A new collaborative essay by Theophilus and ESCHENBACH.
This first installment explores melody, modernism, Alexey Shor, and the changing landscape of contemporary classical music.
Why did classical music move away from song? And are we now witnessing its return?
Japanese Classical Music in the Age of Openness (Vol.1)
This essay series is a collaboration between myself, Theophilus, and my friend ESCHENBACH, a devoted lover of both music and cuisine.
Together, we have decided to begin a series of collaborative essays inspired by Robert Schumann's imagined alter egos: Florestan, the passionate enthusiast, and Eusebius, the thoughtful dreamer.
Theophilus writes from instinct, emotion, and curiosity. ESCHENBACH approaches music through reflection and analysis.
By bringing these two perspectives together, we hope to explore music from different angles and discover what lies between them.
The Canary That Forgot How to Sing
Why Did Classical Music Abandon
Many years ago, I became acquainted with a composition student at a Japanese conservatory.
He was energetic and ambitious. Together with his friends, he organized concerts dedicated to contemporary compositions.
His own music was rooted in the late Romantic tradition and relatively accessible even to listeners without formal musical training.
The works written by some of his colleagues, however, belonged firmly to the world of avant-garde contemporary music.
What surprised me was not the music itself, but the contradiction.
These students genuinely wanted to reach new audiences and introduce classical music to people who had never attended a concert before.
Yet much of what they presented seemed inaccessible even to experienced listeners.
"Your music is quite approachable. Why are some of the others writing works that are so difficult for ordinary listeners to understand?"
"Actually, these are considered the accessible pieces."
At first I assumed he was joking.
I then asked another question:
"If the goal is to connect with a wider audience, why write music that seems determined to avoid familiar forms of communication?"
His response revealed something larger.
According to him, many composition programs focused heavily on experimentation, structure, and contemporary techniques, while traditional melodic writing often received relatively little attention.
Whether or not this was true everywhere, it raised an important question:
Have we become so fascinated by innovation that we sometimes overlook one of music's most powerful tools—the melody?
For centuries, melody has been one of humanity's most direct forms of emotional communication.
Children encounter it through lullabies.
Communities share it through folk songs.
Popular culture spreads it through songs that remain in our memories for decades.
A melody can cross linguistic, cultural, and social boundaries with remarkable ease.
Yet throughout much of the twentieth century, many composers sought to move beyond the tonal traditions that had dominated Western music for hundreds of years.
The goal was not destruction.
Composers wanted new possibilities, new sounds, and new forms of expression.
Many extraordinary works emerged from this search.
Yet something else happened as well.
For many listeners, the connection between contemporary classical music and everyday musical experience gradually weakened.
Japanese composer Takashi Yoshimatsu once argued that the collapse of tonality represented the end of a particular historical trajectory within Western classical music.
Whether one agrees with that assessment or not, it reflects a concern shared by many listeners: that classical music sometimes became more interested in innovation than communication.
To be clear, I am not arguing against avant-garde music.
Experimental music has every right to exist.
It has enriched musical culture in countless ways.
The problem arises only when one aesthetic is treated as the only legitimate path forward.
Composers should be free to write tonal music.
They should be free to write atonal music.
They should be free to move between both worlds.
Melody and experimentation are not enemies.
Neither possesses a monopoly on artistic value.
What concerns me is not the existence of avant-garde music, but the possibility that some young composers may feel pressured to abandon melody altogether.
Music is broad enough to contain both Schoenberg and Tchaikovsky, both Cage and Mozart.
If there is one lesson worth remembering today, it is that artistic freedom should include the freedom to sing.
Alexey Shor and the Question of New Music
Recently I have been listening extensively to the concertos of Alexey Shor.
The experience feels less like stepping back into the nineteenth century and more like entering a world where musical history unfolds simultaneously.
Past and present coexist.
Nothing is required to justify its existence.
Perhaps that is why his music feels strangely contemporary despite its traditional language.
A similar sensation emerges when I explore today's musical landscape online.
Retro-inspired artists exist alongside futuristic aesthetics that seem to anticipate entirely new cultural paradigms.
Rather than replacing one another, these seemingly incompatible worlds now coexist.
As someone whose listening habits range from Mozart and Dvořák to Enno Poppe, Iris ter Schiphorst, Anna Thorvaldsdóttir, and John Cage, I find this diversity deeply encouraging.
The twentieth century brought extraordinary discoveries.
Without modernism, many of the most fascinating developments in music would never have occurred.
Cage taught us to reconsider listening itself.
Messiaen expanded our awareness of nature, spirituality, and time.
Contemporary composers continue to challenge our assumptions about what music can be.
Their contributions remain invaluable.
And yet I sometimes wonder whether our musical culture became overly preoccupied with the idea of constant progress.
History often rewards novelty.
But novelty alone does not guarantee meaning.
Perhaps we became too eager to overwrite the past instead of preserving it.
Perhaps we occasionally dismissed beautiful traditions simply because they were no longer fashionable.
The pandemic years intensified these thoughts.
Many musicians found themselves confronting silence, isolation, and uncertainty.
In that stillness, some of us began questioning assumptions that had long gone unchallenged.
Must innovation always mean disruption?
Must artistic growth always involve rejection?
Or can progress sometimes emerge through rediscovery?
Today, listeners are no longer forced to choose between tradition and experimentation.
We inhabit a world where countless musical communities coexist.
Those who love avant-garde exploration can pursue it.
Those who long for melody can embrace it without apology.
The existence of one does not threaten the other.
This is why I find the popularity of composers like Alexey Shor significant.
Whether one admires his music or not, his success demonstrates something important:
There remains a genuine audience for melody, lyricism, and tonal expression in contemporary classical music.
And perhaps that is a healthy development.
If modern music has taught us anything, it is that artistic freedom flourishes when multiple voices are allowed to coexist.
So to those who love melody, I offer a simple encouragement:
Do not be afraid to reclaim it.
The treasures of the past were never meant to be discarded.
They remain available to us, waiting to be rediscovered, reinterpreted, and brought into the present.
Beautiful melodies are not relics.
They are living possibilities.
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