In the spirit of the Composer subreddit, here's a post about originality, longevity (does it stand the 'test of time'), and copyright. This is an excerpt from Ernst Krenek's Music Here and Now from 1939.
The Question of Originality
Against ever growing opposition, the accomplishments of romanticism and of early impressionism were admitted to the repertory program. We are able to mention only a few composers living today who have successfully invaded the repertory: in the orchestra field, Richard Strauss, with a few works; Sibelius (limited more or less to the Anglo-Saxon world); Strawinsky, with one or two early compositions. Possibly there are a few more composers in the repertory with limited, or at most a national, appeal. In opera, Strauss is about the only composer who has one or two works permanently included in the repertory programs.
The explanation is found in the rapidly growing contradictions which ruled the musical world of the nineteenth century. The wish-dreams of a definitive, compulsory style still dominate and are further solidified by the stabilization of bourgeois society. Yet this society, which prides itself on the liberation of the individual from the bonds of feudal and ecclesiastical guardianship, demands of the artist clear proof of originality. As a result of the inner development of music, about which more will be said later, composers are increasingly directed to the application of such originality, a feature which becomes, at the same time, an ever growing obstacle to the performance of their works before a public whose ideals of music are becoming more and more petrified. Still, that public is quite willing to allow the rejected artist an aureole in his isolation. He should consider himself well compensated for the suffering which this isolation may bring, because it separates him from the "profane" world of profit, and thus ennobles him. The attic to which he is banned, the better to carry on his titanic struggle and the better to compose, on bread and water, serves as a pleasant annex to the palace in which his master wishes to live, comfortably undisturbed otherwise by the strange sounds emanating from this remote habitation. The thought that posthumous fame is more important than present success allays the guilty conscience of a society which reserves this fate for him.
And yet the dialectic laws which govern these interrelations demand that the trite statement just made, cheap and vulgar though it may be, expresses an unassailable truth. That such a thought can be expressed at all proves the existence of a condition where it is a matter of necessity that a work be made out of material which shall outlast the period during which it is actually being rejected.
In the last hundred years, too, the position of the composer in regard to society has changed radically. No longer has he a personal and individual sponsor, in whose service he is to write and produce music for performance on a certain occasion. Today the composer faces an indeterminable public to whom his opus is brought through an intermediary—a concert or opera manager, or a theatrical producer. Thereby a musical work becomes merchandise, for the producer can conduct his business only in the way prescribed by the economic laws of the capitalistic world. He is not a Maecenas, but merely a merchant who must satisfy the needs of his customers. In the proportion that the character of the merchandise is imprinted upon the musical world, it acquires, rather paradoxically, more and more the consecration of literature. By looking at a graphic picture of the old music we can see how it was written for specified performances, soon to be given. The manuscripts were fragmentary and sketchy. Even in the case of complicated works like operas, little more than the voice and the basso continuo were written down; all the rest—even the distribution of the unwritten accompanying parts of the various instruments—were left to a final arrangement at rehearsal, an arrangement which could be based upon the universally known and standardized playing practice. Tempo indications were rare and were limited to a few principal types; instructions as to dynamics were hardly given at all. Music could be written in that way because the works performed generally corresponded to a type which was known everywhere, and little thought was given to its preservation; the written script was merely part of the technical preparation for the solitary performance which was the ultimate purpose of the whole enterprise.
