It may surprise you that many composers continue to write music in the classical tradition, broadly construed. One possible reason for the belief that the development of classical music ended some time ago is the “classical” label itself, which suggests that the category is historical. As well, it doesn’t help that “contemporary classical” is not really a coherent genre. Composers are engaging with the past in multifarious ways. The result is a grab-bag of musical styles, with something for each listener but nothing that everyone can agree on.
A final explanation for contemporary classical music’s unpopularity may be the exit of classically-trained composers from the European mainstream after 1945. The postwar avant-garde—repulsed by the association of traditional and/or popular art and authoritarian politics in the 30s and 40s—adopted an obscurantist aesthetic and a posture of hostility towards audiences. It is notable that so few of their works have entered the repertoire, even as the horizons of classical musicians continue to expand. But I don’t wish to relitigate the merits of their artistic attitudes in detail here. For readers who are interested in twentieth-century classical music history, Alex Ross’s 2007 book, The Rest is Noise, remains an excellent resource.
Given the lack of consensus on what constitutes “contemporary classical” music, it is necessary to set out some criteria for the purposes of this article. I use 1970 as a cut-off date. I acknowledge that this choice is somewhat arbitrary (as are, frankly, most dates used to define artistic or historical categories). However, 1970 is preferable to 1945 because there are too many works written between those two years that have long-since become fixtures: Britten’s Peter Grimes (1945); Strauss’s Four Last Songs (1948); Prokofiev’s Symphony Concertante (1950-1); Shostakovich’s Tenth Symphony (1953) and String Quartet No. 8 (1960); and Poulenc’s woodwind sonatas (for flute, 1956-7; clarinet, 1962; and oboe, 1962), inter alia. Here, I focus on newer music that deserves attention but is not unfindable—pieces with at least a couple of commercial recordings.
Takemitsu’s And then I knew ‘twas wind (1992)—for flute, viola, and harp—has, first of all, a great title. It also has a dreamy and introspective character that is strongly reminiscent of Debussy’s Sonata (1915) for the same instruments. The link to Debussy anchors the piece, which is otherwise filled with the complex rhythms and extended techniques that you would expect in a late twentieth-century composition. If you find the non-melodic but gentle style appealing, And then I knew is available as part of a 2001 album of Takemitsu’s chamber music by the ad hoc Toronto New Music Ensemble, on the Naxos label.
Next, Ligeti’s Études (1985-2001) comprise three books of piano pieces. They are, by all accounts, exceptionally difficult to play. The good news is that compared to the demands they make on the pianist, the demands they make on the audience are quite reasonable. Ligeti became famous for his modernist (though already highly individual) orchestral works in the 1960s, but later in his life, he developed a more eclectic sound, with significant folk music influences. The Études exemplify the latter. They, like many Romantic piano miniatures, have colourful titles that give listeners something to hang their hats on. Apparently Ligeti wanted to keep adding to Book 3, which only has four pieces, but wasn’t able to because of ill health. A true pity. I have the recording by Pierre-Laurent Aimard on Sony. Unfortunately, it does not include the last three Etudes (as they hadn’t been composed yet at the time of recording), but it comes with the early Musica Ricercata (1951-3), which is a must-hear. There are more recent recordings that include Etudes Nos. 16-18 and can be used to supplement the Aimard.
If you are looking for a pick-me-up, don’t turn to Schnittke, a gloomy man who picked up where Shostakovich left off. His music is generally dark-hued, though not without a particular sense of humour. The Concerto Grosso No. 1 (1977)—written for two solo violins, string orchestra, harpsichord, and prepared piano—illustrates Schnittke’s polystylism. The influences are different from Ligeti’s (Baroque music, “light music” like tangos and waltzes, atonal music) but similarly varied. While I certainly wouldn’t describe any of it as upbeat, there is enough energy in the fast movements to temper the morose, slow movements. It’s worth checking out the Deutsche Grammophon recording by Gidon Kremer and Tatiana Grindenko, as the solo parts were written with them in mind.
Finally, Rautavaara’s Cantus Arcticus (1972), scored for orchestra and taped birdsong, is the most Romantic of this bunch of pieces. I describe it that way because of its overt lyricism and atmospheric depiction of nature (which brings to mind Sibelius’ tone poems). Most importantly, the birdsong does not come across as a gimmick; Rautavaara manages to weave the tape into the orchestral fabric in a genuinely uncontrived manner. The result is beautiful. Although the Cantus is not a nineteenth-century pastiche, even those who are wary of modern music have nothing to fear. There are quite a few recordings available. If you want to listen to a full album of Rautavaara, decide based on the couplings; the Cantus is only 30 or so minutes, and usually gets recorded together with other works by Rautavaara.
Of course, these four works are just the tip of the iceberg. You may wish to explore the music of minimalist composers, high modernists, or another school of composers that I haven’t mentioned. I simply hope that the compositions of Takemitsu, Ligeti, Schnittke, and Rautavaara will show that the classical tradition continues—albeit in different guises—and that listening to more recent works does not have to be an exercise in asceticism. Enjoy it!