there is the issue of the "when" of the performance as well.  I find, and I would imagine most other composers also do, that one doesn't have a constant and unchanging attitude toward one's work.  As it grows older, a given piece changes its relation to its maker, and for that reason it is not at all the case that one may perform the piece the same way over and over again just because one has written it.  The set of records which Stravinsky made through his life shows this very clearly, and the fiction that these performances somehow represented the definitive ideas of the master can be shown to be purely fictional just by listening to different versions of the same piece, or by comparing his performance of some of them with what is in the score.

BD:    So then it's definitive for that point in time?

CW:    Presumably, but I think in a broader sense one can say that once a work is finished, if it's notated to the same degree of exactness that most conventional scores are, when it leaves the hand of its author, it really takes on its own life.  And while the composer certainly should be the chief authority for how it's to be done, I don't think it's necessarily the case that he should be the only one.

BD:    Are you ever surprised by what you hear in performances of your works?

CW:    No.  If by that you mean whether certain things come out that I didn't expect, and other things don't that I did, no.  I try to be careful about such things and not make errors of that sort ahead of time, so I am not surprised.

BD:    Conductors never find things in your score that you didn't know you'd put there?

CW:    That's another matter.  If you're speaking purely of questions of orchestral balance

that is to say making known the availability.  But there is a profound difference between saying, "We are here and we offer our artistic efforts for all who care to come," on the one hand, and on the other, a kind of sloganeering, aggressive, inevitably cheap marketing approach, which always has an effect on the artistic product.  These are two very, very different things, and I don't think a proper distinction is being drawn between them.  Especially for the large institutions with heavy expenses, big budgets, large staffs, and many responsibilities, there's always a temptation to look at the 50,000 people who go to rock concerts and say somewhat wistfully, "Well, we've only got three or four thousand a night; maybe we could have more."  At that point, a pact begins to be drawn up with the forces of darkness.  I know from my experience in various places that there begins to be a pressure placed upon artistic decisions, upon programming decisions.  Since I'm speaking now mostly of symphony orchestras, the area with which I'm most familiar, a pressure builds which causes the repertoire to contract.  They feel they can't have any of the even-numbered Beethoven symphonies, only the odd ones, and really not too much of 1 and 3, only 5, 7, and 9, and preferably only 9, really.  They feel they could get rid of the others, and eventually you end up with Beethoven 9 one week and the 1812 Overture the next, and then back to Beethoven 9.

BD:    Is there a place on the symphony program for music that is perhaps not a masterpiece?

CW:    Oh, very much so, but I respond positively to that question perhaps in a way that you don't mean.  I have nothing against pops concerts at all.  That's perfectly fine with me, just as I have nothing against entertainment, or popular music, or any other thing that people enjoy.

BD:    As long as it's billed as a pops concert?

CW:    As long as the distinction is made, and as long as we don't pretend that it is something that it isn't.  As long as it's done frankly and honestly, I see no reason why a symphony orchestra shouldn't be doing that sort of thing, any more than I don't see any reason why a symphony orchestra, if it wants to make money shouldn't, if it has a facility at its disposal, book in popular acts of some sort in order to help to cover its deficit.  That's all fine with me; I don't care.  But to come back to your question and answer it in a slightly different way, there is very much room for the non-masterpiece on the symphony program.  What I mean by a non-masterpiece is not necessarily a piece of popcorn, although it might be.  What I mean is the untried new work, which is quite likely not to be the greatest piece ever written.  The thing that we seem never to notice about the way our concert life unfolds is that we spend most of it in a kind of necrophiliac posture with the works of the past.  Anyone who is a living composer feels this very strongly.  We all know new music is not nearly enough played, but there's another, slightly more subtle point about it.  The music of the past, which we hear over and over again, has undergone a process of historical filtering, so that there's very little of the music of the past, very little music by dead composers which is not of the highest quality.  There may be some pieces of junk that have survived for one reason or another, but they're very few indeed.  Overall, when you hear music from the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries, and even from the early 20th, you get the very best of that period.  Now that has all been more or less done and taken care of, but when one comes to balancing this against the new music at whatever time we're speaking of, one has a chaotic, disorganized situation in which all kinds of people are scribbling like mad.  There may be many languages with us today which are not familiar.  The collective aesthetic consensuses have not been reached, and we don't have any guarantee that we're getting a certified masterpiece when we hear a new piece.  The masterpiece complex, which wants every single work to be the greatest thing that has ever been composed, is not only unrealistic but extremely unhealthy.  In fact, it does damage to those very masterpieces that it affects to revere!  In the world of contemporary art, many more people are at work than are going to be remembered, but we have an obligation to present, certainly perhaps not everything that is scribbled down, but at least all those works that are part of the professional mainstream, which is a very broad area.

BD:    Are there too many composers writing?

CW:    I don't think so.  Composers don't become composers because they think there's room for one more; they become composers because they have to.  Ours is not a profession that you go into because you think people want it; you go into it because you must, and if you don't have the undeniable need to write music, then you shouldn't be doing it to begin with, because it's an arduous life, filled with misunderstanding, and not very remunerative.

BD:    For whom do you write when you sit down to compose a piece of music?

