LEIBOWITZ IS DEAD, but the hostility smoulders on, and one wonders what, beyond personal involvement, lay behind it. Boulez, too, has long been relegated to the unending line of historical cases—as can be seen from the ‘dated’ impression made by the second volume of Musikdenken heute. It seems difficult to revert to an earlier stage of musical theory, let alone one even earlier than that, without invoking purely ‘historical interest’. But the pre-history of the serial movement, which has left its traces on everyone's consciousness, could explain both its signal success and its ignominious failure. Its collapse has been total; the ostensible reasons for the abandonment of the movement were no less threadbare than for its inception. Leibowitz, the ‘classic dodecaphonist’, left some theoretical loopholes, but one can hardly make him the scapegoat for errors lying outside his responsibility. Even in retrospect, his mowing down by ‘progress’ cannot be justified; but it is not merely an act of reparation if one still, or once more, gives him serious consideration.

THE WORLD'S VIEW of the later works of Webern has been influenced to a significant degree by the personal recollections of Willi Reich. In studying Webern materials one frequently come across letters to Reich and notes that represent his record of conversations or lessons with Webern. The latter are sometimes very curious, and, because of their declared provenance (it is difficult to justify questioning or disregarding what purport to be Webern's own utterances), they bear a considerable responsibility for the confusion that persists concerning certain of the late works. One of the most widely known of these, the op.27 Variations for piano, has been subjected to perhaps more frequent and less likely explanations than any other.

SPINNER only ever asked friends and, so far as we know, musicians he knew personally to further the cause of his music; at most he would accept the good offices of those acquaintances he trusted. His own initiatives consisted solely of submitting or sending out scores he thought had possibilities. Any sort of propaganda or publicity was alien to him. The object and basis of any negotiations was his music: it should speak for itself, it should be performed and, presumably, published for its own sake. He considered it sufficiently convincing not to require his powers of persuasion. Again, when it came to performances, he displayed an attitude characteristic of the composers and performers of the Schoenberg School: comparable instances are recorded of Schoenberg, Webern, Kolisch, and Stcuermann, and to some extent Berg. He willingly supported serious efforts on behalf of his music; on the other hand he refused to make the customary concessions to the music industry or to the conditions necessary for performances nowadays. He would not employ kindly euphemisms, and was loth to forgo the realization of the differentiations in interpretation vital to his music. He was never simply grateful just to be performed. All this with good reason: the approach to new music, including that of the Second Viennese School, is still made difficult or blocked by inadequately rehearsed, misleading, incomprehensible or merely boring performances. Spinner's music cannot be fully grasped at first hearing or playing, and looking at the notes leads to nothing—save the observation that some of them look ‘like Webern’. Unfortunately hardly any of Spinner's works have gone beyond the first performance, and as for the scores, all they got was a cursory glance.

FIFTY YEARS AGO, in March 1938, Hitler invaded Austria. I left Vienna and came to London. Now, half a century later, I look back on forty years of music publishing, first of all in the 1950's in the production department of Boosey & Hawkes, and later setting up my own business for the engraving and copying of orchestral full scores and instrumental parts for international music publishing firms.