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To understand the cultural unease that gripped composers in the Roaring Twenties, one need only read the work of Carl Van Vechten, the American critic, novelist, and social gadfly who, in the 1920s, more or less defected from classical music to jazz and blues. The writer started out as a second-string music critic at the New York Times, dutifully chronicling the city’s concert life in the years before the First World War. During an extended stay in Paris, he warmed to the European moderns and witnessed the riot of the Rite in the company of Gertrude Stein. By the end of the war, though, Van Vechten was getting his kicks chiefly from popular music, and in a 1917 essay he predicted that Irving Berlin and other Tin Pan Alley songwriters would be considered “the true grandfathers of the Great American Composer of the year 2001.” Finally, he pledged his allegiance to African-American culture, writing off concert music as a spent force. In the controversial 1926 novel Nigger Heaven, he observed that black artists were in complete possession of the “primitive birthright … that all the civilized races were struggling to get back to—this fact explained the art of a Picasso or a Stravinsky.”

The writings of Van Vechten, Gilbert Seldes, and other rebellious young American intellectuals of the twenties show a paradigm shift under way. They depict popular artists not as entertainers but as major artists, modernists from the social margins. In the twenties, for the first time in history, classical composers lacked assurance that they were the sole guardians of the grail of progress. Other innovators and progenitors were emerging. They were American. They often lacked the polish of a conservatory education. And, increasingly, they were black.

One nineteenth-century composer saw this change coming, or at least sensed it. In 1892, the Czech master Antonín Dvořák, whose feeling for his native culture had inspired the young Janáček, went to New York to teach at the newly instituted National Conservatory. A man of rural peasant origins, Dvořák had few prejudices about the social background or skin color of prospective talent. In Manhattan he befriended the young black singer and composer Harry T. Burleigh, who introduced him to the African-American spirituals. Dvořák decided that this music held the key to America’s musical future. He began plotting a new symphonic work that would draw on African-American and Native American material: the mighty Ninth Symphony, subtitled “From the New World.” With the help of a ghostwriter, Dvořák also aired his views in public, in an article titled “Real Value of Negro Melodies,” which appeared in the New York Herald on May 21, 1893:

I am now satisfied that the future music of this country must be founded upon what are called the negro melodies. This must be the real foundation of any serious and original school of composition to be developed in the United States … All of the great musicians have borrowed from the songs of the common people. Beethoven’s most charming scherzo is based upon what might now be considered a skillfully handled negro melody … In the negro melodies of America I discover all that is needed for a great and noble school of music. They are pathetic, tender, passionate, melancholy, solemn, religious, bold, merry, gay or what you will. It is music that suits itself to any mood or any purpose. There is nothing in the whole range of composition that cannot be supplied with themes from this source.

At a time when lynching was a social sport in the South, and in a year when excursion trains brought ten thousand people to Paris, Texas, so that they could watch a black man being paraded through town, tortured, and burned at the stake, Dvořák’s embrace of African-American spirituals was a notable gesture. The visiting celebrity didn’t just urge white composers to make use of black material; he promoted blacks themselves as composers. Most provocative of all was his imputation of a “Negro” strain in Beethoven—a heresy against the Aryan philosophies that were gaining ground in Europe.

Black music is so intertwined with the wider history of American music that the story of the one is to a great extent the story of the other. Everything runs along the color line, as W. E. B. Du Bois wrote in The Souls of Black Folk. Still, it’s worth asking why the music of 10 percent of the population should have had such influence.

In 1939, a Harvard undergraduate named Leonard Bernstein tried to give an answer, in a paper titled “The Absorption of Race Elements into American Music.” Great music in the European tradition, young Bernstein declared, had grown organically from national sources, both in a “material” sense (folk tunes serving as sources for composition) and in a “spiritual” sense (folkish music speaking for the ethos of a place). Bernstein’s two-tiered conception, which acknowledges in equal measure music’s autonomy and its social function, makes a good stab at explaining why black music conquered the more open-minded precincts of white America. First, it made a phenomenal sound. The characteristic devices of African-American musicking—the bending and breaking of diatonic scales, the distortion of instrumental timbre, the layering of rhythms, the blurring of the distinction between verbal and nonverbal sound—opened new dimensions in musical space, a realm beyond the written notes. Second, black music compelled attention as a document of spiritual crisis and renewal. It memorialized the wound at the heart of the national experience—the crime of slavery—and it transcended that suffering with acts of individual self-expression and collective affirmation. Thus, black music fulfilled Bernstein’s demand for a “common American musical material.”

What Dvořák did not foresee, and what even the cooler-than-thou Bernstein had trouble grasping, was that the “great and noble school of music” would consist not of classical compositions but of ragtime, jazz, blues, swing, R & B, rock ’n’ roll, funk, soul, hip-hop, and whatever’s next. Many pioneers of black music might have had major classical careers if the stage door of Carnegie Hall had been open to them, but, with few exceptions, it was not. As the scholar Paul Lopes writes, “The limited resources and opportunities for black artists to perform and create cultivated music for either black or white audiences … forced them into a more immediate relationship with the American vernacular.” Soon, jazz had its own canon of masters, its own dialectic of establishment and avant-garde: Armstrong the originator, Ellington the classicist, Charlie Parker the revolution-ary, and so on. A young Mahler of Harlem had little to gain by going downtown.

Separateness became a source of power; there were other ways to get the message out, other lines of transmission. Black musicians were quick to appropriate technologies that classical music adopted only fitfully. The protagonist of Ralph Ellison’s epochal novel Invisible Man sits in his basement with his record player, listening to “(What Did I Do to Be So) Black and Blue.” He says, “Perhaps I like Louis Armstrong because he’s made poetry out of being invisible.” The invisible man broadcasts on the “lower frequencies” to which society has consigned him. Incidentally, Ellison once thought of becoming a composer. He took a few lessons from Wallingford Riegger, an early American admirer of Schoenberg. Then, like so many others, he stopped.

To tell the story of American composition in the early twentieth century is to circle around an absent center. The great African-American orchestral works that Dvořák prophesied are mostly absent, their promise transmuted into jazz. Nonetheless, the landscape teems with interesting life. White composers faced another, far milder kind of prejudice; their very existence was deemed inessential by the Beethoven-besotted concertgoers of the urban centers. They tried many routes around the intractable fact of audience apathy, embracing radical dissonance (Charles Ives, Edgard Varèse, Carl Ruggles), radical simplicity (Virgil Thomson), a black-and-white, classical-popular fusion (George Gershwin). For the most part, the identity of the American composer was a kind of non identity, an ethnicity of solitude.

Aaron Copland, whose story will be told in later chapters, once pointed out that the job of being an American artist often consists simply in making art possible—which is to say, visible. Every generation has to do the work all over again. Composers perennially lack state support; they lack a broad audience; they lack a centuries-old tradition. For some, this isolation is debilitating, but for others it is liberating; the absence of tradition means freedom from tradition. One way or another, all American composers are invisible men.

Will Marion Cook

The early history of African-American composition, at the end of the nineteenth century and the beginning of the twentieth, is full of sorrowful tales. Scott Joplin, the composer of “Maple Leaf Rag” and “The Entertainer,” spent his last years in a futile effort to stage his opera Treemonisha, which vibrantly blended bel canto melody and rag rhythm. Syphilis invaded Joplin’s brain, and he died insane in 1917. Harry Lawrence Freeman, the founder of the Negro Grand Opera Company in Harlem, wrote two Wagnerian tetralogies with black characters, only one part of which was ever staged. Saddest of all, perhaps, was the case of Maurice Arnold Strothotte, whom Dvořák singled out as “the most promising and gifted” of his American pupils. Arnold’s American Plantation Dances was played at a National Conservatory concert in 1894 to much applause. The conductor-scholar Maurice Peress has shown that Dvořák’s familiar Humoresque borrowed from an episode in Arnold’s work. The conservatory concert was, unfortunately, the high-water mark of the young man’s career. He continued writing music—an opera titled The Merry Benedicts, music for silent films, an American Rhapsody, a Symphony in F Minor—but performances were few. Instead, he made a living conducting operetta and teaching violin. Like the hero of James Weldon Johnson’s Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man, he apparently stopped identifying as black, living out his final years in the heavily German neighborhood of Yorkville. Oblivion engulfed him all the same.

Other stories had happier endings. The little-known life of the violinist, composer, conductor, and teacher Will Marion Cook serves as a useful case study in the development of African-American music from 1900 to 1930. If this charismatic, obstinate personality ultimately failed in his quest to conquer the classical realm, he did experience moments of triumph, and blazed a separate trail for many black artists who followed him. Among other things, he forms a direct link between Dvořák and Duke Ellington.

Cook’s biography, sketchily documented, has been pieced together by the scholar Marva Griffin Carter. Born in 1869, Cook grew up in Washington, D.C., the son of middle-class parents. When his father died, he went to live with his grandparents in Chattanooga, where his arrogance created the sorts of disciplinary problems that are often noted in youngsters of unusual talent. He used to go to the top of Lookout Mountain, outside Chattanooga, to plot his future fame. In his unpublished autobiography, he wrote: “I would … remain there till late at night, planning my whole life, how I would study, become a great musician, and do something about race prejudice … Somehow I felt that such music might be the lever by which my people could raise their status. All my life I’ve dreamed dreams, but never more wonderful or more grandiose dreams than those inspired by Lookout Mountain.”

