In the late '80s, I came home from an orchestra rehearsal not knowing what to think. The piece we'd rehearsed that day was modern, enigmatic, and to my ears, a discordant mess. In a fit of sarcasm, I opened a book of musical staff paper and started composing a piece I titled "Future Of Synthetics As Envisioned By A Midwestern Box Turtle." The fact that I abandoned my effort after only a few measures made me respect the piece I'd played during rehearsal a little more. After all, composing an orchestral piece with compelling themes for so many diverse instruments isn't easy.
Still, the modern piece we'd played struck me as the musical equivalent of two art exhibits I once saw. One was titled "Dust Glued To The Wall," and the other was "The Lights Turning On And Off." My reaction to both exhibits was the same; I thought, "Maybe these artists should be in advertising instead. After all, if they can sell such simple, obvious concepts to a gullible public..." I was tempted to think that the composer knew his piece didn't have much of a discernible, accessible melody and wouldn't go over well with most audiences. However, after several rehearsals, I realized that the piece had more coherence than I'd heard initially.
Today, I wouldn't likely be so dismissive when playing or hearing a modern piece. Respecting a piece of music, an exhibit, or a book, however, doesn't mean I'm obligated to enjoy it.
