Why do composers bother?

Some thoughts on what motivates a composer to write music.

“Late Beethoven, it’s a load of rubbish isn’t it?”. So began the viva voce exam marking the end of my 3-year degree course. Late Beethoven, for the record, is not a load of rubbish. But it’s not an easy listen, often difficult to understand. And I had to say something convincing to the panel of examiners who knew that it wasn’t rubbish but wanted to hear what rubbish I’d come out with to defend it.

A few years later, I attended a performance of a work by the 20th Century composer, Edgar Varese. I didn’t get it at all. Strange, sometimes unpleasant, seemingly disconnected sounds proceeded for what seemed a very long time. A man sitting nearby became increasingly agitated and eventually angry. “This is an insult”, he growled. When the performance finished, his wife, with a weak smile,  looked around for support  from the surrounding listeners (she received none) and twittered (perhaps a little embarrassed) “is this music?!!”.

 Not long after, I sat through a performance of the much discussed, seminal (and many other adjectives) Pierrot Lunaire by Arnold Schoenberg. I hated it. Actually, I’d go further and say I loathed it. I’d hoped not to, but I’d listened to it as a student and hated it then. It came up in concert and I wanted to hear whatever was being played in the second half. I resolved to listen to Pierrot in the hope that I would be enlightened and understand it better. I wasn’t, I didn’t and I’m not exaggerating when I say that I had to force myself to stay in my seat and not walk out. It’s the only piece of music I’ve ever heard which genuinely makes me feel both anxious and physically nauseous.

Why do composers write music like this? Why create something that will provoke, confuse, upset or even repel listeners? Don’t they want to be liked? For that matter, don’t they want people to listen to their music, or even enjoy it? Some do, some do not. Aaron Copland (composer of the popular ballets Appalachian Spring, Billy the Kid and Rodeo) was originally seen as a modernist composer but soon realised that his music would need to appeal to a wider audience if he was to make any money. As a result, he started to compose in a more accessible style which brought him much admiration without sacrificing his ideals. Others held more rigidly to their artistic principals and achieved neither popularity or currency.

I’m currently thinking of writing a new piece of music, secure in the knowledge that it might never be performed. More about that later. That understanding set me thinking about the motivation for composers doing what they do.

In the time of Bach, Handel, Mozart and Haydn, composers  either needed a stable job or relied on the patronage of the wealthy and influential in order to survive. Bach held numerous positions as a church musician. Not surprisingly, he composed a vast amount of music for church choirs, services and organists and music for educational use (when teaching his pupils). Haydn held down a position, for nearly three decades, as court composer to the House of Esterhazy, writing music for the Prince and his court events, for the Prince himself to play and for use when teaching the prince’s children. In this system, there was a need to give the boss what he wanted. If Prince Nicholas had guests round for dinner, he didn’t want them put off their fish course by unpleasant or experimental music played by his court musicians. That’s not to say a composer couldn’t express themselves and Bach certainly pushed the envelope when he composed his B Minor Mass or St Matthew Passion. But there was certainly a need to put bread on the table and that wouldn’t happen if a composer became too self-indulgent.

Composers could also write to commission. A nobleman might like the idea of impressing his friends by drawing their attention to a new work dedicated to him. This is how works such as Beethoven’s Rasumovsky Quartets came about. The income would not only pay the bills but sometimes give them the financial breathing space to work on music for their own pleasure/needs. This system of patronage begain to dwindle in the 19th century although some composers continued to benefit from the support of rich benefactors (not least Tchaikovsky, who received both financial and moral support from the wealthy businesswoman Madame von Meck, with whom he corresponded regularly, exchanging some 1,200 letters, but who he never actually met).

To make up for the loss of ‘donors’, composers would sometimes mount concerts in the hope that ticket sales might keep them afloat for a while. Although Handel wrote The Music for the Royal Fireworks for King George, someone spotted an opportunity and made the rehearsals public, which drew crowds of up to 12,000 people willing to pay for the pleasure of hearing this new music. Beethoven’s 5th Symphony was premiered at a concert given for his benefit. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an instant success – the programme, which included the premiere of the 5th and 6th Symphonies, his 4th Piano Concerto, Choral Fantasia and movements from his Mass in C Major, lasted 4 hours! The theatre was cold and the orchestra did not play well. Sometimes, less is more…

In the 20th and 21st centuries, composers might receive grants or other funding (sometimes from competition or festival organisers who want a ‘test piece’ or something to mark an occasion). Orchestras will sometimes appoint a composer-in-residence, giving the composer not only an income, but also the luxury of knowing that their music will, for a time,  at least receive a premiere. At the coronation of King Charles, there were a few new works written and performed. The most thrilling, for me, was a setting of the kyrie (in Welsh) by the composer Paul Mealor. Only three minutes long, this was the most exciting thing I’d heard in ages. There’s already at least one performance of it on Youtube by an amateur choir and it deserves to become a staple of the choral repertoire. On a larger scale, Benjamin Britten was asked to write something for the consecration of the rebuilt Coventry Cathedral in 1962. Rather than compose something celebratory, he produced, instead, his War Requiem – one of the great choral masterpieces of the 20th Century.

Writing to order can arguably require some compromise on the part of the composer. John Williams, the most successful and possibly the greatest of film composers, admitted recently that he doesn’t really rate film music very highly. The estimated $100-$300 million dollars he is believed to be worth will certainly support him while he composes music for his own pleasure (which he does and which is actually very unlike his distinctive film music style). He has, of course, given a huge amount of pleasure to a great many people, inspired many musicians and enhanced many films. I think that entitles him to write music that he believes in.

Many composers will unfortunately, remain unknown and grateful for any performances that their music will receive. When I have been working with choirs or orchestras or in schools in the past, I have been very lucky that they have been willing to sing or play some of my music. Indeed, some of my musicals for children have been performed two or three times over the years (although I didn’t get paid for them!). But, at the moment, not being attached to any groups, I can make my music available for purchase online but do so knowing that sales will be slow and small. It’s certainly true that I’m no businessman and have little or no talent for publicising my work. I do look for advice online and occasionally make an effort to get myself noticed but, to be honest, I have no enthusiasm for it and would rather spend my time writing something else. When a piece I’ve published is actually bought by someone, it’s always a pleasant surprise to get an email telling me I might have earned as much as £20!

But I know that any music I arrange or write now may never reach the ears of an audience. And even those which have been performed in the past may never be heard again. So why do I bother? I suppose because I enjoy the artistic process. In the same way that an artist may like the feel of a pencil or brush in their hand, I like the whole (sometimes infuriating) process of thinking about what I’m doing, trying ideas, hating some, pruning others and then critiquing the finished result. There’s a ‘jigsaw puzzle’ aspect to it, of working out where this piece goes or trying to establish what might fit into this space.

I would imagine that the same has been true for greater creative artists than me in the past – satisfying the need to create sometimes has to be enough. But it’s a funny thing – a baker can create a wonderful cake and be sure that someone will taste it. An artist can produce an epic landscape and almost certainly find somewhere to hang it or show it online. But the composer, unless they write for an instrument that they play in public or that they can record, relies on other people’s willingness to perform their music in order for it to have any meaning. We need someone else to give voice to our work. There is doubt as to whether Bach’s B Minor Mass was actually performed in his lifetime. Scholars cannot agree. If this is the case, and if it really wasn’t performed in public until after his death, perhaps the rest of us shouldn’t complain and should consider ourselves in good company.