Cook was then accepted into Oberlin, one of very few American colleges where black students could enroll alongside whites. A professor noticed his skill as a violinist and advised him to study with Joseph Joachim, who headed the Hochschule für Musik in Berlin. With some assistance from the slave-turned-orator Frederick Douglass, who belonged to Mrs. Cook’s social circle, the boy gained admittance to Joachim’s academy.

The Kaiser’s Berlin proved surprisingly welcoming. According to the autobiography, titled Hell of a Life, Joachim took the young African-American under his wing, expressing a liking for his passionate playing and his untamed personality. “You are a stranger in a strange land,” the violinist supposedly said. “We are going to become friends. Come to my house for lunch Sunday.” At Joachim’s gatherings Cook could have met or glimpsed many of the leading personalities of German music, including Hans von Bülow and the young Richard Strauss. In the winter of 1889, none other than Johannes Brahms came to the Hochschule to celebrate Joachim’s fiftieth anniversary as a performer. In all, Cook seems to have enjoyed his time in Germany; the sight of a black violinist was apparently too exotic to arouse racial fears.

Compare the experiences of W. E. B. Du Bois, who began studying economics and history in Berlin just as Cook left. According to David Levering Lewis’s biography, Du Bois “felt exceptionally free” during his Berlin sojourn—“more liberated … than he would ever feel again.” On a train ride to Lübeck, Du Bois sang Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy”—“All men will be brothers”—and dreamed of a better world. The young philosopher also became enamored of the Wagner operas, gaining from them an appreciation of how art could inflame national and racial spirit. In his story “Of the Coming of John,” which appeared in The Souls of Black Folk, a Southern youth named John Jones attends a performance of Lohengrin and feels in it the contours of a better life: “A deep longing swelled in all his heart to rise with that clear music out of the dirt and dust of that low life that held him prisoned and befouled. If he could only live up in the free air where birds sang and setting suns had no touch of blood!” Then—here Du Bois reveals his “double-consciousness,” his awareness of how even the most “cultured” black man is perceived—an usher taps John on the shoulder and asks him to leave.

That tap on the shoulder, metaphorical or not, Will Marion Cook came to know well when he returned to America. He tried to make his name as a violinist, advertising himself improbably as a “musical phenomenon performing some of the masterpieces upon his violin with one hand.” Making little headway, he then formed the William Marion Cook Orchestra, with Frederick Douglass as honorary president. At around the same time, Cook wrote, or began writing, an opera based on Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Most significantly, in 1893, he went to Chicago to participate in the World’s Columbian Exposition, a momentous event at which America declared its new status as a world power. In an effort to counteract the stereo types of black savagery that figured in some of the fair’s displays—crowds flocked to watch and hear the African drummers of Dahomey Village—Douglass organized a Colored People’s Day, which aimed to affirm the nobility of the black American experience. Newspapers mocked Douglass by speculating that watermelons would be sold in bulk.

Colored People’s Day was to have featured excerpts from Cook’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin, but the singer Sissieretta Jones failed to receive the travel advance that she needed to make the trip, and the performance was canceled. Yet the exposition wasn’t a total waste for Cook. He obtained a letter of introduction to Dvořák, who evidently invited him to study at the National Conservatory. ( Jeannette Thurber, the found er of the conservatory, had a policy of admitting Negro students free of charge.) There is little record of what Cook did during his first years in New York, but circumstantial evidence suggests that racism put a quick end to his dreams. One anecdote is cited in Duke Ellington’s memoir, Music Is My Mistress. Cook makes his Carnegie Hall debut, and a critic hails him as “the world’s greatest Negro violinist.” Cook barges in on the critic and smashes his violin on the man’s desk. “I am not the world’s greatest Negro violinist,” he shouts. “I am the greatest violinist in the world!” Marva Griffin Carter finds no evidence that such an incident took place, but yelling matches probably ensued as the temperamental Cook made the rounds of the concert halls.

Barred from the classical world, Cook got work where he could find it. In 1898 he collaborated with the poet Paul Laurence Dunbar on a musical revue titled Clorindy; or, The Origin of the Cakewalk, which opened on Broadway with an all-black cast. This was, at first glance, yet another self-denigrating minstrel show full of talk of “coons” and “darkeys.” But, as Carter points out, the lyrics often have a hidden sting, making “confrontational jabs” at white listeners. The hit number “Darktown Is Out To night” delivers a prophecy of the coming sovereignty of black music:

For the time

Comin’ mighty soon,

When the best,

Like the rest

Gwine a-be singin’ coon.

When Cook’s mother came to the show, she was distressed to see his Berlin education going to this end. A Negro composer should write just like a white man, she told him. Yet the composer could look back on Clorindy and its successor, In Dahomey, as examples of a black composer finally finding his own voice. “On Emancipation Day,” In Dahomey’s big number, repeats the prophecy of “Darktown” in even starker terms:

All you white folks clear de way,

Brass ban’ playin’ sev’ral tunes

Darkies eyes look jes’ lak moons . . .

When dey hear dem ragtime tunes

White fo’ks try to pass fo’ coons

On Emancipation day.

The first chords of the overture, which recur at the beginning of “On Emancipation Day,” echo the opening of the Largo of Dvořák’s New World Symphony.

Cook’s musicals, sophisticated in technique and assertive in tone, anticipated the spirit of the Harlem Renaissance, which came into its own around 1925. Since the beginning of the century, W. E. B. Du Bois had been calling for a “Talented Tenth” of black intellectuals and artists to lead the masses to a better place in society. The upsurge of artistic activity in Harlem in the twenties fulfilled Du Bois’s prophecy, although the elitism implicit in the phrase “Talented Tenth” would prove problematic. Music was essential to the Re naissance spirit, and Du Bois, the philosopher Alain Locke, and the poet James Weldon Johnson all argued that black composers should avail themselves of European forms, even as they explored the native African-American tradition. Cook himself wrote in 1918: “Developed Negro music has just begun in America. The colored American is finding himself. He has thrown aside puerile imitations of the white man. He has learned that a thorough study of the masters gives knowledge of what is good and how to create. From the Russian he has learned to get his inspiration from within; that his inexhaustible wealth of folklore legends and songs furnish him with material for compositions that will establish a great school of music and enrich musical literature.”

Still, Cook could not break into “straight” composition. In the second de cade of the century, he became a bandleader, putting together a sharp group called the New York Syncopated Orchestra, which later toured Europe under the name Southern Syncopated Orchestra. Although Cook never felt comfortable with jazz—improvisation grated against his conservatory training—he highlighted the new sounds that were emerging from New Orleans, and hired the young clarinet virtuoso Sidney Bechet as his star soloist. The conductor Ernest Ansermet, who took an avid interest in jazz just as it was developing, heard Cook’s orchestra play in 1919 and, with an alertness that has won him a place of honor in anthologies of jazz writing, acclaimed Bechet as a “genius” and Cook as a “master in every respect.” Back in 1893 Anton Rubin-stein had predicted that Negro musicians could form “a new musical school” in twenty-five or thirty years. Twenty-five years later, Ansermet perceived in Bechet’s and Cook’s performances “a highway that the world may rush down tomorrow.”

Cook was hardly the only black musician to turn from classical study to a popular career. Many classically trained black musicians played significant roles in early jazz, giving the lie to the simplistic and racist idea that it was a purely instinctive, illiterate form. Will Vodery worked as a librarian for the Philadelphia and Chicago orchestras in his youth and showed promise as a conductor, but his career took off only when Florenz Ziegfeld, the master showman of Broadway, hired him to arrange music for his Follies. James Reese Europe trained on the violin but found no work when he arrived in New York in 1903; instead, he began playing bar piano, conducting theatricals, and leading bands. His all-black Clef Club Orchestra and Hell Fighters band introduced a broad audience to syncopated music that was a step or two away from jazz. Fletcher Henderson, Ellington’s future rival for the crown of king of swing, started out as a classical piano prodigy; when he went to work with Ethel Waters in New York, he had to learn jazz piano by listening to James P. Johnson piano rolls. Johnson himself, Harlem’s reigning stride pianist, had compositional aspirations that were only partly fulfilled. In a later generation, Billy Strayhorn, destined to win fame as Ellington’s chief collaborator, shone as a composing prodigy in his youth and wowed his high-school classmates with a Concerto for Piano and Percussion.

The same scenario kept repeating. Middle-class parents would send their sons and daughters to Oberlin or Fisk or the National Conservatory, hoping that they could achieve the wonderful things that Dvořák had forecast for African-American music. Hitting the wall of prejudice, these young creative musicians would turn to popular styles instead—first out of frustration, then out of ambition, finally out of pride. The youngest players embraced jazz as their birthright; they gave little thought to Dvořák’s old fantasy of Negro symphonies. Cook, however, never forgot the ambitions that he had nursed as a boy, when he stood on Lookout Mountain. He still dreamed of a “black Beethoven, burned to the bone by the African sun.”

