The reason for posting Alison Knowles’ Newspaper Music is that it combines, in a single elegant gesture, so many incredible things. On first glance, there is the classic strategy of elevating what is at best ephemeral and at worst soon-to-be-garbage to the (“permanent,” revered, historicized) status of art. But I feel that has been done so often and that is not what it really interesting about this work.

First is the sound of the newspapers fluttering. Framing or incorporating that sound as part of what we understand to be the performance opens up the possibility that all newspapers fluttering may in a way be music. It’s a very Cagean idea but I also see it as related to Glenn Gould. Sounds and music are where you find them — and the act of listening plays a very important part in creating them. The real question is one of attention. If you dedicate yourself to listening and accepting this as” musical,” it can be. And with dedicated listening, you may even find structure there, where you might have otherwise perceived only randomness. (Leading one to the obvious question: Is randomness a kind of structure? If so, how does it differ from the absence of structure.)

Second is the vocalization of the news…a form of prose, if ever there was, that is surely not intended to be read aloud. An odd disjunction results. How clumsy the words sound, in any language, making us aware of the qualities of each individual voice, as much as the content of what is being read.

Third is the performance of what exists — is happening — in the so-called “real world.” What happens when newspapers are lifted from their informative function to become a de facto libretto. Where does that position the actions and events they communicate?

I could go on and on, and someday may. But for now I felt some explanation was in order. Of course, the wonderful ambiguity of this whole blogging enterprise is that I have no idea if anyone else will ever read this. (I like to think no-one will, but that’s me.) But I needed to put it in words for myself, as much as anything. I find it hard to hold on to those kinds of thoughts — I need to commit them to language so I can extend or deepen my thinking. I want to move on but not to forget.