In a recent article for the New York Times titled “Why Composers Want to Write Operas for Children,” Jeffrey Arlo Brown profiles a group of contemporary composers who have found an unexpected refuge in children’s opera after years of working within the constraints of academic modernism. The composers describe the experience as “liberating,” but not for the reason you might expect.
In 1995, I received a commission to write a new work for the Australian National Academy of Music. So, I composed a small string piece called Diesque, which was neoclassical in style, melodic and structured. But when I arrived at the National Academy, I was summoned to a meeting with the Australian composer Larry Sitsky. He did not hide his reservations. “I don’t like what you’ve done or approve of it,” he said, “but I will defend to the death your right to write music like this.” A week later, the director of the National Academy, Trevor Green, sat in on a rehearsal. He went white, stood up, and walked out. Shortly after, I was informed that my piece would not be performed. When I confronted Green about this decision, he gave me a response I have never forgotten: “The audience cannot be allowed to hear this music. It will set the cause of modern music back a decade.”
By the late 20th century, audiences outside conservatories were weeping to John Williams’s Schindler’s List theme, thrilling to the melodies of The Lion King, and filling Broadway theatres for Les Misérables and Phantom of the Opera. But inside conservatories, contemporary classical music had become a severe and esoteric form, financed exclusively by taxpayers and performed for diminishing audiences.
The reasons for this can be traced to the early 20th century, when Western composition took an abrupt turn away from its historical trajectory. Before then, every composer—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms—built upon the past. They were not enslaved by tradition, but they honoured it. Brahms famously delayed writing his First Symphony because he feared comparison with Beethoven. This was and is the struggle of all great artists.
Arnold Schoenberg changed the terms of that struggle. Instead of grappling with the shadow of Beethoven and Brahms, he redefined the problem entirely. Rather than striving to meet the daunting standards set by his predecessors, he rejected the premise outright. Melody, as it had been understood for centuries, was dismissed as outdated. Tonality, which had structured all of Western music, was declared irrelevant. In its place, Schoenberg introduced the twelve-tone system, which ensured that no note was ever prioritised over another. This not only shattered traditional expectations, but it also—and perhaps intentionally—insulated his music from direct comparison to the past.
The 20th century then became a race to see how far composers could distance themselves from the expectations of history. While regular audiences embraced jazz, film music, rock, and Broadway, classical composition drifted further into intellectual esotericism. Serialism, musique concrète, and the so-called New Complexity movement emerged, each more alienating than the last. Minimalism, the most palatable of the modern styles, survived largely because it smuggled tonality back into composition in the guise of high-minded experimentation.
By the late 20th century, this ideology was no longer just dominant—it was enforced. Gatekeepers of contemporary music—academics, funding boards, critics—ensured that any deviation towards accessibility was dismissed as regression. Writing music that audiences might enjoy was seen as an act of defiance. Many composers who sought to embrace melody or emotion found themselves dismissed as reactionaries, their work rejected before a single note was heard.
Classical music was one of the first fields to impose the self-censorship that now pervades so many areas of intellectual and cultural life. As in many industries, criticism of the dominant ideology is met with swift and severe consequences. Careers, grants, and commissions all now hinge on silent acquiescence. In public, everyone repeats the dogma; in private, they hum something else.
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