Charles Ives

Inscribed above the stage of Symphony Hall in Boston, one of America’s great music palaces, is the name BEETHOVEN, occupying much the same position as a crucifix in a church. In several late-nineteenth-and early-twentieth-century concert halls, the names of the European masters appear all around the circumference of the auditorium, signifying unambiguously that the buildings are cathedrals for the worship of imported musical icons. Early in the century, any aspiring young composer who sat in one of these halls—a white male, needless to say, blacks being generally unwelcome and women generally not taken seriously—would likely have fallen prey to pessimistic thoughts. The very design of the place militated against the possibility of a native musical tradition. How could your name ever be carved alongside Beethoven’s or Grieg’s when all available spaces were filled? The fact that so many American composers still came forward is a tribute to the willfulness of the species.

Charles Ives was one such stubborn youth. He came from a distinguished New England family, the descendant of a farmer who arrived in Connecticut fifteen years after the voyage of the Mayflower. His grand parents George White Ives and Sarah Hotchkiss Wilcox Ives had connections to the Transcendentalists, the royalty of American intellectual life; Emerson himself supposedly once spent a night in their Danbury house. Ives’s father was the bandleader George Ives, about whom little is known beyond Charles’s not always reliable recollections. Whether the father really anticipated the son’s experiments is impossible to determine, but one famous tale is corroborated by eyewitness testimony: the bandleader once marched two bands past each other for the simple joy of hearing them in cacophonous simultaneity. Ives also remembers that he and his brothers were directed to sing Stephen Foster’s plantation tune “Old Folks at Home” in the key of E-flat while George played the accompaniment in C.

Charles attended Yale College, where he studied composition with Horatio Parker, under whose tutelage he produced an expert, Dvořákian four-movement symphony. In 1898 the young composer went to New York, where he worked a day job at the Mutual Life Insurance Company and played the organ and directed music at the Central Presbyterian Church. (He had been an expert organist since his teens, using the instrument to experiment with spatial effects and multiple layers of activity.) In 1902 Ives attracted positive attention with a cantata titled The Celestial Country. The Musical Courier detected “undoubted earnestness in study and talent for composition”; the Times called the new work “scholarly and well made,” “spirited and melodious.” Ives seemed poised for a distinguished career. First he would study with an important name in Europe, then he would find a position on an Ivy League faculty.

Just one week after the successful premiere, however, Ives suddenly resigned his church position, and subsequently vanished from the musical scene. Why he did so remains a mystery. Perhaps he had been expecting a more ecstatic reception to his debut; tellingly, he later scrawled the words “Damn rot and worse” over one of the reviews of The Celestial Country. Biographers have added speculation that this athletic young male, Yale’s “Dasher” Ives, had a sort of macho hang-up with respect to American classical-music culture, which, to his eyes, appeared to be an “emasculated art,” controlled by women patrons, effeminate men, and fashionable foreigners (“pussies,” “sissies,” “pansies,” and so on). More prosaically, Ives may have lost faith when an acquaintance was picked to teach at Yale as Parker’s heir apparent.

Instead, Ives chose to make his living in life insurance, at which he proved remarkably adept. He was a proponent of the hard sell, skilled at getting people to buy policies that they didn’t know they wanted. He didn’t go door-to-door himself; his job was to think up sales techniques that could be passed along to a network of freelance brokers. Ives codified his innovations in the pamphlet The Amount to Carry, which laid out a sales pitch “simple enough to be understood by the many, and complex enough to be of some value to all!” Ives told each salesman to plant himself firmly in front of a potential customer’s door and “knock some BIG ideas into his mind.”

In the evenings and on the weekends, Ives continued writing music, concealing his work from his business associates and making little effort to publicize it to the world at large. In almost total intellectual isolation, he launched an American musical revolution, either discarding the rules he learned at Yale or reinventing them on his own terms. At times, he unloosed dissonances that rivaled Schoenberg’s. In more carefree moods, he delighted in popular sounds and miscellaneous Americana. His philosophy of music was almost diametrically opposed to his philosophy of insurance; he preferred to imagine a world in which music could somehow circulate without being bought or sold. “Music may be yet unborn,” he wrote in Essays Before a Sonata, the companion volume to his piano masterpiece, the Concord Sonata. “Perhaps no music has ever been written or heard. Perhaps the birth of art will take place at the moment in which the last man who is willing to make a living out of art is gone and gone forever.”

Once Ives finally launched himself in the public eye, with the publication of the Concord in 1920, a myth began to crystallize around him. Here was an American visionary who had discovered atonality in advance of Schoenberg. When, in 1939, the pianist John Kirkpatrick finally mastered that titanic score and played it in its entirety, Lawrence Gilman of the New York Herald Tribune hailed Ives as “one of those exceptional artists whose indifference to réclame is as genuine as it is fantastic and unbelievable.” Schoenberg himself made an approving note: “There is a great Man living in this Country—a composer. He has solved the problem how to preserve one’s self-esteem and to learn [sic]. He responds to negligence by contempt. He is not forced to accept praise or blame. His name is Ives.” Later, the legend of Ives the innovator underwent skeptical scrutiny. The author Maynard Solomon wrote a paper alleging that Ives had backdated his scores in an effort to establish his precedence in the race toward atonality. Gayle Sherwood countered by proving that the composer had been tinkering with outlandish harmonies as early as 1898.

What ever the outcome of that debate, Ives’s originality really resides not in his outré chords but in his heterogeneous combinations of American sounds. Like Berg and Bartók, he ranged back and forth between folkish simplicity and dissonance. “Why tonality as such should be thrown out for good, I can’t see,” Ives once wrote. “Why it should always be present, I can’t see.”

In early experimental works such as From the Steeples and the Mountains and The Unanswered Question, Ives created hyperrealistic reproductions of everyday sonic events. In the first piece, bells ring out from multiple village steeples and echo against the mountains. In the second, spells of nervous, dissonant activity are set against a serene, soft swell of strings, evoking the querulousness of stranded human voices amid the indifferent vastness of nature. In the Second Symphony, finished around 1909, Ives opens the old Teutonic form to what the musicologist J. Peter Burkholder calls “borrowed tunes”: American hymns, marches, and ditties on the order of “Massa’s in de Cold Ground,” “Pig Town Fling,” “Beulah Land,” “De Camptown Races,” “Turkey in the Straw,” “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” These swirl together with quotations from Brahms, Wagner, Tchaikovsky, and Dvořák himself, provocatively leveling the European-American balance.

Finally, in mature large-scale works such as the Holidays Symphony, the Concord Sonata, and the Third and Fourth symphonies, Ives forges forms that could do justice to his all-American material. Rather than set forth musical ideas in orderly fashion at the outset of a piece, Ives follows a process that Burkholder names “cumulative form”: themes materialize from a nebula of possibilities, then build toward a brief, blinding epiphany. In the Third Symphony the epiphany takes the form of the hymn tune “Woodworth” singing out crisply at the end. The tumultuous, magisterial Fourth concludes with a thick fantasia on “Nearer, My God, to Thee.”

Three Places in New England, begun around 1914 and finished as late as 1929, is Ives’s deepest meditation on American myth. Coincidentally or not, it is also the work in which the black experience matters most. Ives gave clues to his intentions in the autobiographical Memos and in the book Essays Before a Sonata, both of which touch on the relationship between black and white music. On first reading, the argument may seem predictably prejudiced. Rejecting Dvořák’s program for a Negro-based American music, Ives insists that the spirituals had their origins in white gospel hymns and that the Negroes had “exaggerated” this white material. Ragtime, he writes in Essays Before a Sonata, “does not ‘represent the American nation’ any more than some fine old senators represent it.” One cannot make music from ragtime any more than one can make a meal of “tomato ketchup and horse-radish.”

Then the argument takes an interesting turn. A composer may make use of Negro or Indian motifs, Ives says, if he identifies deeply with the spirit burning in them—“fervently, transcendentally, inevitably, furiously.” One must possess the same passion for truth that drove the abolitionist orator Wendell Phillips, who shouted down and shamed a pro-slavery faction at Boston’s Faneuil Hall in 1837. Otherwise, the composer should look to his own heritage. What Ives seems to be saying is that the white hymns are no less fervent than the black; singers of all colors bend notes to express their spirit. In the end, Ives flatly states, “an African soul under an X-ray looks identically like an American soul.”

Ives took pride in the fact that his family had long embraced African-American causes. His grandparents, outspoken abolitionists, had given support to the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute, an industrial school for Negroes and Native Americans. After the Civil War, George Ives and his parents more or less adopted a black boy named Henry Anderson Brooks and sent him to study at Hampton. Ives evidently heard ragtime early on, perhaps at the World’s Columbian Exposition, which he attended during a summer off from high school. (He seems to have missed the fiasco of Colored People’s Day by a day or two.) He often played spirituals on the piano. At one point he planned a set of pieces dealing with black America; it would have included The Abolitionists, a dramatization of Wendell Phillips’s Faneuil Hall oration.

In the end, this material went into the first movement of Three Places in New England. “The ‘St. Gaudens’ in Boston Common (Col. Shaw and His Colored Regiment)” takes as its subject Augustus Saint-Gaudens’s bas-relief sculpture of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts Infantry, one of the Union’s first African-American regiments, which lost more than one hundred men in an assault on the Confederate stronghold of Battery Wagner in 1863. At the head of the score Ives placed a poem of his own composition, in which he depicted “Faces of Souls” marching through pain toward freedom, led along by the “drum-beat of the common-heart.” Whether any given tune in “St. Gaudens” represents the soul of a black soldier or a white officer is difficult to make out, but the fact that the composer sometimes called the piece his “Black March” suggests that he considered the Colored Regiment its protagonist.

