He looked so… downtrodden, trained on the floor — his jaw twitching; his fingers flexing and relaxing. His gaze jumped up to yours, the gentleness in his features returning. That was something you welcomed. He gave you a nod goodbye, and you grabbed him instinctively.
You covered up your pain in a silent whimper and a slight bite to your cheek. The yellow light that signaled he was about to say what he should, instead of what he wanted. Credit to MjrGenMatt for the "twenty-nine times," line. Pure spark of inspiration from him, that one. Just thought I'd drop a note real quick to say that I've updated my profile to tell you guys a little bit about myself. I've never had any amount of feedback in this volume, and you've all made this experience a tremendously enjoyable one; especially since this is my first time doing a Reader Insert.
It's nothing long, or special, but I thought maybe it would be a nice gesture. I don't know. I'm weird. Anyway, this week is gonna be a long one for me - lots of stuff going on at work.
I'm going to try my hardest to get another chapter soon, I promise! Connor stood in the corner, watching Jeff and Hank go at it…. You faced the office, ankles folded on your knees on either side of your desks. I hope. He crossed his arms, staring into the resting screen of his terminal.
He looked back at you, and gave you a quick series of nods before rolling himself closer to his keyboard. Other issued equipment must also be surrendered, for example, uniform and police equipment, including personal protective equipment, force-issued mobile phones and laptops or other electronic devices.
You will be notified of the welfare services provided by the Detroit City Police Department. If you wish to leave that address for any period of time outside of granted annual leave, you must inform the Professional Standards Department and your appointed welfare contact. You will not be allowed to be unescorted within police premises. Nothing within this procedure is designed to place restrictions on friendships with colleagues and normal social contact should be maintained, unless this is contrary to bail conditions or specific directions.
I confirm that this document has been drafted to comply with the principles of the Human Rights Act and Equal Opportunity legislation as per force guidance-. You are a police Lieutenant , you are supposed to do what I say, and shut your goddamn mouth! The corners of his mouth teetered on a frown, trying to smile at you.
His eyes were sad, even as he stood there with his hands clasped in front of him. This conversation is over! Hank put his hands on his hips, looking to the side. Either you do your job, or you hand in your badge. You know what kind of liability you are to this police department, right now? That, is a machine. Built of parts and plastic that can be manufactured by the dozens. Out there? He's a father. A husband. And there will never be another human being exactly.
There will never be another human being like you. They killed, my partner. Go home. Hank swore under his breath as his hands squeaked against the glass, the door slamming behind him.
Fowler picked up a mug, one just like yours, with the same damn coffee. Your handle was on the door. You were so close. You turned around, finding Connor watching you with a sympathetic look. You unclipped your badge, tossing it on his desk with a flick of your wrist.
It landed with a heavy thud, sliding along the glossy wood. You tried to sigh, but your stomach stopped you. Your eyes flickered, popping the bullet from the chamber and letting it hit the floor.
You ejected the clip. You tossed the gun, too. You had your back to him. You focused on Connor, who was patiently holding the door open for you with a smile on his face…. Your locker clicked, your hand almost denting the thin sheet of aluminum.
You pulled a cream thermal over a tank top, slipping your thumbs through the holes stitched in to the ends of the sleeves. You pushed the button of your jeans through the hole, cautiously taking a seat on the bench.
It hurt to bend over, pushing your feet through a pair of snow boots. You slowly raised your neck to meet it, finding the face of someone much different than before the interrogation. Tired, sure. Stressed, definitely. But something inside you had changed. You lifted your shirt, and the thin barrier underneath it. You twisted to see the bruise that painted a target in vibrant blues, purples, and reds.
It was , after all. You shook your head, leaving the locker room and making your way through the hallways that were choking with ever-increasing traffic. When you rounded the corner, Chris was still slurping on liquified plant, watching a scene play out only a few feet away from your desk. He exhaled, grabbing Connor by the collar of his shirt, slamming him against the wall.
Hank let out a final, angry grunt; shoving himself away from Connor. I asked you if you were coming. They've been instrumental in my development and have been a wonderful support system, much like all of you. If you want to check out their stuff, just click on the links above. A different plane of time where you were given the wind-up watch with hands on your wrist, maybe the last one in Detroit.
That, and the heirloom revolver passed down from your closest family member, one with a recoil almost as unpredictable as you. You were off the grid. No phone, no laptop; nothing but a pencil and a flip notebook in your lap, your fingers pushed through thumbholes on your sleeves as you drummed an eraser against paper.
