How relevant is a composer’s biography to their musical oeuvre? There is, of course, no single answer to that question. In some composers, their artistic output reflects their — sometimes turbulent — way of life, while in others the music or art can be considered independently of their biography. Julius Eastman is, in that respect, a singular artist. His life story reads like the improbable trajectory of someone who reached remarkable heights only to end in profound decline. The common thread running through that story is the close interweaving of the man and his art. The fact that a Black, gay man in the 1970s composed works entitled Crazy Nigger, Nigger Faggot or Gay Guerrilla suggests a clear intention to make socio-political statements through music. Yet although these titles were undeniably provocative, the music retains its full power and value even without that context.
A man of contradictions
The life of Julius Eastman is fascinating and reveals a man full of contradictions. It begins with his unusual first name, which he shared with his father. Eastman was born into a family of builders and engineers of West Indian descent. His grandfather was a self-made carpenter who built staircases, but who also nurtured a keen interest in European history. From there came the inspiration to give his children names such as Oliver (after Oliver Cromwell), Rebekah (from the Bible), or Julius (after Caesar). Julius became an engineer and married Frances Famous. Although he explicitly did not want children, Frances nevertheless became pregnant, and on 27 October 1940 Julius junior was born. Later came his younger brother Gerald. Both children received a classical musical education in Ithaca, New York. Gerald “Gerry” Eastman would become a renowned jazz musician, while Julius would emerge as an uncompromising composer and performer within the classical avant-garde.
In 1959, he was admitted to the Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia, where he studied piano, music theory and composition. He later joined the Creative Associates at the State University of New York in Buffalo, an exceptionally progressive residency programme for new music, where he came into contact with figures such as Morton Feldman, John Cage and Lukas Foss. Over time, he also began teaching there, and throughout the 1970s SUNY became the place where he developed and presented his music. It was also where he constantly pushed the boundaries of avant-garde music and forged his own artistic voice and personality.
“To be only a composer is not enough”
— Julius Eastman
Julius Eastman initially made his mark in the professional music world as a singer. His deep, unique and remarkably flexible voice can be heard on the 1973 recording of Peter Maxwell Davies’ Eight Songs for a Mad King. From the outset, however, it was clear that he was far more than simply a musician: he was also a fiercely independent artist and performer in the broadest sense of the term. According to one of the many striking anecdotes surrounding him, he even clashed with the famously gentle John Cage over an unconventional performance of Cage’s Song Books.
His own music is connected to minimalism, though with a highly personal approach. Inspired in part by jazz and improvisation — he remained in close contact with his brother Gerry — he often allowed performers considerable freedom within his scores. In that sense, his music is less systematically constructed than that of Steve Reich or Philip Glass. For Eastman, the overarching organic growth and decline of the musical process mattered more than the details.
Racism, homophobia, and an inevitable downfall?
Although it is difficult in retrospect to reconstruct the precise circumstances in which Julius Eastman built his musical career, it is safe to assume that the spirit of the times and the cultural context were hardly favourable to a man of his background, skin colour and sexuality. The extensive volume Gay Guerrilla. Julius Eastman and his music repeatedly refers to problems and difficult situations connected to racism and homophobia. Until 1980, homosexual acts were still legally classified as criminal offences in the state of New York, and only in 1986 was legislation introduced in New York City prohibiting discrimination based on sexual orientation. It would ultimately take until 2003 for homosexuality to be decriminalised throughout the United States. Likewise, discrimination based on ethnicity or skin colour inevitably created countless obstacles for someone like Eastman. Yet despite all this, he succeeded in holding several academic positions and participating at the highest level of the classical music world.
At the height of his career, he combined teaching with a demanding schedule as a performer and a substantial output as a composer. When, shortly afterwards, things began to deteriorate on several fronts, those close to him largely attributed this to his fiercely individualistic approach: inappropriate behaviour, coarse language, failing to show up for lessons, arriving unprepared at rehearsals — in short, always insisting on doing things his own way.
According to R. Nemo Hill, who lived with Eastman for a period and spoke candidly about their relationship — including its sexual dimension — Julius Eastman needed resistance in order to thrive. He consciously sought confrontation. Paradoxical as it may sound, this creates the complex portrait of an artist driven by a struggle for acceptance and equality, while simultaneously preventing true acceptance because it would deprive him of his creative fuel.
What is essential here is that he could never switch off his “persona” as a creative and performing artist. His entire way of life became permeated by his artistic and spiritual convictions, even when this led to destructive choices. Several people described him as impossible to live with, someone who took no account of anyone or anything, and who struggled profoundly with authority and hierarchy. That does not mean he was selfish, however: he would readily give away his own possessions — and even those of others — if someone else needed them more. The end of his life disappeared into a haze of alcohol and drugs, until he vanished entirely from view and lived homeless in New York. As a result, many of his scores were lost. His death went unnoticed for months, until Kyle Gann wrote about it in The Village Voice.
Gay Guerrilla. A statement?
Eastman’s provocative titles are essential, though not programmatic. They frame the music without fixing its meaning. In the case of Gay Guerrilla, an underlying significance can certainly be imagined, though it is not essential to the work’s musical coherence. The word guerrilla evokes a hidden struggle, a battle from within, which in Eastman’s case can easily be connected to the oppression or unjust treatment of minorities such as people of different skin colours or sexual orientations. The composition dates from 1979, before the decriminalisation of homosexuality in New York mentioned above. The decision to include a striking quotation from the chorale Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott perfectly aligns with that theme and with Eastman’s combative spirit.
“a guerrilla is someone who is in any case sacrificing his life for a point of view and you know if there is a cause, and if it is a great cause those who belong to the cause will sacrifice their blood, because without blood there is no cause. So therefore that is the reason I use ‘gay guerrilla’ in hopes that I might be one of them, if called upon.”
— Julius Eastman
Gay Guerrilla is a quintessential example of Eastman’s organic repetitive music. Starting from a single note, he gradually constructs a vast wall of sound. The rhythmic persistence is relentless, driven throughout by only two note values — quavers and crotchets. The music itself is only approximately notated, yet the temporal structure is specified with exact timings in minutes and seconds, giving performers a broad framework within which to realise the process of growth. The instrumentation, by contrast, remains entirely open. The score is written “for unspecified instruments” and is often performed on four pianos, though additional or alternative instruments are by no means excluded.
Only after roughly two thirds of the piece does the chorale Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott finally emerge, carefully prepared and long delayed. When the melody rises from the basses, the moment of recognition has a liberating effect, much like in Bach’s chorale fantasies. The use of a chorale also reflects the socially engaged dimension of Eastman’s artistic practice. In Lutheran liturgy, nothing was more unifying than the collective singing of chorales: melodies known throughout the community, enabling a direct experience of the religious text. In Ein feste Burg, the believer is called upon to remain strong and proud in order to resist oppression. Pride against oppression — the connection with Eastman’s world is impossible to miss.
The concert is preceded by a conversation with Klaas Coulembier that takes place at 19:15 pm in the Horta Hall. This encounter will be in French and in Dutch. Free admission.