The score of Three Places in New England is held at the Yale University Music Library. A bundle of revisions, additions, and last-minute corrections, it exemplifies the composer’s unruly working methods. One inspiration occurred to Ives late in the game: he decided to insert a soft, cloudy, brooding chord of six notes at the head of the “St. Gaudens” movement. The chord fuses triads of A minor and D-sharp minor, and, as in Salome and the Rite, the tritone gap between them hints at unresolved and perhaps unresolvable conflict—in this case, perhaps the Civil War itself. Out of that mist of sound, a host of hymns and songs emerge, and tunes with African-American associations take precedence. Early on, two Stephen Foster songs, “Old Black Joe” and “Massa’s in de Cold Ground,” make appearances. Later come “The Battle Cry of Freedom,” “Marching Through Georgia,” a burst of ragtime, and “Deep River.” The “white” tunes are given a relatively straitlaced setting, indicative of the Boston rectitude of Colonel Shaw. “Deep River,” that mightiest of spirituals, sounds in noble, lonely tones on the horn.

The tunes converge in what the musicologist Denise Von Glahn has described as an orchestral reenactment of the Colored Regiment’s suicidal siege of Battery Wagner. A C-major chord is pierced by a dissonant B: Colonel Shaw is struck by a bullet as he cries, “Forward, Fifty-fourth!” The “rally round the flag” motif from “The Battle Cry of Freedom” blares out over a stumbling, collapsing march sequence: Sergeant William H. Carney, the first African-American to receive the Medal of Honor, carries the flag above the fray. In the hush that ensues, “Old Black Joe” and “Massa’s in de Cold Ground” play once more, leading into a brief, bluesy lament for solo cello. At the end comes a hazy “Amen”—perhaps a funeral procession going up the steps of a church.

What are we hearing? Is Ives seriously suggesting that black soldiers in the Civil War sang “Hear dat mournful sound” as they went into battle? Presumably not. As the title indicates, the work is inspired not by the battle itself but by Saint-Gaudens’s sculpture in honor of it. This is Shaw’s regiment, as seen by Saint-Gaudens, as seen again by Ives. We are looking back through the eyes of a turn-of-the-century Yankee who cannot sing as the black soldiers sang. When he thinks “Negro,” Foster tunes come to mind, as well as anachronistic strains of ragtime. Even so, by shattering these trite associations into fragments, Ives draws closer to the source. The movement seems to look ahead to black music of the near or distant future: the jagged country blues of Skip James, the dreaming chords of Ellington’s symphonic jazz, John Coltrane’s “sheets of sound.” Such resemblances may be nothing more than accidents, but Ives’s whole method was to plan accidents. He was incapable of asserting a monolithic point of view; instead, he created a kind of open-ended listening room, a space of limitless echoes.

The Jazz Age

Ives wisely waited until 1920 before trying seriously to publicize his modern Transcendentalist style. Ten years earlier, his work would have made little sense to listeners reared on the courtly values of the Gilded Age. But in the period of the Roaring Twenties there emerged what the scholar Carol Oja has called a “marketplace for modernism,” an audience more receptive to disruptive sounds.

Cawing trombone glissandos defined the Original Dixieland Jazz Band’s 1917 track “Livery Stable Blues,” the first jazz record to capture national attention. Around the same time, audiences were cheering the immigrant Ukrainian pianist-composer Leo Ornstein, a.k.a. “Ornstein the Keyboard Terror,” who offered up savage discords and slam-bang virtuosity. Ornstein’s most startling effect, co-invented with the California experimentalist Henry Cowell, was the “cluster chord,” in which three or more adjacent notes are struck with the hand, the fist, or the forearm. Somehow, Ornstein succeeded in generating an early form of the mass hysteria that would later greet Benny Goodman, Frank Sinatra, and the Beatles. One crowd was said to have “mobbed the lobbies, marched at intervals to the stage, and long clung there to walls, to organ-pipes, pedal-base, stairs, or any niche offering a view.”

American music had grown from a well-behaved Eurocentric childhood into a rambunctious adolescence. Oja, in her book Making Music Modern, compares several leading composers of the period to “commuters who emerge baffled from the subway, peering in all directions to ground their location.” Some adopted the strategy of avant-garde assault, firing off dissonances and percussive timbres that outdid the most unusual sound combinations of Stravinsky and the Viennese. They were dubbed the “ultra-moderns.” Others aimed to ingratiate themselves with the concert-going public, garnishing opera and symphony with dollops of jazz. On the other side of the shaky popular-classical divide, young Broadway masters like Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, Richard Rodgers, Cole Porter, and George Gershwin copped devices from grand opera and modern music, on their way to creating a new type of through-composed music theater. They, too, were part of Manhattan’s “modernist marketplace,” as Oja calls it. Meanwhile, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Sidney Bechet, Fletcher Henderson, Bix Beiderbecke, and Paul Whiteman, among others, were determining the fundamentals of the art of jazz. Almost all the above-named were born in the years just before or just after 1900, and they would dominate American music for decades to come.

Edgard Varèse, chieftain of the ultra-moderns, later recalled: “I became a sort of diabolic Parsifal, searching not for the Holy Grail but the bomb that would make the musical world explode and thereby let in all sounds, sounds which up to now—and even today—have been called noises.”

Varèse, born in 1883, came to New York from the Paris avant-garde, where he patronized some of the same occult Rosicrucian gatherings that had intrigued Debussy and Satie. After writing for a time in a style that evidently fell somewhere between Debussy and Strauss—his early scores were subsequently destroyed in a fire—Varèse took an interest in Italian Futurism and its “art of noise.” In 1915, having been released from the French army on medical grounds, he decided to try his fortunes in New York City. There, he fell in with a cosmopolitan group of artists, both native and expatriate, who were forging a distinctively American avant-garde, visceral in impact and exuberant in tone. Among them were Francis Picabia and Marcel Duchamp, who made art from everyday objects and eroticized the machine. The American critic Paul Rosenfeld, an orotund advocate of avant-garde music in the twenties and thirties, identified these artists as avatars of “skyscraper mysticism,” by which he meant a “feeling of the unity of life through the forms and expression of industrial civilization, its fierce lights, piercing noises, compact and synthetic textures; a feeling of its immense tension, dynamism, ferocity, and also its fabulous delicacy and precision.”

Varèse’s music owes much to the cruel harmonies and stimulating rhythms of the Rite, but any trace of folklore or popular melody has been surgically excised. His first major American work was, appropriately, Amériques, or Americas, a gargantuan orchestral movement composed between 1919 and 1922. It echoed the sounds and rhythms of New York along the Hudson River and around the Brooklyn Bridge—the noise of traffic, the wail of sirens, the moaning of foghorns. The orchestra consisted of twenty-two winds, twenty-nine brass, sixty-six strings, and a vast battery of percussion requiring nine or ten players. Like Schoenberg in his early atonal period, Varèse broke down language and form into a stream of sensations, but he offered few compensating spells of lyricism. His jagged thematic gestures, battering pulses, and brightly screaming chords seem to have no emotional cords tied to them, no history, no future.

An unexpected thing happened when Varèse offered his ultraviolent music to the public: the public liked it. Or at least was diverted by it. Leopold Stokowski, a conductor of insatiable curiosity and impeccable showmanship, presented Amériques with his deluxe Philadelphia Orchestra in 1926, and the following year he programmed the equally formidable Arcana. Those concerts took place at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia and at Carnegie Hall. There was much delighted press coverage of the New York Fire Department siren that appeared in the percussion section of Amériques. Cartoonists had a field day. Varèse acquired a patina of society glamour, becoming, in Oja’s phrase, the “matinee idol of modernism.” In fact, in a delightful twist of fate, the moodily handsome composer had already been cast in bit parts in several silent movies, including Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, in which he plays a nobleman who kills his wife with a poisoned ring.

Even bigger headlines greeted George Antheil, a native of Trenton, New Jersey, who made it his mission to become the next Stravinsky, or failing that, the next Ornstein. Antheil first won fame in postwar Paris, presenting works with such titles as Airplane Sonata and Sonata Sauvage. Ezra Pound, James Joyce, and other modernist writers admired him, although Stravinsky was unimpressed. One concert occasioned a Rite-style riot at the Théâtre des ChampsÉlysées, although it turned out that the brouhaha had been staged for the benefit of the film director Marcel L’Herbier, who needed a wild crowd scene for his thriller L’Inhumaine.

In 1927 Antheil brought his act to Carnegie Hall, offering a program that managed to be jazzy and ultra-modern in equal measure: first, W. C. Handy’s orchestra played A Jazz Symphony in front of a painting of a Negro couple dancing the Charleston, the man grabbing the woman’s buttocks; then ten pianos, industrial-size electric fans, a siren, and assorted other noisemakers were rolled onstage for the Ballet mécanique, which aped Les Noces. Halfway through the latter piece, the composer-critic Deems Taylor caused universal merriment when he attached a handkerchief to the top of his cane and waved it in a gesture of surrender. “Expected Riots Peter Out at George Antheil Concert—Sensation Fails to Materialize” was the headline in one paper the next day. Antheil ended up making a living in Hollywood, writing scores for, among other films, Cecil B. DeMille’s The Plainsman and The Buccaneer.