Music Becomes Literature
The further one advances toward the present in the history of music, the more detailed and carefully executed become the manuscripts. It is evident that not only the entire instrumentation gradually came to be designated specifically, but, in addition, that great care was taken to indicate exactly, to the smallest detail, how the music should be performed. Metronomic indications removed all lack of clarity in tempo indications; directions about dynamics and expressive nuances are today like comments on almost every note—how loudly it should be played, what importance it has in relationship to the other notes, what expressive intent underlies it. The importance is shifted more and more from the solitary performance to the written record, in order that it may result in a similar rendition for the maximum number of performances at any desired place and at any desired time. As the result of the quick change in the general style-picture and its ultimate disintegration, the single work simply does not belong any longer to any given type which could be classified as being universally known. Furthermore, a work is seldom written for a definite, imminent, and scheduled performance: under the force of circumstances the unfortunate composer usually writes at random, and many years may elapse between his composition and the performance. This lapse of time might confuse what today seems self-evident. But above everything the composer who composes "from the fullness of his heart," without the backing of a definite commission, must be able to take for granted, or at least to hope, that his work will be produced often, for only then will it contribute appreciably to his economic existence. In the event that all this does not happen, and to ensure himself at least the consoling chance of a "posthumous fame," he will take great care to prepare such a clear and legible script that after several centuries the score will still convey an unequivocal picture of his intentions.
The more the law of merchandise is imprinted on musical productions, the more they retire into the written form and approach in character the type of literature which is conserved in the venerable silence of the library. I shall show in the ninth chapter how this development in technique, which has contributed so vitally to the establishment of a dictatorship of the character of merchandise, offers a possibility, unsuspected heretofore, of having music coincide entirely and absolutely with its graphic picture.
Where music has completely surrendered to economic laws, it reminds us most in practice of the old music of the prebourgeois period, which in itself is a strange paradox. I refer to the field of "popular" or entertainment music, where originality is allowed only to the extent that the new work must create the effect of having already been heard a hundred times. Here, too, the ideal is the most brilliant possible presentation of a picture in the general accepted style. The fact that plagiarism is not only tabooed in this sphere but is prosecuted zealously finds its cause less in a concession to the spiritual sense of property in serious music than to a very plausible application of the principle of private property as practiced in the commercial world. Here the product is not intended for a single performance, as with the old music; the real production rests solidly upon the tremendous number of paid performances. The royalty percentage is the basis upon which the creator is compensated for his work. Just as the public pays the cost of building the hall, the lighting, heating, wear and tear, advertising, wages for the musicians, the administration expenses and even the taxes, so does it pay also for the use of the music which is being played—a point of view which can be made clear to the producers only over the latters' vigorous opposition, since they find it more economical to consider a work of art so infinitely ideal that one should never profane it by contact with filthy lucre.
The Royalty System
The system of royalty is fully justified in the case of popular music, where the public is offered a certain merchandise which it sincerely desires. After all, why should people not pay something for musical details in the entertainment, when they consider it fair and proper to pay a certain amount for all the rest? In the case of serious music, this system shows the more clearly what contradictions exist in the music world of today. The composer who allows his music to be entered in the regular barter system can soon see from the incoming proceeds what minimum exchange value is inherent in his work. Society, however, is only mildly ashamed of this fact, for it tolerates the condition whereby the best is by no means identical with the most successful. In some European countries, the creators of popular music used to contribute out of their gigantic earnings to subsidies which were used for the support of their less fortunate colleagues in the difficult field. (The latter could divide the contribution among themselves.) Many operetta composers have a secret longing to write a real, decent opera. When Franz Lehár had the good luck to see one of his works performed at the Staatsoper in Vienna, he derived his greatest satisfaction from the fact that at last he had had a chance to write a part for the double bassoon. That had been the dream of his life; but he had never been able to gratify the yearning, because the operetta theaters, for which he had to compose regularly, did not have such an instrument in their orchestras. When those children upon whom fortune has smiled bestow something of their wealth on lonely colleagues, it seems as if they wish to bolster the courage of those bold adventurers who do not hesitate to write for the double bassoon whenever the spirit moves them, even at the risk of thereby making their work less salable.
For the rest, it must be said that of all the people who occupy themselves with music hardly any show a more touching and quite unintelligent respect for the most radically new music than the commercial manufacturers of musical hits. In Vienna I have seen operetta writers, worth millions, who, between excited conferences with singers and producers, would listen in the gallery of the Musikvereinssaal to some modern work which must have sounded like Chinese to them.