The hood of your thermal bunched behind your neck, almost forming a pillow. The seal of your window hovered just below your line of sight. You needed to guarantee no one noticed you. You needed to be able to see outside…because this was a stake-out.
Detective Collins and Lieutenant Anderson were interviewing suspects across the street, their jackets slick and beaded with water. They dismissed their informants, rejoining near the edge of the sidewalk. Connor returned outside, the door to a supermarket shutting behind him. Officer Chris Miller trips on untied shoelaces.
It did. A noise broke through the gentle trickle of rain dripping between the gap of the roof and your window. A harsh screeching — like metal scrapping along concrete; fighting against rusted hinges. You looked up, your head rising only an inch.
A little girl walked out with the woman. Your eyes widened, and you hunkered down — pinning your side against your door. You flipped your notebook shut, stuffing it in your glove box and dropping your pencil on your floor mat.
You opened your door, staying crouched as you exited the car — locking it up behind you with a flick of your thumb. Your hands traced the outside, your fingertips curling around the trim as you peeked towards Anderson and the rest of them.
They were all talking. You lifted your hood over your hat. You stood up straight, ignoring the agonizing tension in your stomach. You stuffed your wet hands in your pockets. You made the mental note, the deviant and child rushing along the edge of your view. You blew a soggy strand of hair away from your eyes, keeping your head down. The soles of your boots stuck to the ground and released slick noises, your wet footprints bleeding into the drenched cement.
The black plastic flared as two officers walked by — headed towards you. You rolled your shoulder along a decorative column of a storefront, pressing your back to the bricks lining the glass. You rolled up your sleeve, watching clock hands tick by. The officers passed you without a second glance, and you stepped back down on the sidewalk, just in time to see the AX returning the umbrella. You played back the information from the report in your mind.
Clumsy reasons. Falling down stairs. Being assaulted by protestors, with no record of an insurance claim being filed. Hit by a vehicle. And when she ran, she kidnapped a little girl? All you had to do was get her to talk. Gain her trust. Not get hurt again. The AX looked behind her, and you turned your head; twisting your body to the side to avoid hitting someone.
When you refocused your attention, you found her facing forward — the two of them walking much faster, right up until they dove under an overhang covering an ATM. He hooked his thumbs on his beltloops, pushing the flaps of his coat up with his elbows and locking his fingers on his hips. Chris Miller: Great cop, horrible criminal.
His skin was glazed by the rain, his hair slightly frazzled as loose strands dripped. His jacket sagged; a heavy mantle shifting in unison with the broad shoulders it was hung upon. His white button-up was transparent as it clung to his chest, sculpted and hidden under a slick tie. His brow was creased in a scowl, focused on his target.
He turned to his side, slipping between two people walking in opposite directions. He gently pushed someone out of his way, his palm slipping from their shoulder. When he broke free from the sidewalk traffic, his fists bunched at his sides as his pursuit quickened. Your chin snapped forward. The AX shuffled the little girl up the sidewalk, looking over her shoulder with fear twitching on her features.
He rushed passed you, gone in a blur. As if on cue, the train screeched overhead along the monorail. It came to a crawl, nearing the station only a few blocks up. Connor turned a sharp corner to the right. They knew it. Connor knew it. You knew it. You looked down an alley.
A fence divider barred the outside edge of a sidewalk, running parallel to yours. You ran down the length of it as fast as your wounds would allow, weaving around trash cans and stray cats — your boots splashing water as they stomped through puddles. Your fingers latched between the steel links that built the fence, rattling as they halted your momentum.
The holographic message glitched along the end of the muddy ramp below you. Two figures leapt over the guard rail…and stepped on to the highway. Not a chance. You looked to your right. A bridge mended the gap between each side of the highway, only one corner away. Next half of this chapter should hopefully be up tomorrow night, Friday night; or Saturday afternoon at the latest.
Working hard! Thank you for all the feedback. I enjoy hearing from all of you so much, and I'm sorry if the constant "thank you's" in return are getting annoying!
See the end of the chapter for more notes. Small clouds escaped your mouth, each falling farther behind as you picked up speed. You darted past curious pedestrians that were reduced to swatches of color and turning heads.
Your neck cranked to the left, following the scratchy howl from Lieutenant Anderson. He punched the fence along the highway. You buckled over, clasping your stomach as you tried to catch your breath. Connor ran headfirst into oncoming traffic, leaping with precision only an android could facilitate…and then he jumped.
