Infernoise

George Antheil, U. S. born, European-educated, presented for the first time in his native land his Bullet Mecanique, which nearly precipitated a riot on its premiere in Paris (TIME, March 21). The young composer's theory is to express the U. S; in its own terms of steel, machinery, physical strength, without employing jazz. To this end he has created a symphony of percussion instruments, ten mechanical pianos, several xylophones, assorted bells, wind machines, aeroplane propellers, etc., abjuring completely more lyrical aids. The ballet is a thunderstorm of noise lasting a quarter-hour. Carnegie Hall, jammed to the guards, sat quite still for perhaps two minutes. Then men began shouting across the auditorium. Paper darts sailed down from the galleries. Some people rammed their fists against their ears. Two women jumped up and left the room, running. Pandemonium continued. Ears ached, foreheads throbbed. There was no denying that all the noises in the U. S. had been reproduced except the explosion of Black Tom. That might come at any moment. But no--after an inferno that only a very serious person could have invented came silence. The Manhattanites gasped, a few clapped, many cat-called and hooted. Arguments raged for blocks around as the noise-beaten crowd dispersed through the whispering city. Critics. In Europe, Composer Antheil was most thoughtfully pondered. The critics of the Manhattan newspapers derided, ignored. Said Critic Chotzinoff of the New York World: "This is making a mountain out of an antheil" (referring to the indubitably distinguished audience). Said a more facetious one: "Carnegie Hall was sold out two ways." Critic Olga Samaroff of the Post compared the symphony to a gargantuan bull-fiddle that a medieval potentate had created--an instrument requiring a team of asses for transportation, a squad of musicians for performance, a thing distinguished only by freakiness. The stately Times disdainfully neglected to mention the concert in its critical column at all, rating it simply a news story, another sensational sideshow of the arts. The sophisticates or neo-sophisticates of Manhattan went, heard, were unimpressed, made no demonstration at all. The general attitude was one of puzzled indifference to a sensation-seeker. To many, this reception seemed unfair. Composer Antheil knows the classics, admires Beethoven and Handel above all others, appreciates them intelligently. He is an accomplished musician himself on orthodox instruments. His departures, though radical, are too sincere to be dismissed with a sniff for the showoff. He is, first of all, an earnest young man. Had Manhattan waxed indignant, as did Paris when the mistake was made of facing the propeller toward the audience and thereby nearly blasting them into the street, the youthful creator might have derived satisfaction. Had he been dissected with pedagogical thoroughness, he might have emerged a more famed innovator. But this light touch with which Manhattan dismissed, this unsurprised appraisal through a lorgnette, means the kiss of death for the percussion symphony, in the U. S. at least.