A gap had opened up between the ideal of modernism as the antithesis of mass culture and the reality of America as a marketplace in which absolutely anything could be bought and sold. Carl Ruggles, the most severe of the ultra-moderns, was tormented by that contradiction. He produced a limited number of works, each of them having the hardness and coarseness of granitic rock. His orchestral masterpiece, Sun-Treader, is one of the most tautly argued atonal works in the literature, as propulsive as Beethoven’s Fifth. If Varèse is like early Stravinsky with the folk motifs removed, Ruggles is like Ives without the tunes.

Ruggles and Varèse joined ranks in founding the International Composers’ Guild, which aimed to present difficult music without commercial restrictions. When someone happily observed that one of the concerts had drawn a full house, Ruggles accused his own organization of “catering to the public.” As so often in the modernist saga, revolutionary impulses went hand in hand with intolerance and resentment. Ruggles and Varèse muttered between themselves about the consumerism and vulgarity that were ruining American culture, for which they tended to blame the Jews and the Negroes.

Notwithstanding the obnoxious racial views of the founders, the International Composers’ Guild did make possible a rare breakthrough for a black composer. William Grant Still, a native of Mississippi who moved back and forth between classical activities and a day job at Black Swan Records, studied for a time with Varèse, and his song cycle Levee Land appeared on an ICG program in 1926. Designed as a vehicle for the Harlem musical-theater star Florence Mills, Levee Land unfolds on two distinct but ingeniously coordinated tiers of activity: while the singer delivers vocal lines in classic blues style, the orchestra surrounds her with a seething, discordant harmonic field, including polytonal chords similar to those that Ives used in Three Places in New England. Five years later, Still’s Afro-American Symphony had its premiere at the Rochester Philharmonic, and a black composer finally found a place of respect in classical America.

Virgil Thomson was a movement unto himself. A fastidious Harvard graduate with a Kansas City background, he moved through diverse spheres of modern music without becoming beholden to any of them. From 1925 until 1940 he was based in Paris, where he absorbed lessons from Stravinsky, Les Six, and, especially, Erik Satie. Thomson’s destiny was to produce the American counterpart to Satie’s deceptive naïveté. Where Satie used cabaret melodies and vaudeville dances, Thomson filled his scores with stock Americana—Sunday-school hymns, village-square marches, lazy waltzes suitable for a bandstand on a summer evening.

Thomson’s aesthetic had something in common with that of Ives, but it lacked the chaotic, visionary element; America passed by at a dreamy distance. In Paris, the gregarious young composer befriended several leading modernist artists, and in 1927 he began collaborating with Gertrude Stein, another refugee from the heartland. Something lovely happened when Thomson’s calculatedly simplified music was joined to Stein’s calculatedly obscure images. Each half of the equation drew out unexpected qualities in the other—sensual strangeness in the music, elegiac warmth in the words.

In the Stein-Thomson opera Four Saints in Three Acts, there is no plot as such, only a succession of tableaux depicting in borderline-incomprehensible language the lives of Spanish saints:

To know to know to love her so

Four saints prepare for saints.

It makes it well fish.

Four saints it makes it well fish . . .

In Thomson’s settings, such riddles become disarmingly concrete and everyday, as if they have been sung by schoolchildren for time out of mind. The harmonies are straight out of a basic textbook—John Cage, in a study of Thomson’s music, counted 111 tonic-dominant progressions—but they are treated with an intellectual detachment that recalls Cubist sculpture and surrealist collage.

Four Saints had its first extended production in 1934, not in a salon or an opera house but on Broadway. What got everyone’s attention on opening night was that the cast was entirely African-American. Thomson didn’t conceive the score with black performers in mind; only in 1933, after seeing the black entertainer Jimmy Daniels perform at a Harlem club, did he decide to give his work a “Negro” veneer. Perhaps because of its exotic racial allure, Four Saints turned out to be a surprise hit, running for sixty performances. Sophisticated city dwellers went around singing such improbable tunes as “Pigeons on the Grass Alas.” In The New Yorker, James Thurber penned a deadpan critique: “Pigeons are definitely not alas. They have nothing to do with alas and they have nothing to do with hooray (not even when you tie red, white, and blue ribbons on them and let them loose at band concerts); they have nothing to do with mercy me or isn’t that fine, either.” Yet, like Antheil before him, Thomson discovered that a spasm of press coverage was insufficient to launch a career. Once the Four Saints fad was over, he found to his dismay that he couldn’t even get the score published. As a last resort he started writing music criticism to keep his name in front of the public.

In retrospect, Thomson’s decision to use an all-black cast seems more a commercial calculation than a musical necessity. Some of the composer’s explanatory comments were condescending, bordering on racist. “Negroes objectify themselves very easily,” he later explained. “They live on the surface of their consciousness.” African-American singers could make sense of Stein’s nonsensical texts, Thomson stated, because they did not understand that they made no sense. Anthony Tommasini, Thomson’s biographer, writes: “Thomson gave black artists an unprecedented opportunity to topple stereo types and portray Spanish saints in what would be an elegant and historic production. However, the fact of their color was used to sully, in a sense, the rarefied white world of opera.” No wonder Four Saints failed to resonate more deeply with a public that was falling seriously in love with African-American music. Perhaps Thomson was the one living on the surface of his consciousness.

“Jazz is not America,” Varèse said in 1928. “It’s a negro product, exploited by the Jews.” Racist animus aside, the claim is not far off the mark: much of the music that white audiences of the twenties would have considered “jazz” came from the pens of Jewish composers. Jerome Kern, George Gershwin, Irving Berlin, and Richard Rodgers all came from Central European, Eastern European, and Russian Jewish backgrounds, and all made prolific use of African-American material. Scholars have tracked the surprising ways in which the modes and syncopations of Eastern European klezmer music and of African-American music overlap. Pace Varèse, the music of Kern and Gershwin was American precisely because it mixed cultures—and genres—in a creatively indiscriminate way.

Jewish Americans’ identification with black music might have had something to do with inherited memories of European suffering. Old Testament metaphors appear all through the African-American spirituals: “Tell ole Pharaoh / Let my people go,” “Ezekiel saw de wheel of time / Wheel in de middle of a wheel,” “Deep river, my home is over Jordan.” The composer Constant Lambert, in his 1934 book Music Ho!, was among the first to discuss what he called a “link between the exiled and persecuted Jews and the exiled and persecuted Negroes.” Such racial essentialism easily turns ugly: Lambert goes on to say that the Jews had “stolen the Negroes’ thunder,” that they had robbed African-American material of its pure, primitive energy and endowed it with fake sophistication. African-Americans sometimes implied the same thing: Scott Joplin persisted in thinking that Irving Berlin had stolen “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” from Treemonisha, and William Grant Still suspected Gershwin of plagiarism. But these squabbles obscure the reality of the New York scene in the twenties and thirties—that Jewish, African-American, and even Caucasian composers were working shoulder to shoulder, trading ideas, borrowing themes, plundering the past, and feeding off the present.

When Kern’s Show Boat opened at Ziegfeld’s opulent new theater in New York, in December 1927, the audience was stunned into silence by the opening chorus, which was perilously far removed from the dancing girls and witty repartee for which Ziegfeld shows were famed. As the curtain rises, the showboat Cotton Blossom is stage left; stage right, black stevedores are loading bales of hay and singing, “Niggers all work on de Mississippi / Niggers all work while de white man play.” If, as Marva Griffin Carter says, Will Marion Cook’s musicals made “confrontational jabs” at white listeners back at the turn of the century, Kern and his librettist, Oscar Hammerstein II, delivered a slap in the face.

Even riskier is a sequence set at the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. A group of threateningly attired black singers perform a deepest-Africa number called “In Dahomey”—the very name of Will Marion Cook’s pioneering musical—and then reveal that they hail from Avenue A in New York. Frederick Douglass had complained that the organizers of the exposition imported African performers to “act the monkey”; Hammerstein’s libretto spells out clearly how black culture was being used to satisfy white audiences’ thirst for the exotic.

If these themes had been fleshed out more fully, Show Boat might have become a masterwork of social satire as well as a bewitching piece of theater. But, as the scholar Raymond Knapp points out, the creators could hardly address such an incendiary subject while they were keeping their black characters in subsidiary roles, on the margins of the drama. African-American suffering becomes a sort of background decor, an ambience of heartbreak.

What ever its failings as a study in race relations, Show Boat provided a grand aerial view of the American musical scene. The first thing you hear is a blaring, minatory minor chord out of Verdi or Puccini. That operatic gesture quickly fades away into a rapid montage of popular styles: Tin Pan Alley melody, mass-market blues, banjo strummings, Gilbert and Sullivan ditties, Sousa marches, vaudeville patter, and hoochie-coochie music. The one song from Show Boat that everyone knows is, of course, “Ol’ Man River,” and they know it because of the way Paul Robeson sang it. Show Boat was not only the first major American musical but the first musical in which black performers were given showstopping moments. Robeson became, in effect, the co-composer of the song, transforming a resigned, melancholy number into a vessel of spiritual might. In later years he changed the lyric “Ah’m tired of livin’ an’ scared of dyin’” to “I must keep fightin’ until I’m dyin’.”