He dodged them as they tried to trample him. Flatten him. Impale him with bumpers and parade his body around in a gory display of victory. His side hit the wet road, gliding along the surface — his head missing a tire by inches; a carbon-black hoof with treads that sprayed water on him as it passed. The scene came as flashes between the backs of heads. Breaks in the chain links. Gut-wrenching close-calls and the roars of engines that came too close for comfort.
Your pace quickened, your breaths coming in sharp, short pants. You met the end of the bridge, given a clear view of the manhunt underneath you. Every scene, every action taken, every shift in lanes of the figures sprinting across — all of it slowed down to fractions of seconds.
The deviant pushing Alice to safety, finally crossing the highway. His stumble backwards, aligning himself with a windshield and a hood and-. There were so many things you had to say — so many things you wanted to hear.
Things you wanted to investigate far worse than anything else. The guilty glances that found you far too often to be coincidental. The tension in his form whenever you veered too close; the smiles he pointed at you before they were corrected. What he had to say at the police station before being torn away by pre-programmed orders.
Cold fear melted into resolve — boiled away by an intense fluttering in your chest. Your lips parted, your throat constricted, and your stomach muscles braced for impact as you forced a warning from your mind to your mouth:. There was a crash.
A metal crunch and shattering glass. A frigid intake that pushed the last ounce of heat from your body as you trembled. There was an accident; one vehicle rear-ending another, behind you on the bridge. Two drivers yelling at each other, the guilty party apologizing for being distracted by the crowd.
It underlined the reason automatic cars had been designed and put into production along their specialized highways. You reverted your focus to the one below you — the one that had two deviants scuttling to freedom on one side, and an android stuck in the middle. Connor was staring at them; hands balled in frustration. But he was alive. You turned on your heel, rounding the corner and taking off down a street. Alice dropped down from climbing over a fence, her deviant caretaker in tow.
You were spotted. They ran. The alley was dark and damp, walled off by a dead end. A dumpster lined the left with a retracted fire escape hovering above. Empty crates, abandoned pallets of wood, and aluminum trashcans littered the perimeter.
The world seesawed in distorted motion, curving and stretching. It was hard to breathe. Hard to think. Your wound pulsed; an epicenter of immense pain. Your legs gave out in the aftershock, and you went crashing onto the drenched pavement.
Your gun skittered away. You wound in a coil, your knees brushing against your elbows. It was like someone was driving the heel of their boot into your intestines, ignoring your begging for mercy. The deviant tossed your arm over her shoulder, pulling you to your feet. You walked in a limp as she guided you to a crate and lowered you down into a seat.
She knelt, keeping Alice behind her. Her hair was short and blonde, her eyes a piercing blue. You remembered the flood of emotions that fueled you before you took a bullet for Connor. The intense need to guard him, no matter how irrational it seemed.
You knew how she felt, somewhat. Your indebted feelings towards him were a bit different than the dynamic between Kara and Alice, though. Kara jumped as you reached into your pocket, your arm shaking while you dug for your wallet.
You pulled it out with your last bit of strength, pushing a breath from your nose. Most humans hate androids. Kara tucked your emptied wallet in your jacket, and handed you your gun.
You looked over your shoulder, and the two of them stood there in the rain. Kara watched you like a mother wolf, ready to devour anyone who stepped too close to her cub. And Alice…. The front seat of your car had never been so welcoming. You turned the knob for the heater, a blast of cold air stinging your face. A notebook was resting on the cushion, the pencil tucked neatly in the rings of the binding.
Your notebook. With your pencil. You grimaced as your stomach pinched, now tied in knots rather than flaring nerves from behind-armor-blunt-trauma. Your fingers trembled as they retrieved the item, flipping to a page marked by a folded corner.
To fulfill optimal health conditions, you must rest. I would find anything less than a full recovery extremely unsettling. Please do not make me reset my system due to software instabilities. I do not wish to forget you.
You threw your transmission in park, pulling the keys from their slot and shoving your notebook in your jacket. You got out of your car, using the roof and edge of the window as an ergonomic crutch. She can be temperamental. You turned your head, eyeing the vehicles that cost a small fortune lining up around yours.
The people in suits and dresses that left them; cell phones glued to their ears — not even looking at the androids as they dropped their keys in their palms. The people who gave you weird looks, silently judging your attire and transportation relic behind you.