CW:    It goes without saying that if one doesn't please oneself one can't please anyone else.  And the evidence I've seen so far is that even those who write, let us say, the most modest and simplest kind of stuff or the most irredeemably populist music, that no one succeeds in any of these departments of musical life unless they are sincere in their efforts, and unless they have a real love for what it is they are doing.  That having been said, it seems to me, from the composer's point of view, there really isn't much else that needs to be said.  Of course we don't write music not to be heard!  [Both chuckle]  Presumably we know what it sounds like, so for our own purposes, even though it's fun to hear it, it isn't really necessary.  It's a hard question to answer because it immediately raises the question of social utility.  Bach wrote for God, there's no doubt of that.  His music also had a function, which was very specific, and which he carried out.  I seriously doubt that he gave a great deal of thought to the question of who was going to remember his work after he was gone.

BD:    Do you consider that?

CW:    Uhhh, probably less so than other people, but of course I consider it since I am part of a tradition, which, since the time of Beethoven, has elevated the artist as prophet, martyr, seer, rabble-rouser, revolutionary, this, that, and the other, and above all, one who makes utterances that don't evaporate within ten minutes!  What the future holds, who will be remembered and who will not, is something that none of us can really say.  But to return to the question of who one regards as one's public, it's a rather abstract notion.  I think of certain people that I know.  Some of them are not musicians who have demonstrated to me a capacity to listen intelligently, by which I mean to remember what they've heard and relate it to what's happening now at this moment in the piece.  These are the people for whom I write, I suppose, if one wants to externalize.  The idea of talking about the public in a general way, or trying to chart public taste, or attempting to define what "the public" wants is an exercise undertaken, usually, with negative import by a number of critics.  This seems to me absolutely absurd because the musical public is so diverse, not only from nation to nation, but just taking the case of the United States, there are great differences amongst the publics who go to different kinds of musical events within the serious sphere.  I'm not talking about popular music, I'm talking about those who go to opera as opposed to symphony as opposed to chamber concerts.  They are different.  Those who mostly buy records and don't go to concerts are different.  Those who are on the East Coast are different from the West Coast, and those who are in the center of the country are different from both.

BD:    Are these good differences or just differences?

CW:    They're differences.  There are differences of response, and there are differences of age as well.  There are so many publics.  They overlap a great deal, but there are so many really quite distinct and identifiable groups, that to talk about addressing one's musical message to "the public" at large, I think, is nearly meaningless.

BD:    Well, what do you expect of the public that comes to hear the music of Charles Wuorinen?

CW:    Obviously, the first thing I want them to do is to like it; if they do, then I'm pleased.  But, as I often say to audiences when I'm asked to tell them something before they hear an unfamiliar work of mine, I think it's not very helpful, and it's anyway wrong to suggest there is a particular correct way to hear any piece.  For that matter, certainly, I know there is no particular correct way to hear mine

although fortunately there are few of those.  That kind of assistance I give.  But under less favorable circumstances, I may make general comments of a certain sort to try to help a performer who doesn't really understand quite how to do the general kinds of things I've asked for.

BD:    Do you ever go back and revise scores?

CW:    Almost never.  In fact, I can't remember the last time I did.

BD:    So there are no problems of which version to use.

CW:    No.  As I said earlier, I try to do it right the first time.  I'm usually busy writing something else, and the idea of returning to something I've already finished is not particularly appealing to me.  Some composers like to cuddle and cozy their works forever, and keep changing a little of this and a little of that until it comes out just perfect, but that is not my style.

BD:    I assume that you have a lot of commissions.  How do you decide which commissions you will accept and which ones you will decline?

CW:    It depends on a number of things.  Of course it depends on economic considerations, and it depends on the worth to me from an artistic and professional point of view of the venue.  If someone wants me to write a piece for solo kazoo, and a major symphony calls the same day with a request for something, I'm likely to choose the latter rather than the former if I have to make a choice.  But I have a fairly big backlog, and some of the smaller things that I'm asked to do can be delivered pretty much at my convenience.  Usually I'm booked about, I would guess, two to three years ahead.

BD:    Is that a good feeling, or a kind of confinement?

CW:    It's better than not having anything to do, but this is in the context of an output which is three to four pieces a year, usually.

BD:    I hope the piece is a success tonight.

CW:    I hope so.  It seems to be going quite well for the most part.  We will wait and see what people think of it.  But what a wonderful orchestra, needless to say!  I think they really are the best.  It's always a question between this one and Cleveland.  I did a new work for Cleveland about two years ago, so that's fresh in my mind.  [Movers and Shakers (1984), premiered by the Cleveland Orchestra, Christoph von Dohnányi, conductor.]  You can argue one way or the other, but I think this one is better.

BD:    If you write something for Chicago, is it going to be impossible to be played by other orchestras?

CW:    No!  This piece was originally commissioned by a consortium of regional orchestras, and was done first by the Albany Symphony.

BD:    But if you're commissioned by the Chicago Symphony, would you write it differently than if you were commissioned by regional ones?

CW:    I don't think so.  My music is intrinsically difficult enough as it is, and one doesn't want to limit even further the possibilities for performance.