Humbly putting his music in the service of such august voices, Kern let white Americans know that there was more to black music than bouncing syncopation. Coursing under the zesty surface of Show Boat is the power of the blues.

Gershwin

“I frequently hear music in the very heart of noise,” George Gershwin said, explaining the origins of Rhapsody in Blue. Epitomizing the Jazz Age in every pore of his suave being, Gershwin was the ultimate phenomenon in early-twentieth-century American music, the man in whom all the discordant tendencies of the era achieved sweet harmony.

Gershwin grew up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, that superheated melting pot where Russian, Eastern European, Yiddish, African-American, and mainstream American cultures intermingled. He experienced what he called his “flashing revelation” in the schoolyard of P.S. 25; in the middle of playing ball with other kids, he was stopped cold by the sound of a fellow student playing Dvořák’s Humoresque. There is a poignant historical symmetry here, because Dvořák had based his Humoresque on the American Plantation Dances of his young student Maurice Arnold, one of those would-be black composers who had dropped from sight.

Life on the Lower East Side could be tough for a middle-class kid who liked to play the piano. Gershwin’s early biographers, wanting to establish their subject’s all-American credentials, emphasized his boisterous, mildly delinquent escapades—roller-skating, skipping school, joining street brawls, dabbling in petty burglary. Gershwin stumbled into music by accident, it was said, and never had to work particularly hard. In fact, the boy spent endless hours practicing, and attended dozens of recitals at Cooper Union, Aeolian Hall, and the Wanamaker Auditorium (in the same department store where Strauss conducted his music in 1904). Gershwin’s childhood scrapbooks, which can be seen in the music collection at the Library of Congress, are stuffed with pictures of favorite pianists and composers, pasted up where other boys might have featured sports heroes or pinup girls.

Gershwin’s first significant teacher was Charles Hambitzer, who introduced him to the music of Debussy and Ravel and possibly to the early works of Schoenberg. Later came a thorough course of theory with the Hungarian émigré Edward Kilenyi, who told Gershwin that he had a better chance of winning an audience if he made his name in the popular arena rather than in the academic realm of composition. (Kilenyi, too, was familiar with Schoenberg, and apparently schooled Gershwin in the teachings of Harmonielehre.) While still a teenager, Gershwin began working as a pianist at Remick’s publishing company, and with the help of Will Vodery, Ziegfeld’s African-American arranger, he got some jobs on Broadway. His first songwriting success—what would remain his biggest hit, in terms of millions of copies sold—came in 1919, when the blackface singer Al Jolson took up the young composer’s rollicking pseudo-Southern number “Swanee.”

Early Gershwin classics like “The Man I Love,” “ ’S Wonderful,” and “Fascinating Rhythm” trumpet the new sophistication of American popular song. Often, a simple repeating figure plays out against a cooler, more complex harmonic background. In “ ’S Wonderful” the chorus melody consists simply of a falling third heard three times, followed by a falling fifth, spelling out a common chord. Nothing could be simpler—or, potentially, duller. It’s a mere signal, like a ditty that plays when subway doors are closing. The wonderfulness is in the harmonization: that inert third becomes the pivot for a graceful merry-go-round of major, minor, dominant-seventh, and diminished-seventh chords.

“Fascinating Rhythm” is a study in aural sleight of hand. Over a foursquare beat, the melody unfolds in three helter-skelter phrases, each made up of six eighth notes plus an eighth-note rest. The fact that each phrase falls one eighth note short of a complete bar means that the vocal keeps slipping ahead of the main beat; four extra pulses are needed to make up the difference. So a string of thirty-two pulses is divided into three sets of seven and one set of eleven.

Gershwin made his first serious foray into black music in 1922, with the vaudeville opera Blue Monday Blues. Set on 135th Street in Harlem, this brief one-acter tells of a woman who shoots the man who’s done her wrong, or so she thinks. The arias lack the verve of the best Gershwin tunes, awkwardly shuffling among the conventions of European operetta, Yiddish musical theater, and black musicals like Cook’s In Dahomey. The show had a whiff of minstrelsy about it: white singers performed in blackface, and Paul Whiteman’s smooth-timbred jazz orchestra provided something other than an authentic Harlem sound. But Gershwin was learning as he went along, experimenting simultaneously with opulent vocal lines in the operatic mode and with rhythmically pliable melodic lines that imitated stride piano and the blues.

Curious about what the European moderns and Manhattan ultra-moderns were up to, Gershwin regularly attended International Composers’ Guild concerts and other new-music events. In 1922 he heard the adventurous Canadian mezzo-soprano Eva Gauthier sing Ravel and Stravinsky, and in February 1923 he showed up at the American premiere of Schoenberg’s Pierrot lunaire. That November, Gershwin made his official “highbrow” debut, accompanying Gauthier in contemporary songs by Kern, Berlin, and himself. He delighted the crowd—and showed off his classical knowledge—by inserting a phrase from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade into “Do It Again.”

Gershwin now received a commission to write an orchestral work for Whiteman, who was preparing a program titled “An Experiment in Modern Music” for Aeolian Hall. The bandleader, who had played viola in the Denver and San Francisco symphonies, made it his mission to give jazz a quasi-classical respectability. The stated aim of the “Experiment,” which took place at Aeolian Hall on February 12, 1924, was to show “the tremendous strides which have been made in popular music from the day of the discordant Jazz, which sprang into existence about ten years ago from nowhere in particular, to the really melodious music of today.” The evening began with the raucous glissandos of “Livery Stable Blues,” and ended, oddly, with Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1. If, as Deems Taylor said in his review, the participants were engaged in the project of bringing jazz “out of the kitchen,” evidently jazz ended up on the veranda, drinking Madeira and smoking cigars.

Planted in the middle, with one foot in the kitchen and one foot in the salon, was Rhapsody in Blue. The score famously begins with a languid trill on the clarinet, which turns into an equally languid upward scale, which then becomes a super-elegant and not at all raucous glissando. Having reached the topmost B-flat, the clarinet then saunters through a lightly syncopated melody, leaning heavily on the lowered seventh note of the scale. The tune dances down the same staircase that the opening scale shimmied up, ending on the F with which the piece began—a typical Gershwin symmetry.

A neat ambiguity becomes apparent: sometimes the lowered seventh is heard as a pitch-bending blue note, and sometimes it is interpreted as part of a straitlaced dominant-seventh chord, which has the effect of kicking the harmony into a neighboring key. The Rhapsody plays out as a dizzying sequence of modulations; the Rachmaninovian love theme at the center of the work ends up being in the key of E, a tritone away from the home B-flat. That theme, too, is strewn with extraneous blue notes, which give Rachmaninov a certain finger-snapping informality while propelling the harmony through a second string of modulations back to the point of departure.

When the last chord sounded, delirium ensued. In the audience at Aeolian Hall were such classical celebrities as Stokowski, Leopold Godowsky, Jascha Heifetz, Fritz Kreisler, and Rachmaninov himself, and they were practically unanimous in acclaiming Gershwin as the new white hope, so to speak, of American music. And when Gershwin went to Europe four years later, he met more high-level admirers: Stravinsky, Ravel, four of Les Six, Prokofiev, Weill, Schoenberg, and Berg. No American composer had ever gained such international notice.

Of the modern European masters, Berg fascinated Gershwin most. The legendary meeting between the two composers in Vienna—the one at which Berg said, “Mr. Gershwin, music is music”—perhaps gave Gershwin a glimpse of something new, of a deeper synthesis than what he had achieved to date. On the train from Vienna to Paris, he studied the score of the Lyric Suite, and at various parties held in his honor in Paris he had the Kolisch Quartet play the work several more times, no doubt to the puzzlement of the flapper crowds. Back in New York, Gershwin hung an autographed photo of Berg in a corner of his apartment, alongside a picture of the boxer Jack Dempsey and a punching bag.

European impressions bubbled up in the balletic tone poem An American in Paris, which Gershwin sketched during his 1928 tour and finished back home. If the Rhapsody had been predictable in form, alternating between plush tunes and busy transitional sections, An American in Paris showed a more confident use of a larger structure; the tunes undergo kaleidoscopic development and are stacked up in wickedly dissonant polytonal combinations. Yet the musical surface is kept shiningly clear, so that the listener can follow each jazz aria as it darts through the melee.

Gershwin had little left to learn, yet he still felt insecure about his education, and asked for advice and lessons from almost every accredited composer he met. Supposedly, he once approached Stravinsky, who asked after Gershwin’s salary—$100,000 to $200,000—and then said, “In that case, I should study with you.” (Alas, the story is probably legend: the same anecdote was told about Gershwin and Ravel.) As Howard Pollack shows in his authoritative biography, Gershwin kept trying to perfect his technique even after he had achieved fame. In 1932 he embarked on a new course of study with the émigré Russian composer-theorist Joseph Schillinger, who had created a system for symmetrically organiz ing rhythms, chords, and scales. Gershwin’s notebooks from his sessions with Schillinger show him writing in multiple modes and deriving richly dissonant chords from the harmonic series.