The android froze in the middle of taking a seat. You tried to huddle in a corner — your clothes damp with a musty smell to match. Your jaw clenched, your hand instinctively splaying across your stomach.
Perhaps it is for this reason that we put various societal standards into motion. To simulate some kind of consistency; or perfection. I remember a time where the older sections of the city were a concern. Instead of allowing nature to reclaim abandoned parts of Detroit, we sent bulldozers and cranes to build mega-centers and assembly factories.
Digital magazines, data pads, self-driving vehicles, automated taxis, smart watches with credit chips, computer terminals…. They who sustain the society that has escaped our grasping fingertips, continuing to evolve faster than we could have ever anticipated while we bask in the glory of their creation. That of which is now integrated into the very concept of Earth, as a whole. The technology that has shifted our societal standards and ideologies.
On the morning of November 5 th , a pastor preached these ideologies in the Greek District Park. A few minutes later, an android left a paint shop; Bellini Paints, to be exact.
On his way to the bus station, he was attacked by a group of unemployed protesters. The variable colors that now bleed into our black and white borders of society, no matter how much we oppress them.
And we should be scared. They are simply mirrors that reflect the evil we can truly show while the good in us fights to resurface. The protestor incident, the crime scene, the interrogation, getting shot…and everything that came after.
You looked to the right, studying the mad-science project on your wall. Newspaper clippings with sloppily written notes, thumb tacks, and strings connecting the push pin dots to where one event coincided with another:. August 15 th : Daniel takes Emma Phillips hostage after owner orders replacement. Concert music lost most of its audience because culture changed, and because most of that industry orchestras, opera houses was focused on preserving the past , i.
In fact, I know of no data that shows that 20th century avant garde works ever really got put in front of audiences enough to be rejected, but would love some sources if someone has information along those lines. Well, if you create a track that has silence in it and credit John Cage as the co-composer of the track, yeah, you'll get sued. Write some pulp horror about a guy going crazy in a hotel and you are fine.
Reference the fact that you are rewriting The Shining by putting "and Stephen King" on the cover and you deserve to get your ass taken to court.
I'm not sure I disagree with this. But I'm also not sure it's relevant to the point I was attempting to make. By way of analogy, that point was that just as one does not to need to understand a language in order to recognize simply when a language is being spoken, so too one does not need to know the "social rituals of musical performance" to recognize when music is being played live or record, it matters not --except in the case of 4'33". With this piece context is everything. If I walk by a music hall with an open side door while 4'33" is being performed, I will have no clue that music is taking place.
I'm not arguing whether this is good or bad, worthwhile or not. I'm simply making an observational point that Wittgenstein might make: in 4'33" the usual game of what constitutes music vs. Why is this last point important? Because it undermines the notion that 4'33" is no different than any other piece of music: at a basic conceptual level of what constitutes music it is different.
Thus saying that wanting to hear 4'33" more than once does not strike me as specious: it strikes me, rather, as grasping what makes 4'33"--since strictly speaking a la Heraclitus it can never be performed more than once. Now it's true that each time we listen to a piece of music not including 4'33" for a moment we hear different things the experience is never exactly the same , nevertheless we have certain familiarities in the sounds being produced.
Music, even wholly improvised music, bears repeated listens. With 4'33", saying that one want to hear it again is just fine: but I don't really believe anyone who says it, is all. Finally, the notion that one turns to 4'33" to escape certain assumptions about what constitutes the social aspects of music seems to me precisely backwards: since with 4'33" there is only the context of the social aspect. Without that context, no one would ever seek to duplicate it in performance.
Paradoxically, like many extreme conceptual attempts at non-art or anti-art or art-without-art or art-without-an-object, for better or worse, what remains is precisely the social context of the work, and nothing else.
HP LaserJet P : " Paradoxically, like many extreme conceptual attempts at non-art or anti-art or art-without-art or art-without-an-object, for better or worse, what remains is precisely the social context of the work, and nothing else. There is an enduring mythology in the way art is often talked about that the art itself is somehow abstracted or pure or outside of the particular circumstances of its creation - much of this anti-art is trying to call attention to the very fact that this idea of a transcendent platonic art is bullshit.
That is only a paradox if you think the artists was trying to transcend the social and cultural circumstances rather than call attention to them. You're misunderstanding my point: the paradox is that the more one attempts to de-Platonize the art the more one re-Platonizes it. The paradox is that art-without-an-object, if it were truly made, could not be recognized as art in the first place. I'm emphatically not making a judgment here I like some conceptual art, fwiw.
