MUSIC
John Cage's 95th
/ Mike Powell
09.20.07
John Cage's 95th Birthday
The Kitchen NYC, Sept. 5th 2007
A 1963 radio talk with the American composer John Cage begins with the interviewer reading one of Norman Mailer’s digressions on a boxing match: “I had a moment of vast hatred then for that bleak, gluttonous void of the establishment, that liberal power at the center of our lives, which...substituted the intolerance of mental health for the intolerance of passion, alienated emotions from its roots and man from its past, cut the giant of our arts to fit a bed of procrustes, Leonard Bernstein on the podium, John Cage in silence...existing as canned butter would to butter.”
After a three-minute meditation on finding sobriety of the mind, John Cage confesses he has no idea what Mailer is talking about. Embarrassed by the simplicity of Cage’s admission, the interviewer nervously thumps his own idiot chest: “Passion is intolerable, I suppose.” (They are two people in a room, having no idea what Norman Mailer is talking about.) “But I’m not dealing with passion,” Cage replies. “And I’m not dealing with tolerance.” He dissolves into a giggle.
Walking to the Kitchen to see John Cage’s 95th birthday concert, I notice I’m accidentally following someone. This produces anxiety. I grew to be over six feet tall and my legs are significantly longer than my torso; trying to shorten my stride would suggest to passerby that there is a rod in my ass. We keep crossing the streets to avoid the other. At a certain point, it becomes clear he’s going to the Kitchen as well––I almost interrupt his solitude to talk to him about the performance. By the time I reach the door, he’s gone. I sit down alone and think about hot sauce.
A butch-looking girl wearing a winter vest––it is not cold out––takes a seat three down from me. Her name is Jo, she is a college student of some kind, and she cannot believe how many people she knows here. “This is crazy,” says Jo. “I know so many people here!” There is, admittedly, a homogeneity of attendees: college-age or post-collegiate scrubs taking in an anniversary concert for the most controversial composer of the 20th century, a real event-type event. There’s an old biker-looking couple wearing extraordinarily long earrings. Two girls next to me are silent for a very long time and then start speaking in German. “Hey,” Jo bleats across the aisle. “I’m Jo! Remember me?”
The Kitchen NYC, Sept. 5th 2007
A 1963 radio talk with the American composer John Cage begins with the interviewer reading one of Norman Mailer’s digressions on a boxing match: “I had a moment of vast hatred then for that bleak, gluttonous void of the establishment, that liberal power at the center of our lives, which...substituted the intolerance of mental health for the intolerance of passion, alienated emotions from its roots and man from its past, cut the giant of our arts to fit a bed of procrustes, Leonard Bernstein on the podium, John Cage in silence...existing as canned butter would to butter.”
After a three-minute meditation on finding sobriety of the mind, John Cage confesses he has no idea what Mailer is talking about. Embarrassed by the simplicity of Cage’s admission, the interviewer nervously thumps his own idiot chest: “Passion is intolerable, I suppose.” (They are two people in a room, having no idea what Norman Mailer is talking about.) “But I’m not dealing with passion,” Cage replies. “And I’m not dealing with tolerance.” He dissolves into a giggle.
Walking to the Kitchen to see John Cage’s 95th birthday concert, I notice I’m accidentally following someone. This produces anxiety. I grew to be over six feet tall and my legs are significantly longer than my torso; trying to shorten my stride would suggest to passerby that there is a rod in my ass. We keep crossing the streets to avoid the other. At a certain point, it becomes clear he’s going to the Kitchen as well––I almost interrupt his solitude to talk to him about the performance. By the time I reach the door, he’s gone. I sit down alone and think about hot sauce.
A butch-looking girl wearing a winter vest––it is not cold out––takes a seat three down from me. Her name is Jo, she is a college student of some kind, and she cannot believe how many people she knows here. “This is crazy,” says Jo. “I know so many people here!” There is, admittedly, a homogeneity of attendees: college-age or post-collegiate scrubs taking in an anniversary concert for the most controversial composer of the 20th century, a real event-type event. There’s an old biker-looking couple wearing extraordinarily long earrings. Two girls next to me are silent for a very long time and then start speaking in German. “Hey,” Jo bleats across the aisle. “I’m Jo! Remember me?”