To stop the flow of music would be like the stopping of time itself, incredible and inconceivable.
The fearsome critic and not-very-tough composer Virgil Thomson once drew up a set of rules for hearing an unfamiliar work; the last of those is the question I take with me to every new-music event: “Is this just a good piece of clockwork, or does it actually tell time?
Every symphony, for example, is a sonata for orchestra; every string quartet is a sonata for four strings; every concerto a sonata for a solo instrument and orchestra.
The whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking “Is there a meaning to music?” My answer would be, “Yes”, And “Can you state in so many words what the meaning is?” My answer to that would be “No.”
The greatest moments of the human spirit may be deduced from the greatest moments in music.
Most people use music as a couch; they want to be pillowed on it, relaxed and consoled for the stress of daily living. But serious music was never meant to be soporific.
Composers tend to assume that everyone loves music. Surprisingly enough, everyone doesn’t.
Music that is born complex is not inherently better or worse than music that is born simple.
Listening to the Fifth Symphony of Ralph Vaughan Williams is like staring at a cow for 45 minutes.
Is there a meaning to music? Yes. Can you state in so many words what the meaning is? No.