I'm observing the reality whereby art that seeks explicitly and determinately to "tear down the wall" always finds the wall still standing. It's like Wittgenstein's remark about the impossibility of a private language. I think there's something deeply wrong about a world where a person can be sued for having a sense of humor. I think there's something pretty seriously wrong with that whether you like, dislike, or are indifferent to I've been involved, in real life, in an argument on the topic of avant garde theater, enjoyability, and my status as a philistine for expressing a desire to perform theater that people might actually want to watch.
I shouldn't have let it spill over into the blue and taken a crap on the latest iteration of the eternal thread. Another way of saying this would be: art is bounded to the objects of its process like language is bounded to its meanings.
I prefer the Rose Mary Woods extended dance mix 18' He put a famous composer's name on his own work without permission. He was being sued for using that composer's name fraudulently and settled out of court. HP LaserJet P : " Another way of saying this would be: art is bounded to the objects of its process like language is bounded to its meanings.
That one would call attention to the social context in which art is created by stripping its other trappings is not always a paradox or a failure. One could and many have done something similar to dance: reducing dance to the simple presence of a human body on stage. If they are trying to transcend dance to pure art you may call that paradoxical. If you think they are playing with the social agreements by which we decide something is dance, then there is no paradox or contradiction there: they are in the simplest way they could manage, pointing to that social agreement.
Or, since you bring up language: there are poets whose poetry is about making sounds with their mouths. The purposefully refuse to intentionally use meaningful words. If they think they are trying to transcend language to something more pure, they are probably failing in a pretty laughable way. If they think that they are playing with the boundaries between what we call poetry and what we would not call poetry, then what they are doing is straightforward and not really all that controversial.
Of course the objects of the processes of art can be the rules and boundaries of creating the art itself. An empty frame or Malevich's white canvas as well.
So too the performance pieces of Beuys or Abromovic, or the readymades of Duchamp. I get that, but in each case what remains is still a trace of the presence-of-an-object. Indeed, that's often all that remains. But again, you are missing my point: if a poet does away with language, with marking, and with sound entirely, what precisely will remain?
What does "controversy" have to do with it? The avant-garde in the West is at least years old. It has an entire apparatus academic, curatorial, theoretical around it in order to enshrine it and sustain it. And that's fin: I'm not making judgements about art per se, but rather am attempting to show the uncanny way the most radical art ends up making the very move it seeks not to make. Should artists continue to attempt to play with these boundaries?
Of course. Is there a metaphysical paradox whereby the absence-of-a-boundary is its own boundary? The doc's just a bit too elliptical to be great, but is definitely worth a look for some great interview bits and the amazing archival footage of the very strange early dance experiments of Cage's partner Merce Cunningham.
I found out afterwards that Cunningham created a dance piece called "Stillness" to accompany 4'33". I'm sure it would be neat to have seen that. Which is a compelling thought but I think not true for music, which has no objects to begin with.
This object perspective termed 'work-concept' in the field has been actively dismantled for a while now, not least by pioneers like Cage, and the fact is, a musical object is an imaginary construct, and idea whose genesis and history in western culture can be traced. So I'm a little baffled how you can so certainly assert that music is bounded to its object-ness when as a temporal art there isn't a thing there in the first place.
I think the work-concept unnecessarily boxes in the idea of music, and the "entire apparatus" around music in at least American universities and conservatories is actually quite in flux and has been asking some seismic sorts of questions recently. For a comprehensive history and dismantling of the work-concept in music, I as always, I think this is like the fifth time I've linked to it recommend Lydia Goehr's fascinating book The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works , and for a very thoroughly articulated view against the aesthetic or pure, or object-oriented concept of music and music education, I recommend David Elliott's Music Matters.
I do want to apologize to anyone who previously posted on this topic. For whatever reason, Metafilter posts about 4'33" don't show up as such on Google. That includes this post, which normally would be the first result of that search by this time.
It looks like Google confuses 4'33" with , which gets lost in all the timestamps. It's been an interesting discussion though. I was wondering how well 4'33" would work on the web, where the settings and contexts and expectations are quite different than those of a concert hall. Perhaps this site or this site would give you some idea, but then again, maybe not. A while back I was imagining a musical piece that was based on a continuous stream of white noise.
Then I would have a reverse piano that, instead of creating tones, masked frequencies out of the white noise as I played. I wonder how much you would have to mask to make it very subtle, but still noticeable.