Since the time of “Swanee” and Blue Monday Blues, Gershwin had been navigating among diatonic, blues, klezmerish, whole-tone, and chromatic scales. Now he had a coherent method with which to work—a grid on which he could plot large-scale designs. In those same notebooks, Porgy and Bess began to take shape.

The idea of writing a full-scale opera had preoccupied Gershwin for years. The arts patron Otto Kahn—chairman of the board of the Metropolitan Opera, prime mover of Jazz Age culture, old friend of Richard Strauss’s—spurred him on, inviting him to write a “jazz grand opera” for the Met. Gershwin concluded, however, that the Met’s staff singers could never master the idiom; a true jazz opera could be sung only by a black cast.

DuBose Heyward’s novel Porgy had long interested Gershwin as a subject. After a long delay related to questions of rights, he set to work on the opera in early 1934. The story is of a crippled beggar with an indomitable urge to make his dreams come true. He falls in love with Bess, who returns his love but is prey to the affections and manipulations of other men. The story ends on a note of mingled hope and dread: Bess goes off to New York with the drug-dealing ne’er-do-well Sportin’ Life, and Porgy resolves to follow. Gershwin later said that he liked the story because of its mix of humor and drama; it allowed him to shift between Broadway-style song-and-dance numbers and vocal-symphonic writing in the style of Wozzeck. Although his aim was to “appeal to the many rather than to the cultured few,” the work far exceeded the average Broadway revue in ambition. Gershwin spent eighteen months writing it, notating every note of the final orchestral score in his own hand, as he felt compelled to prove when journalists came calling.

Porgy begins with an introductory orchestral and choral explosion in which Gershwin shows off what he has learned from his experiments in modern music. First comes a typical rhapsodic flourish, an upward scale followed by a trill. This gives way to a hard-driving two-chord ostinato, which sounds like a honky-tonk version of the quivering alternation of chords at the end of Wozzeck. The orchestra then drops out and the ostinato is carried on by an out-of-tune bar-room piano—a feat of crosscutting that imitates the tavern scene in Wozzeck. Next comes a great crescendo: the chorus launches into a neoprimitivist chant of “Da-doo-da” while the orchestra adds layer upon layer of dissonant harmony. The climax brings shrill harmonic complexes of seven or eight notes, split between a G dominant seventh in the bass and C-sharp-major arpeggios in the treble. Gershwin probably assembled this music from overtone rows, as he had done in his Schillinger notebooks.

The texture then subsides toward a summery, humid kind of stillness. A new ostinato gets under way, one of alternating half-diminished sevenths, recalling Wozzeck again—Marie’s song of “Eia popeia” to her child. Gershwin even uses his chords for the same scenic purpose, to accompany a mother’s soothing lullaby. If the kid from the Lower East Side seems in danger of losing himself in European arcana, there is no reason to worry. We are listening to one of the best-loved melodies of the twentieth century: “Summertime, and the living is easy …”

The entire score is structured around such fusions of complexity and simplicity, although the simple always wins out in the end. In his notebooks Gershwin wrote down some rules that would never have sufficed for Berg: “Melodic. Nothing neutral. Utter simplicity. Directness.”

What sets Porgy apart from every classical theater work of the time is that the score invites considerable freedom of interpretation. Once the chords of “Summertime” start rocking, they become a steady-state environment in which a gifted performer can move around at will. She can bend pitches, add ornaments, shift the line up and down. Billie Holiday and Sidney Bechet made “Summertime” their own; Miles Davis, on his Porgy and Bess album of 1958, actually discarded Gershwin’s chords and kept only the melody. The same freedom of expression is permitted in the opera’s other set pieces, such as “Bess, You Is My Woman Now,” “My Man’s Gone Now,” and “It Ain’t Necessarily So.” When, at the premiere, John W. Bubbles sang the last-named number with devil-may-care pizzazz, he irritated the trained singers in the cast, but Gershwin defended him.

Glowing with confidence, Gershwin offered Porgy to the public in the fall of 1935. To his surprise—he was accustomed to being loved—it met with critical opposition and commercial disappointment. Porgy ran on Broadway for 124 performances, a large number by operatic standards but not enough to recoup expenses. People had trouble deciding whether Gershwin had written an opera or a musical show: some theatergoers complained that the orchestral passages and turbulent recitatives got in the way of the hit numbers, while classical-music intellectuals found the showstoppers bewildering. There was fuss over how the work should be labeled—“opera,” “folk opera,” “musical,” or something else.

Virgil Thomson, smarting over the disappearance of Four Saints, wrote a thoroughly incoherent review for Modern Music in which he proposed that Gershwin was “not a very serious composer” who had nonetheless produced an important work: “Gershwin does not even know what an opera is; and yet Porgy and Bess is an opera and it has power and vigor.” Thomson was, in fact, paying Gershwin a compliment—the highest that he could offer to a composer who lacked the correct credentials and could never be considered “one of us.”

Gershwin’s racial ambiguities, his miscegenating mixture of Western European, African-American, and Russian-Jewish materials, also caused trouble. The black singers were generally overjoyed by what Gershwin had written for them; J. Rosamond Johnson, James Weldon Johnson’s brother, who sang the part of Lawyer Frazier in the premiere, went so far as to describe the composer as the “Abraham Lincoln of Negro music.” African-American critics were more cautious, though generally positive. A few commentators on the political left attacked what they perceived to be white exploitation of black material. Unexpectedly, Duke Ellington, who seldom had a bad word to say about anyone, led the critique. “Grand music and a swell play,” Ellington was quoted as saying, but “it does not use the Negro musical idiom. It was not the music of Catfish Row or any other kind of Negroes.” As it turned out, some of Ellington’s remarks had been fabricated by an over eager Marxist journalist, although in a subsequent clarification Ellington stated once more that Porgy was not a true Negro opera.

Thomson picked up on this leftist critique of Porgy when he wrote, “Folklore subjects recounted by an outsider are only valid as long as the folk in question is unable to speak for itself, which is certainly not true of the American Negro in 1935.” In the end, the racial debate around Porgy (was it a real Negro opera?) bled into the aesthetic debate (was it an opera at all?). Thomson concluded thus: “I don’t mind his being a light composer and I don’t mind his trying to be a serious one. But I do mind his falling between two stools.”

Falling between two stools was, in fact, the essence of Gershwin’s genius. He led at all times a double life: as music-theater professional and concert composer, as highbrow artist and lowbrow entertainer, as all-American kid and immigrants’ son, as white man and “white Negro.” Porgy performed the monumental feat of reconciling the rigidity of Western notated music with the African-American principle of improvised variation. In the end, Gershwin re united two sides of the composer’s job that should never have been separated to begin with, and he came as close as any composer of the day—his chief rival was Kurt Weill—to the all-devouring, high-low art of Mozart and Verdi.

Tragically, Gershwin did not live to fulfill his entire vision. Not long before his sudden death in 1937, of a brain tumor, he told his sister: “I don’t feel I’ve really scratched the surface of what I want to do.”

The Duke

The Harlem Renaissance, insofar as W. E. B. Du Bois and others defined it, aspired to create an African-American version of “high culture.” By the early thirties, that mission was becoming more difficult to sustain. A terrible riot in 1935 exposed the misery and rage behind the illusion of an upwardly mobile black culture.

As Paul Allen Anderson explains in his book Deep River, a split opened between the original leaders of the Renaissance and younger artists such as Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston, who disavowed what Hughes called the “Nordicized Negro intelligentsia” and sought a less status-conscious, less politely affirmative definition of black culture. Du Bois and his colleagues had dreamed, in Anderson’s words, of a “hybridic fusion” of African-American, mainstream-American, and European ideas. Alain Locke, in his musical commentaries, remained suspicious of commercial jazz and saved his highest praise for the symphonies of William Grant Still, William Dawson, and Florence Price. By contrast, the young rebel Hughes—whose great-uncle John Mercer Langston had been a good friend of Will Marion Cook’s father—celebrated the authenticity of “hot” jazz and rural blues. “We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how,” Hughes wrote, in a widely quoted 1926 essay, “and we stand on the top of the mountain, free within ourselves.”

The split between the Harlem Renaissance elders and the new radical Negroes formed the backdrop for Duke Ellington’s career. Like Gershwin, Ellington had a flair for ambivalence. He partook of Du Bois and Locke’s cosmopolitanism, their rhetoric of uplift and transcendence. Yet he also adopted Hughes’s slogans of resistance and subversion.

There’s a wonderful scene in a 1944 New Yorker profile in which Ellington is shown deflating the expectations of an Icelandic music student who tries to nudge him toward the “classical,” “genius” category. The student keeps peppering the master with questions about Bach, and, before answering, Ellington makes an elaborate show of unwrapping a pork chop that he has stowed in his pocket. “Bach and myself,” he says, taking a bite from the chop, “both write with individual performers in mind.” With that pork-chop maneuver, Ellington put distance between himself and the European conception of genius, though without rejecting it entirely. Another time he addressed the issue head-on: “To attempt to elevate the status of the jazz musician by forcing the level of his best work into comparisons with classical music is to deny him his rightful share of originality.”