BD:    You don't write it to be difficult, do you?

CW:    No!  That's the way it needs to be, and as a matter of fact it usually turns out over and over again that musicians say, "This is terribly difficult," when they start working on it, but it's only difficult because it's unfamiliar.  Most of the difficulties are psychological rather than physical.  Once they begin to find out how it goes, they say, "Oh, this is very ordinary!"  You just have to count the eighth notes, or whatever.

BD:    How do you know when the piece is finished?

CW:    When I have nothing more to contribute to it; when I begin to feel as if my judgment is no longer contributing to the improvement of the work.  That's a little difficult to say, because no matter how precise one's vision of the whole piece is before one starts to compose it, the actual reality of the notes makes for a sense of difference.  It makes a different situation than what it was when contemplated in the abstract.  There are always little improvements and changes of emphasis that the work can use, but I stop doing that final stage of composition at the point where it seems that choice A and choice B are equivalent.  Then I know that there's nothing more that I can contribute to it.

BD:    Do you know before you start how long will be?

CW:    Yes, always.

BD:    You're conscious of time?

CW:    First of all, I normally have some kind of external circumstance imposed.  Somebody wants a 15-minute piece or a half-hour piece, and I try to fulfill those time requirements...

BD:    If they ask for a 15-minute piece, can it be 14 or 16, or must it be exactly 15?

CW:    I'm very conscious of the difference between 14 1/2 and 15, as I would have to be, but I find that most people who say 15 minutes actually really mean is anything between ten and twenty, and they're perfectly happy.  They don't mean five, but they don't mean 15 and not a penny less or more

CHARLES WUORINEN (b. 9 June 1938, New York City) has been composing since he was five and he has been a forceful presence on the American musical scene for more than four decades. In 1970, Wuorinen became the youngest composer to win the Pulitzer Prize in music for Time's Encomium, an electronic composition written on commission from Nonesuch Records. The Pulitzer and the MacArthur Fellowship are just two among many awards, fellowships and other honors to have come his way. Wuorinen has written more than 250 compositions to date.  His newest works include It Happens Like This, a dramatic cantata on poems of James Tate to be premiered at Tanglewood in Summer 2011, Time Regained, a fantasy for piano and orchestra for Peter Serkin, James Levine and the MET Opera Orchestra, Eighth Symphony for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and Metagong for two pianos and two percussion. He is currently at work on an operatic treatment of Annie Proulx’s Brokeback Mountain to a libretto by the author. (Wuorinen’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories based on the novel of Salman Rushdie was premiered by the New York City Opera in Fall 2004.) An indication of Wuorinen's historical importance can be seen in the fact that in 1975 Stravinsky's widow gave Wuorinen the composer's last sketches for use in A Reliquary for Igor Stravinsky. Wuorinen was the first composer commissioned by the Cleveland Orchestra under Christoph von Dohnanyi (Movers and Shakers); and likewise the first to compose for Michael Tilson Thomas' New World Symphony (Bamboula Beach). Fractal geometry and the pioneering work of Benoit Mandelbrot have played a crucial role in several of his works including Bamboula Squared and the Natural Fantasy, a work for organ. His works have been recorded on nearly a dozen labels including several releases on Naxos, Albany Records (Charles Wuorinen Series), John Zorn’s Tzadik label, and a CD of piano works performed by Alan Feinberg on the German label Col Legno. Wuorinen's works are published exclusively by C.F. Peters Corporation. He is the author of Simple Composition, used by composition students throughout the world. An eloquent writer and speaker, Wuorinen has lectured at universities throughout the United States and abroad, and has served on the faculties of Columbia, Princeton, and Yale Universities, the University of Iowa, University of California (San Diego), Manhattan School of Music, New England Conservatory, State University of New York at Buffalo, and Rutgers University. Wuorinen has also been active as performer, an excellent pianist and a distinguished conductor of his own works as well as other twentieth century repertoire. His orchestral appearances have included the Cleveland Orchestra, Chicago Symphony, New York Philharmonic, San Francisco Symphony, Los Angeles Philharmonic, and the American Composers Orchestra. In 1962 he co-founded the Group for Contemporary Music, one of America's most prestigious ensembles dedicated to performance of new chamber music. In addition to cultivating a new generation of performers, commissioning and premiering hundreds of new works, the Group has been a model for many similar organizations which have appeared in the United States since its founding. Wuorinen is a member of both the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. -- Biography from the composer's official website

This interview was recorded in an office upstairs at Orchestra Hall in Chicago on February 26, 1987.  Portions (along with recordings) were used on WNIB in 1988, 1993, and again in 1998.  An unedited copy of the audio was placed in the Archive of Contemporary Music at Northwestern University.  This transcription was made and posted on this website in 2012.

To see a full list (with links) of interviews which have been transcribed and posted on this website, click here.

Award - winning broadcaster Bruce Duffie was with WNIB, Classical 97 in Chicago from 1975 until its final moment as a classical station in February of 2001.  His interviews have also appeared in various magazines and journals since 1980, and he now continues his broadcast series on WNUR-FM, as well as on Contemporary Classical Internet Radio.