Would you be able to discern a difference between which key on the reverse piano was played? Would chords or something analogous work? MGMTs "time to pretend" and the Vines' "Ride" have sections that remind me of "reverse" rhythm, where the non-sound amidst the noise is the important part.
Been done already? I'd like to hear it. I wonder, when John Cage looks down from heaven at all this to and fro and tumble and hoopla about his little piece, still going on, NOW, in the year of , is he laughing or crying?
I like to think that he's laughing. I think music is closest we get in the arts to pure process or pure form: at its best it seems to mirror the very sense of what it means simply to be.
Nevertheless, putting aside the question of absolute music and the familiar Pateresque question of music-as-the-art-to-which-all-other-arts-aspire, I meant only in my analysis that music, for better or worse, presupposes sound. Now it's true that so does 4'33", but it does so conceptually. That is the singular historical importance of the piece, quite apart from the question of whether it is effective. But my question was even more rudimentary: how can all music do away with all preconceived sound in as radical fashion as 4'33" attempts to?
The short answer is that it can't. As an experiment, 4'33" confirms that to collapse all music-making into soundless gesture is no more conceivable than it is desirable. Thus by an "object" of music, I merely mean the non-referential and non-representational fact of sound. Listening to 4'33" in order to hear all music as sound or vice versa is like reading a book on Buddhism in order to achieve enlightenment. That is, there are better ways to achieve enlightenment, and there are other reasons to read books on Buddhism.
You'll note that Cage continued to write music after 4'33". Yes, it's called a notch filter if you're filtering out a specific frequency or band-pass if you're filtering out everything but. Give me a few minutes and I'll try your idea out in ableton and post it. Perhaps, and there are some familair koans in here, but I'm not making a point about listening to 4'33", I'm making a point about the the inescapable fact of sound to music.
Perhaps music does live in the silences, as Miles insisted, or perhaps there are no silences, strictly speaking as Cage seems to suggest. Either way, I've never once been attempting in my comments here to make a judgement about 4'33" as a work of art since, frankly, I don't have a strong opinion either way. It's simply a vehicle for my larger point about the impossibility of getting around certain givens, in this case the givenness of sound to music.
And in a larger sense the givenness of "object-hood" loosely defined to any work of art. Put another way: the more one attempts to erase the object-hood of art, the more that object-hood becomes present through its supposed absence.
Usually this is evident through the interpretive apparatus that allows radical works of artistic negation to be recognized as works at all. Since were talking avant garde — not Cage but Cale although Cage was involved and another interesting piece of music on I've got a secret. Kraftmatic Adjustable Cheese : " What's truly fucked up is that Cage's estate claims copyright to four minutes and 33 seconds of silence, so if you create a track that has silence in it you will be sued and forced to pay royalties.
Didn't get to read the whole comments, but reading half of them made me think of the artists that I like who used this concept or were marginally influenced by them. Sure, it was, and has been and will again be thought of and experimented with by other artists. However, John Cage is the artist I can point to and say "that's where I saw it done first, which led me to think about music differently".
Mozart wasn't the first compser, nor anyone you can name because the first composers names are lost to us all, but this is the most prominent work catalogued and disseminated to the mass audience of humanity. Thus, it has it's merit, and it has it's place in the pantheon for those of us who "get it" or want to. This means those of us have to justify our love of this concept and this incarnation.
I for one, will be searching out any performances of this work that I can attend and I will drag as many of my friends along with me. I think the radios were swell as they were in this version. The jokes people make about 4"33" here and elsewhere don't seem to me to be biting snarks.
They're much more like light pleasantries. The premiere is supposed to have ended with the audience "bursting into an uproar" but it is not recorded that it was followed by even a small classical music riot, let alone one of the great ones. There were fistfights in the aisles at the premiere of Le Sacre du Printemps and before long a full-scale mob fight to which the police had to be called to restore order [N. The riot following the premiere of a largely forgotten opera, Auber's Masaniello, ou La muette de Portici , is credited with precipitating the Belgian revolution in I frankly find the Most of these concern the fact that the performance venue is not specified in the score there is indeed a score, you can buy a printed copy from here so that, even without doing any of the whimsical "reorchestration" for, e.
In the monkey house at the zoo, or the aviary. At a three-alarm fire. Baroque style, with harpsichord continuo. In a box. With a fox. Cage's stuff is certainly worth listening to in moderation and repays attention, but a great deal of his content is what one might call meta-musical rather than musical per se, and IMHO of course his career output has a much higher proportion of art-gamesmanship than one finds in the music of more genuinely gifted composers of Cage's century. This comment has footnotes.