Black musicians had to work fast and hard to escape appropriation. The great early jazz records, from Louis Armstrong’s Hot Fives and Hot Sevens onward, show an art form developing at blinding speed. As the composer Olly Wilson has said, jazz composers compensated for the limitations of the three-or four-minute track by exploiting a “heterogeneous sound ideal”: multiple rhythms, call-and-response patterns, and diverse timbres conspire to create “a high density of musical events within a relatively short musical time frame.” Albert Murray writes in his classic book Stomping the Blues: “The phonograph record has served as the blues musician’s equivalent to the concert hall almost from the outset. It has been in effect his concert hall without walls, his musée imaginaire …” European harmonies were one more ingredient added to the mix.

Dvořák had assumed that American music would come into its own when it succeeded in importing African-American material into European form, but in the end the opposite thing happened: African-American composers appropriated European material into self-invented forms of blues and jazz.

When Duke Ellington set about making his name, he went for advice to Will Marion Cook. The grand old man of African-American music would give him informal lessons in the course of extended horse-and-buggy rides around Central Park. “I’d sing a melody in its simplest form,” Ellington recalled, “and he’d stop me and say, ‘Re-verse your figures’ … Some of the things he used to tell me I never got a chance to use until years later, when I wrote the tone poem Black, Brown and Beige.” Cook was expounding Brahmsian principles of variation and development: “Reverse your figures” suggests the notes of a theme spelled in inversion or retrograde. Cook also directed Ellington to discover his individual voice: “You know you should go to the conservatory, but since you won’t, I’ll tell you. First you find the logical way, and when you find it, avoid it, and let your inner self break through and guide you. Don’t try to be anybody else but yourself.”

Ellington’s “inner self” is present in his first original recording, “East St. Louis Toodle-oo,” from 1926. The piece is distinctive because it creates a distinctive tension between a blues theme on solo trumpet and a straitlaced accompaniment in the band. The lead tune, written and played by the master trumpeter Bubber Miley, depicts an old man shuffling in wearily from the cornfield. The minor-key accompaniment, Ellington’s work, takes the form of a hypnotic string of closely voiced chords, circling around like a cool crowd of onlookers.

An improvising soloist was, of course, hardly a novelty in musical history; Mozart’s and Beethoven’s concertos offered spells of cadenza freedom, and opera singers had freely ornamented their parts for centuries. The difference in Ellington’s jazz pieces—as in Armstrong’s and Fletcher Henderson’s—was that the distinction between the composed and the improvised broke down at an almost subatomic level. Players moved in and out of the improvisatory circle, taking their solos. They burst into exhilarating runs that sounded spontaneous but were in many cases intricately rehearsed beforehand. The entire ensemble was in a state of flux. Yet it all came out sounding like Ellington.

What distinguished Ellington from most of his contemporaries was that he set himself the goal of expanding the time frame of the jazz piece, stretching it well beyond the limits of the 78-rpm side and into the realm of the large-scale classical work. Rhapsody in Blue was the obvious model, a jazz-based work that had grown into symphonic dimensions. In a 1931 article titled “The Duke Steps Out,” Ellington announced that he was writing “a rhapsody unhampered by any musical form in which I intended to portray the experiences of the coloured races in America in the syncopated idiom.” It would be “an authentic record of my race written by a member of it”—the italics are Ellington’s. In the same year he wrote Creole Rhapsody, which required two record sides. Whether or not this is the work described in “The Duke Steps Out,” Creole Rhapsody has clear ties to Rhapsody in Blue, and at one point it alludes directly to Gershwin’s opening flourish—the upward scale that turns into a glissando. In essence, Ellington was declaring that he would follow Gershwin in uniting jazz and classical procedures, but that he would do it his own way.

Gershwin and Ellington were friendly on a personal level, appreciative of each other’s work. Ellington liked the fact that Gershwin stood around backstage at his shows dressed like a stagehand, as incognito as a celebrity composer could be. Gershwin, for his part, listened intently to Ellington’s records, reportedly filing them separate from the rest of his collection at home. There were, however, moments of tension between the two, as the dispute over Porgy and Bess showed. Ellington flatly rejected the idea that a white composer could be hailed as the composer of a “Negro opera.”

Right around the time of Porgy’s premiere, Ellington set down initial ideas for his own opera, which was to have been called Boola, and which would presumably have shown how Negro opera should really be done. The title character was imagined as a mythic being who would sum up the entire African-American experience, from his crossing to America on a slave ship, to his experiences as a soldier in the Civil War, to his emancipation and emigration north, and on to his arrival in the renaissance city of Harlem—where, Ellington once reminded the New York Times, churches outnumber cabarets.

Boola never got past the sketching stage. While Gershwin would happily spend month after month tinkering with his material, Ellington had a fundamentally collaborative temperament, and composition on the operatic scale defeated him. He did use his sketches in two extraordinary instrumental works, both of which mix jazz and classical devices. Ko-Ko, written in 1939, evokes the drum-and-dance ceremonies that slaves once performed on Sunday afternoons in New Orleans. Anticipating the postwar modal jazz of Miles Davis, it is derived almost entirely from an E-flat-minor Aeolian scale. A driving four-note figure echoes the Morse-code rhythm of the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth, as the Ellington scholar Ken Rattenbury points out. Ellington takes a long solo in the middle, dancing between thick Romantic harmonies and Debussyan whole-tone chords. The piece works up to a towering six-note dissonance that sets an F-flat dominant seventh against B-flat, not unlike the “Da-doo-da” chords in Porgy and Bess. But Ellington doesn’t use modernist harmony to connote conflict, crisis, and collapse. Instead, he makes it the deep background from which solos emerge and into which they disappear. It’s the way things are. In an interview, Ellington pointed out a discord in one of his latest compositions. “That’s the Negro’s life,” he said. “Hear that chord!” Ellington played it again. “That’s us. Dissonance is our way of life in America. We are something apart, yet an integral part.”

The other spin-off from Boola was the forty-five-minute swing symphony Black, Brown and Beige, first presented at a historic 1943 concert at Carnegie Hall that marked Ellington’s twentieth anniversary as a bandleader. On that night the future that Will Marion Cook had pictured on Lookout Mountain became real: a black composer conquered the haughtiest of concert stages.

The occasion is palpable in the music. The first movement, Black, begins with drums pounding out a slow, martial pattern. Trumpets and saxophones declaim the opening theme, “Work Song,” while a trio of trombones hold an E-flat-major triad in first inversion. It has a Richard Strauss quality to it—Thus Spake Boola. Yet the fanfare represents, in Ellington’s words, “not a song of great Joy—not a triumphant song—but a song of Burden—a song punctuated by the grunt of Heaving a pick or axe.” The drums might be tom-toms beating in the jungle, warning of invaders. Proud Africa is under threat from the white West. In keeping with symphonic procedure, Ellington presents a contrasting theme, “Come Sunday,” which, in the never-to-be Boola opera, would have depicted slaves congregating, listening, and humming outside the doors of a steepled church. The soaring hymnal melody, as played by Johnny Hodges, is one of Ellington’s finest inspirations, and words were later added for Mahalia Jackson to sing. Throughout Black, these two themes undergo rigorous variation (“Reverse your figures,” as Cook said). The remaining two movements have their lulls—Ellington finished the score in his usual rush, with an assist from Billy Strayhorn—but in the end the work outshines every symphonic jazz piece of the time.

The reception of Black, Brown and Beige exposed many of the same anxieties over the mixing of races and genres that had shadowed Porgy and Bess. Aesthetic policemen on both sides of the classical-jazz divide effectively united in casting doubt on this latest attempt at “hybridic fusion.” The composer, critic, and future novelist Paul Bowles, writing in the New York Herald Tribune, called Ellington’s piece “formless and meaningless … a gaudy potpourri of tutti dance passages and solo virtuoso work.” He concluded that “the whole attempt to fuse jazz as a form with art music should be discouraged.” The producer and critic John Hammond, speaking for jazz purists, complained that Ellington had deserted “hot” jazz and fallen under highbrow influence.

Disappointed by the criticism, Ellington nonetheless persisted in employing extended forms. He and Strayhorn later put together a masterpiece of a film score for Anatomy of a Murder and a commanding series of jazz suites. Such Sweet Thunder, a twelve-movement 1957 work, took its title from some lines in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and they nicely sum up Ellington’s aesthetic: “I never heard / So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.”

In the 1967 television documentary On the Road with Duke Ellington, the grand old man of jazz was asked why he still toured the country with his band. Sitting in the back of a limousine on the way to the next date, Ellington replied: “Anyone who writes music has got to hear his music … There used to be days years ago when people would come out of conservatory, after investing the greater part of their lives, maybe ten years, and many times more, and … mastered all the devices of the masters and they’ve written symphonies, concertos, rhapsodies, and never got to hear them.” When he said this, Ellington might have been thinking of Will Marion Cook, or of Will Vodery, or of the “ex-colored” composer Maurice Arnold, or of any of the other invisible men. Cook dreamed of a “black Beethoven”; Ellington carved out his own brand of eminence, redefining composition as a collective art. Carnegie Hall was a hoot, but he didn’t need it.

Once, when the critic Winthrop Sargeant expressed the hope that jazz composers might rise to classical eminence, the Duke issued a gently devastating riposte, saying, in essence, thanks but no thanks: “I was struck by Mr. Sargeant’s concluding statement, that given a chance to study, the Negro will soon turn from boogie woogie to Beethoven. Maybe so, but what a shame!”