as “a nonsentient being,” but with Coltrane, the
music gains its life through a kind of tacit contract with his audience, in which together they
generate an enormous energy. However, Coltrane seems to end up with the lesser reward,
because he works while his audience listens, and reacts to the music as they please.
The energy generated in the performance could not be commodified. Instead, people in effect
commodified Coltrane himself by giving him money to play and elicit some kind of response in
them. Once they left the performance, their use for him evaporated, and he was left with no one
to play for him. Heroin was the only agent capable of doing for him what he had done for his
audience.
Coltrane’s unlikely successors in spirit were the Sex Pistols. A band born of a wily manager’s
greed, the Pistols began as a commodity. Packaged, labeled, and marketed to a cynical youth,
the Pistols were an ingenious way of capitalizing on a bratty generation’s weak efforts to reject
capitalism. In their early days, they were among the avantgarde, and changed the direction of
rockandroll, but remained pathetically unaware of their status as consumable goods. Like
Coltrane, the Pistols moved their audiences to frenzy, but when the crowds went home, they
remained alone and used, blindly navigating their way through fame and wealth. Despite their
antics, the Pistols were perhaps the most predictable of all the musicians mentioned here.
Though they succeeded in challenging and rewriting music, the Pistols failed to separate their
music from themselves, and could not cope with the intensity of their lives when their success
finally outgrew their abilities to manage it. They imploded in a haze of drugs and violence.
We’re a little more relaxed at this point in time about being a big
band, because we’ve turned it into a part of the creative process.
—U2’s The Edge
Schoenberg wrote brilliant music, but no one could stand to listen. Cage opened his arms to his
audience, but then squeezed to tight. Coltrane gave his audience too much, and himself not
enough. Gluttony and lack of irony killed the Sex Pistols. The band would have been perfect,
but they couldn’t support their own size, and couldn’t laugh at their largesse. A band so big
needs awareness of its shortcomings, its excesses, its abilities. They must find the balance
between the brilliant and the pleasing; they must receive from their audiences as much as they
give. To retain its artistic integrity, a band must change not only what came before it, but change
itself over the years, and change what will come after it.
U2 is synthesis. Since their beginning, they have changed rockandroll, consistently won critical
praise, played with astonishing intensity, and destroyed themselves only to resurge stronger
than before. While perfecting their music, they watched the Sex Pistols, and then Punk, shoot
skyward and fizzle. Within a few years, U2’s work culminated in Joshua Tree, and they became
the biggest band in the world. When the Pistols reached the pinnacle of their popularity, they
autodestructed. In the same position, U2 did the same, but only on an artistic level, with Rattle
& Hum, an explosion of blues that stunned music and seemed almost entirely removed from
anything they had done before. The subsequent release of Achtung, Baby! introduced a wholly
restructured band, with a new persona and radically different music.
That album begins with the pounding of drums overloading the input channels on a mixer.
With these opening sounds, U2 indicates their newfound sense of irony. They show awareness
of their medium, and of the ways to subvert that medium. The drums suggest the band is
pretending to be too powerful for the medium, the compact disc is not as sonically perfect as
assumed, or they are playing with the limits of popular acceptance. (They repeat this effect in
the closing moments of Zooropa, in which an alarm sounds, perhaps to warn of what the next
album.) U2 seems to be saying, We can do these things because we are U2. While this would
seem at first blush to be a statement of conceit, it is instead one of fact. The band can begin an
album with garbage, and move into a display of brilliant talent.
The last three U2 albums (Rattle & Hum, Achtung Baby, and Zooropa) clearly illustrate the band’s
willingness to innovate. Perhaps they feel as Schoenberg did, that music for too long had
survived on rehashings of old forms, or more specifically, that the band was in danger of
surviving on rehashed material. This drive toward innovation prevents them from becoming
stale, but the band still toys with the notion of themselves as only musical commodities. The
lyrics to the title track on Zooropa, for example, derive mostly from advertising slogans. By
ironically reappropriating the phrases into their music, the band affirms their originality and
their position as consumer goods.
U2’s recent tours have further emphasized the band’s ironic representation of themselves. The
unprecedented ZooTV tour blended the band’s music with the satellite television images, on
stage cellular phone calls, and giant video screens. Tens of thousands see the same image, hear
the same words in the same place at the same moment. Guitarist The Edge suggests the band
was trying to create “information central, whatever that is.” U2, in some sense, is the
information central of music. They have processed history, learned from their own and other
artists’ mistakes, considered cultural movements outside their discipline, and handled their fame
with a smiling irony.
Sources:
Jones and Wilson, An Incomplete Education, 1987.
John Beverley, The Ideology Of Postmodern Music And Left Politics, Critical Quarterly, 1989.
Mondo 2000, interview with U2
Partial Discography:
Laurie Andersen, Big Science
Laurie Andersen, Strange Angels
John Coltrane, Blue Train
John Coltrane, Om
Lou Reed, Magic and Loss
Schoenberg, Pierrot Lunaire
U2, Achtung Baby!
U2,Rattle & Hum
U2, Zooropa
Tom Waits, Bone Machine