See note 1. I said, "In that case I will devote my life to beating my head against that wall. There are always new audiences who haven't ever been present at a performance. One born every minute I could say, meaning that as a pleasantry and not a snark. Cage and Barnum are not at all incompatible, especially from the p.
But how many eager repeat audiences are there? It may be hard to convey to another why I like a particular piece. But there's a good, clean, easy metric for how much I like it, and that is how much do I want to hear it again. And again, and again. I'm not just talking obvious play-it-again-Sam stuff like Beethoven's 9th here, I also wore out a full set vinyl of the Bartok string quartets.
By contrast, about that same time I picked up a copy of the composition HPSCHD for 1 to 7 amplified harpsichords and 1 to 51 tapes by Cage and Lejarn Hiller, which comes with a "program" i.
Cleaned out ears with some Flaming Lips, also with multiple tapes and audience participation and all that but a FUCK of a lot more fun to listen to. Of course I've way lost count. So, in sum IMHO again you can say "It makes no sense to me ever to play 4'33" again" and you can "it makes no sense to me ever to play Beethoven's 9th symphony again," but as for the two being just as true or false the wanna-hear-again metric disputes that.
It's philistinism only when the claim is false. But often enough the claim is true, in which case it's philistinism of a different but no more respectable sort to shout "philistine," knee-jerk style. Remember snapshot-aesthetic photography?
When one can say not just "My five-year-old could do that" but "My five-year-old has done that" I don't think we need to hear anything from the artsy crowd which includes me except embarrassed silence and foot-shuffling, as when the little girl shouted "Mama, the emperor is nekkid! A bit of silent shoegazing at least 4 min 33 sec of it, maybe even a bit more might do 'em us a world of good. For compulsive scorecard-keepers here's mine.
In no particupar order but all ahead of Cage, with the first four and Eliott Carter "ahead" as Jupiter is "large" compared to Io. We wants it! That's the short list.
I have had the good fortune both to attand a performance and to play in one nothing impressive there, string quartet version, audience of maybe And I totally aggree with this. Oh man, the podium lag you get. How very much it seems like it's been 45 minutes going on two hours since you started. How you must resist the impulse to, uh, play faster! I got through my performance with a small semi-cheat. In the relative quiet I was able to hear my own heartbeat and, knowing what my resting heart rate is, was able to tick off minutes by counting beats.
I call it only a semi-cheat because there's nothing that says which of all the extraneous noises you have to listen to while the instruments aren't playing posted by jfuller at PM on April 27, [ 3 favorites ]. Just as an aside: if you are going to use foreign terms, it is de rigor to spell them correctly.
In response to everyone complaining about the haters. Art requires artistry and an artist. Simply speaking semantically. This piece requires no artist, therefore it is not art. It has no music therefore it it is not a musical piece, it has notes therefore it is not by definition a composition. What it is is a celebrity statement.
Saying, my five year old could do better is actually a perfectly valid criticism. Uniqueness increases the value of art, he is saying your 'art' is valueless. I love cage and I think that everyone who tries to elevate this defensively into art is missing the point he was trying to make completely.
Sounds are interesting in and of themselves. We should listen to the environment around us and appreciate it as much as we do music. Music is just a set of frequency combinations we happen to find particularly pleasing. Also I hate deconstructionism : posted by darkfred at PM on April 28, And for that same reason, 4'33" does require a performer. Music is a social ritual built around hearing sounds. The time, place, and manner of conveyance are extremely important.
And furthermore there is much more to be found music than just finding it pleasing. Sorry, where I said "music is", I would have been better off saying "music is also".
I cannot rule out that there may be some kind of abstract music separate from place time and performance, but am not ready to concede that performance and place cannot be part of what music is. LooseFilter wrote anyone can do what Cage did after he did it. Yeah, but no one seems much interested in occupying and expanding in the conceptual space cleared by Take, to choose another example of music I don't like, rap. Someone pioneered that conceptual space, I'm sure there's experts on contemporary music who have written dissertations on the origins of rap and could give us the details of the difficulties involved etc.
After the conceptual space was opened up other, non-pioneering, people moved in and began expanding and refining that conceptual space. I note that there was no similar explosion of people moving into the conceptual space of "not playing instruments so as to get the audience to listen to ambient noise". This doesn't make Cage less of a pioneer, but it does seem to imply to me that he pioneered a place no one much wanted to go. Nevermind us lowbrow types who just want music because we want to listen to enjoyable stuff, I'm unaware of any highbrow pieces composed in the conceptual space of either.