The royalty system for serious music has value only if it is expanded to the works of the past, without taking into consideration how many years may have elapsed since the death of the respective composers. The story is told about Richard Strauss that whenever he drew his tremendous honoraria he used to count the bank notes with grim pleasure, saying, "This one is for Mozart, this for Schubert, this for Beethoven." He did this to point out that the large fees which he owed to the establishment of the royalty system had to be considered a sort of punitive tax on a society which permitted those masters to suffer dire want. Even if Strauss's pleasure was greater than his grimness—for he never used to spend any of his money on the graves of the sublime dead, nor did he make donations to any possible heirs—there is something quite pertinent in his train of thought.
The European author's rights are based on the conention that a composer's direct heirs should be satisfied when they have lived for fifty years on the proceeds of his work; after that time the works are in "the public domain," which means that no further royalties are paid on the publication rights nor on the performances. It is alleged that since everyone is allowed to reprint such works, useful competition among the publishers results, so that the works become both cheap and universal property.
A New Suggestion Concerning Royalties
So far, the argument is sound. It does not, indeed, seem necessary that a copyright should remain in the family forever, like so many securities. Hardly any composer, when writing down the first few notes of a composition, thinks primarily of leaving his grandchildren a life insurance in the shape of a successful work. But the composer has other heirs, who more often than not are closer to him in his spiritual experience than many of his blood relatives; they are his colleagues, his spiritual heirs who are born after him, who will continue to develop his artistic thought, to whom his music is an inspiration and an example, and who thereby also may establish that famous "posthumous fame" which results in the tangible success of his works denied to him during his lifetime. Would it not be logical that the spiritual descendants should benefit from proceeds of his work? For if they are working in the same spirit, it is probable that they will enjoy success as little as their predecessors and will be exposed to the same privations.
It is hard to understand why singers, pianists, conductors, concert hall owners, and music dealers should make money today on Beethoven and Mozart, while the forced to take into account the fact that new art counts for little in its own time, it would certainly be more dignified if serious artists could support themselves out of such a spiritual inheritance, rather than be forced to depend on the gifts of well-meaning colleagues who supply the public with more desirable merchandise.
The greatest objection to this project comes from interpreters. Singers and pianists already consider it a great favor to the composer if they present a new piece, and believe it insolence on his part if he demands payment to boot. It happens often enough that individual performers, and even orchestra associations, refuse to perform new works for the admitted reason that they do not wish to pay royalties. Add to this the facts that the public would rather hear old music anyway, and that old music can be performed with fewer rehearsals and less expense—then why double vexation and lose money besides?
This undignified competition of the innocent dead with the living would stop at once if payments were required to perform any kind of composition. Concert artists assert that such a tax would prove an unbearable burden for their younger colleagues, who often can give their first concerts only by making the greatest sacrifices, and who should not, in addition, be "taxed" for the music which they are performing. I believe this objection could easily be overcome, if artists already established would contribute a fraction of their huge earnings to the encouragement of their struggling brothers and sisters through a fund established for that purpose. Here, too, the question of a sort of spiritual inheritance might arise. Why, for instance, could not a star conductor or prima donna devote, say, 1 per cent of his or her income to a fund which would enable young conductors or young singers to give their first concerts? (If only to enable them to bear the extra expenses caused by a proviso that the composers—to whom, after all, the whole industry owes its existence—should not go emptyhanded; or to avoid a fight between composers and performers over the few pennies involved.)
Under the present conditions everything which the human being produces has a property value. The manufacturer of an object must make sure that he receives for his labor in manufacturing it an equivalent in the form of money, which in turn will cover his living expenses. It is not considered dignified to include art in this point of view; but neither the work of art, nor its creator, nor the performing artists, can escape the law of necessity. For the rest, those who are so sensitive as to reject such a profane viewpoint are usually the very people who could easily create more dignified conditions for art, even under existing circumstances. Curiously enough, the creators of art seem to be the only ones to enjoy the questionable benefits of this extreme sensitivity about financial matters. For when it comes to the performers, it is considered quite all right to pay them properly for their work; and there is no doubt that publishers, concert and opera managers, and agents can be smart businessmen—they need to be!