Like I said before, better educated people than I say is important, and I accept their judgment. But it seems like a very strange judgment to me, among other things because unlike every other important, pioneering, step taken in music no one else has followed in Cage's footsteps. Which is why I keep thinking that is more an example of conceptual art rather than an example of a worthy piece of music.
Reading through the written for the layman explanations of , it appears that the main importance of was it freed people to apply the same post-modern "everything is X" definition to music that already existed in the visual arts world.
Not that it particularly opened doors to people creating new works in its genre. Again, please correct me if I'm wrong, but leaving aside jokes and homages, no other composers have written silences, yes? It appears to be an empty and forlorn conceptual space he pioneered, there remains after all these years only one compositional silence.
Let me bring up, though I assure you in a different manner than you might think, the parable of the Emperor's New Clothes. What if the New Clothes were real? The weavers weren't frauds, but really had a way of weaving cloth that only superior people however you choose to define that can see.
Some people, simply by virtue of genetic accident or what have you, are born able to see the New Clothes, others can only learn to see the New Clothes by dint of long years of study, effort, and work. Do you imagine that anyone who wanted to fit in to upper crust society in such a situation would ever admit to being unable to see the clothes? Worse, what if there were even greater refinements? Would anyone ever admit to failing to see the New Clothes of whatever level?
In such an environment would not fraud be rife? There are real New Clothes, of course, but there are also frauds and no one will ever admit to being unable to see the fraudulent New Clothes. The world of art has taught me that there is absolutely nothing, no matter how ludicrous, no matter how preposterous, no matter how outright silly, that people will not praise as groundbreaking, amazing, and worthy of great praise as long as it's accompanied by the proper shibboleths and High Art words of explanation.
Quite literally piles of rotting garbage have gotten such praise. And perhaps that pile of rotting garbage is Real New Clothes, perhaps people can truly, genuinely, see great art there. But how can I tell? How can the rich people who want to show off their exquisite taste tell? To fail to appreciate the Real New Clothes proves you're a lowbrow poser, therefore if one wishes to be seen as highbrow the only course of action is to lavish praise for all New Clothes regardless of whether you personally see art there or not.
I've never, not once, seen a connoisseur of High Art, state that anything isn't amazing and wonderful art. Not one single time. Maybe I'm just not paying attention, but I've never seen art critics say "this is not Real New Clothes, this is a fraud, the so-called 'artist' is not producing art but rather is trying to rip people off. Why can't a kid with an inborn talent do the same?
My art history professor friend defined art, in a very post-modern way, as "what people make", and while I don't like that sort of non-definition I've not yet been able to improve on it. But if that's the case then isn't taste really the only thing that matters?
If everything is art, from the Mona Lisa to a pile of rotting garbage, then on what grounds beyond your own personal taste can you say that you think there's art in ? I say I don't like it, you say you do, and beyond that what else can be said? Well, everything is art except video games. Ebert has decreed that. But everything else is art. People took the sonic consequences hearing everyday sounds in a heightened state of attention and applied that to composition. This takes various forms: environmental recordings, pseudo environmental recordings creating soundscapes of the mundane sounds of imaginary or impossible places , industrial and noise where everyday nonmusical sounds take the place of pitched instruments, deep listening music, which is designed to facilitate the activity of having a long attention span and paying close attention to the sound around you.
Each of these things has other predecessors as well, but the definitely have 4'33" as an important part of their frame of reference. On the other hand, others took the performative consequences: the way that the piece was about the theater of the musician coming up on stage to perform.
This led to happenings, performance art, the comedy experiments of Andy Kauffman yes, really - Andy collaborated with the Fluxus folks, Cage was the godfather of Fluxus and his works were the canon on which Fluxus elaborated.
There really are fewer frauds than you think. But to be defrauded? It's not a big issue. Because those people you are talking about, they aren't anonymously buying avant-garde performance pieces from people they meet on the street. Don't like ads? Automated ads help us pay our journalists, servers, and team. Support us by becoming a member today to hide all automated ads:. COVID puts spotlight on lack of access to sanitation Victoria residents clash over right to encampments in Beacon Hill Park These days he holes up with his girlfriend, Lydia Ilimasaut, in a camp just outside downtown Montreal.
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